Brooks-Lotello Collection

by Ronald S. Barak

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Day Four, 10:30 a.m.

  BROOKS WAS SCHVITIZING. HE wanted to get hold of Lotello, fill him in on his morning breakthrough, but what he really needed was a shower. Seems like I’m always needing a shower. Must be the seaside climate here on the island. Very humid. Besides, until he had the lab results on the content of the vials, he really had nothing to report other than to pat himself on the back. He headed back to their suite on the concierge floor.

  “I HAVE MIXED EMOTIONS,” Lonergan said as she sat with Pappas and Rutledge in the hotel bar.

  “How so?” Pappas asked before Lonergan had a chance to expound.

  Rutledge put down her iced coffee. “Petra, give her a chance!”

  “I think Wynonna is very nice,” Lonergan added. “She loved the website I put together for her. She was ready for me to launch it, but Jon put the kibosh on it, at least for now. He said he liked the website, and I think he does, but he seems to have some kind of hidden agenda. It might just be my imagination, but I have the feeling he is somehow taking advantage of Wynonna.”

  “How so?” Pappas asked and listened as Lonergan further explained her suspicions.

  MY SENTIMENTS EXACTLY, EILEEN.

  LOTELLO LOOKED FOR GREY in the lobby and the restaurants. Shit, this is crazy. She could be anywhere. He did see the three ladies he first overheard talking about Lasko’s disappearance on Monday. He needed a break so he could come up with a new plan to track her down. He decided to go to their upstairs suite and look in on Leah and Eloise.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Day Four, 11:15 a.m.

  BROOKS HAD JUST FINISHED toweling off, and slipping into one of the hotel’s terrycloth robes, when the phone rang. It was the nurse from the infirmary. He had given her this room number to call when she had the lab results. He listened to what she had to say. “Thank you,” he replied and hung up. Just then, he heard the front door of the suite open. He entered the living room and saw Lotello coming through the front door.

  “Any news?” Brooks asked.

  “Not really,” Lotello said. “I’ve been trying to talk further with Wynonna Grey, but I can’t seem to find her. What’ve you been up to?”

  “I do have a couple of items to report, but I’m famished,” Brooks said, glancing at Eloise who seemed occupied with the hotel’s daily news summary printout. “Why don’t we go downstairs for an early lunch and I’ll fill you in before the big Hart-Connor interview at noon. As you might expect, it’s a hot ticket and is booked for the large ballroom. I don’t want to miss it. Give me a second to get dressed. Brooks knew that Lotello would pick up on the fact that he wanted to spare Eloise whatever new information it was he had for Lotello.

  “Won’t they be serving lunch at the interview?” Lotello asked.

  “Yes, of course, but I’m not fond of their chicken circuit selections. Besides, you don’t have a ticket. I thought we’d get a bite first, in Café Ibiza. I much prefer the menu there.”

  Brooks loved his food. He was also nothing if not observant. He didn’t miss the exchange of fleeting smiles between Lotello and Leah, who had joined the two men in the living room. Brooks walked back into his own room, dressed, and returned in a couple of minutes.

  “I see you’re trying out some of the new clothes the hotel paid for,” Lotello commented. “Nice.”

  “Very funny,” Brooks replied.

  Lotello dutifully followed Brooks out the door and down the elevator to the lobby restaurant.

  LOTELLO THOUGHT ABOUT WHERE Brooks’s head must be as they took the elevator down to the first floor and walked across the lobby to Café Ibiza. Ordinarily, Cyrus’s nature is so inquisitive that there would have been no way I could say to him that I have been trying to talk with Grey without him subjecting me to a third degree examination of why I wanted to talk with her. But he glossed right over that, hardly acknowledged at all my mention of Grey. He must really be into whatever it is that he’s been doing this morning and wants to tell me about. Can’t wait to hear what it is—as soon, of course, as we get settled in the restaurant and order lunch. I wonder if that was just an excuse to get outside of Eloise’s earshot or if he really wanted to order lunch. Haha!

  BROOKS ORDERED PAELLA. LOTELLO chose the cobb salad.

  “Detective, you need to be more adventurous,” Brooks teased. “You can always get a cobb salad at home.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Lotello replied. “Next time. Didn’t you say you had something to tell me?”

  “Oh, right. The missing syringes and vials: I managed to find them,” he crowed. “Guess what the vials contain?” Brooks was too excited to wait. He blurted it out: “Insulin. Thoughts?”

  “For starters, more questions than thoughts.”

  Brooks loved being the center of attention, even for an audience of one. “Shoot,” he said.

  “How did you find the stuff? Where was it.”

  “In one of the TJ presentations,” Brooks said.

  “Pardon, you found the stuff in one of the conference rooms?”

  Brooks didn’t follow. “In a conference room? No. It was in the hotel infirmary. Sorry, I blanked for a moment, lost my train of thought. What I meant to say was I was sitting in on a speaker presentation, but my mind was on the syringes and vials, not whatever the speaker was talking about. I started asking myself where might Connor have hidden the stuff if he decided he had to get it out of his room. All of a sudden, it just popped into my mind: in the hotel infirmary where he could refrigerate it. I left the presentation straightaway and rushed to the infirmary. I had to do battle with some duty. She didn’t want to cooperate. I prevailed. And sure enough, there it was, in the infirmary icebox, under a fictitious name no less.”

  “How did you know the name wasn’t real?” Lotello asked.

  “My security tagalong was with me. He checked. There were no hotel employees or guests under that name written in marking pen on the bag of vials.” Brooks was proudly beaming.

  “Nice piece of detective work, Judge!”

  “I thought so. But what do you make of the insulin?” Brooks asked Lotello.

  “Two possibilities, I guess,” Lotello replied. “Either Connor is using the insulin because he is diabetic and his pancreas is not providing the appropriate amount of daily insulin that we all require, and that non-diabetics make on automatic pilot, or he’s employing the insulin as a weapon. I once worked a case where the perp used insulin to murder his victim. Injecting someone with even a modest amount of insulin can prove lethal and not that easy to detect. Seems like it’s time for us to pay a little visit to Connor. I also still need to find Grey.”

  “My sentiments exactly about talking to Connor,” Brooks nodded affirmatively. “He’s interviewing Hart at the ballroom lunch in just a few minutes. Let’s buy you a ticket so you can join me. My treat. We’ll see if we can waylay Conner at the end of the interview. Maybe Hart will join us.”

  They quickly finished their meal and hurried off to the ballroom.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Day Four, 12:00 p.m.

  THE HART INTERVIEW WAS clearly the event of the day. The ballroom was packed. Brooks and Lotello had to split up. “You take that seat over there,” Lotello said to Brooks. “I’ll find a seat and catch up with you at the end of the hour.”

  Theoretically, Brooks was in attendance to see if he might pick up any clues to help with the investigation. That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the festive occasion along with all of the others in attendance, even if his seat was not all that close to the dais. He said hello and introduced himself to all of his table mates. They included authors whose names he didn’t recognize, some published, some not. They also included readers who attended Thriller Jubilee every year to mingle with the well-known authors and others who partook. That he had already had lunch didn’t prevent him from “nibbling” a bit of the lunch that was served.

  “Are you an author?” the woman to the right asked Brooks.


  “I’m not, at least not yet. But I am giving it some thought.”

  “How nice,” she said. “That’s very brave of you. I love meeting new authors. It’s so exciting.” Having broken the ice, the woman continued the conversation. She noticed that Brooks wasn’t eating much. “Don’t you like the chicken?”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Brooks said as he picked at the plate with his fork. “Just trying to watch my weight.”

  He looked out across the sea of bodies in the room. There were very few faces who he recognized, though he did see Lonergan and her two colleagues seated together at one table. They appeared to be enjoying themselves. He also noticed Enright’s two traveling companions, who were understandably subdued. He never did manage to spot where Lotello hopefully found a seat for himself.

  As dessert was served, Lewis stood and walked to the lectern at the center of the dais. She struck a drinking glass with a spoon several times, and the sound was magnified by the speakers throughout the room. She introduced herself and then Connor and Hart.

  Brooks watched Connor pull the lectern back away from the dais and move his seat next to Hart. Nice touch. No doubt Connor wanted to create a more intimate setting with Hart. Not sure I would have thought to do that.

  Connor then started feeding questions to Hart about his stellar career. The questions were undoubtedly no different from those Hart had fielded hundreds of times over the years, and the answers to which Brooks already knew from Google. He was curious to see if any of the boardroom differences between Connor and Hart might surface. They didn’t. It seemed that the two authors shared the view Hart had previously expressed to Brooks: once the vote was in, the directors unanimously closed ranks, sincerely or otherwise.

  When the exchange between Connor and Hart concluded, Lewis returned to the lectern, congratulated Connor and Hart on a job well done, and invited the audience to ask Hart a few questions. A handful of people with portable microphones circulated among the tables so that those with questions could stand and be heard. Some of the questions related to Hart’s career and his ensuing plans. Some of the questions were less delicately directed to Hart’s views about the future prognosis of the literary profession. Hart answered them all with aplomb and tact.

  As the clock approached the top of the hour, when another round of conference sessions would begin, Lewis drew the questions and answers to a close and people began heading to their next destinations. As promised, Lotello appeared behind Brooks’s chair, and Brooks bid his adieus to his table partners. To Lotello he said, “Look at that line of people waiting to talk to Connor and Hart. No way we can get to them here. Let’s wait in the foyer outside the ballroom and try to corral them there.

  SOON PEOPLE WILL BE coming to hear me interviewed! I’m a lot more interesting than Hart.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Day Four, 12:55 p.m.

  BROOKS WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. “Connor and Hart must still be inside the ballroom fielding well-wishers. I might, however, be able to help you find Ms. Grey.” When Lotello’s slight amusement shown across his face, Brooks added, “What, Detective? Did you think I hadn’t heard you before when you said you were trying to find Ms. Grey?”

  “Guilty as charged. I should have known better.”

  “Ms. Lonergan, the author website developer with whom you’ll recall I’ve discussed the possibility of her creating a website for me, seems to know an awful lot of authors. You’ll also recall that she was one of the women you overheard the other day talking about Ms. Lasko’s disappearance. Perhaps she might be able to shed some light on Ms. Grey for you. She’s standing in line over there waiting to get on the elevator. Why don’t I introduce you to her before she gets away.”

  Not waiting for Lotello to answer, he darted off to where Lonergan was standing, glancing back to make sure Lotello was following.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Ms. Lonergan,” Brooks said as they came alongside her. “I saw you in the ballroom moments ago. I thought I’d say hello and introduce you to my colleague and good friend, Detective Frank Lotello.”

  “Hello, Judge,” Lonergan said, shaking Lotello’s hand. “Nice to see you again. Ryan Hart sure is impressive, isn’t he. Nice to meet you, Detective. Do you write crime novels?”

  Lotello raised both of his hands like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “No, no, not at all. My wife and I just tagged along with the Judge and his wife to see the sights at Punta Maya. I do, however, occasionally enjoy reading a good crime novel. And I do have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Shoot. Well, not literally, … Detective,” Lonergan said with a smile. “I probably have to choose my language more carefully around someone like you.”

  “Cute,” Lotello acknowledged Lonergan’s humor. “I understand from the Judge that you specialize in developing websites for authors. Just a longshot, I know, but I’m wondering if you by any chance know an author I’ve met here by the name of Wynonna Grey?”

  “Wow, don’t we live in a small world. I do know Wynonna. I met her here at TJ and have just started doing some work for her. Funny that you would ask me about her. Do you mind my asking why?”

  Lotello paused and looked around for a more private area to finish their chat.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Day Four, 1:15 p.m.

  WHAT WILL SOON BE a New York Times number one bestselling novel. And establish my bona fide seat at the table once and for all.

  THE COMPASS

  A Novel

  By Laramie Greene

  Chapter One

  I am a writer. I write novels. Damn fine ones. Well written. Suspenseful whodunnits that keep people flipping the pages and afraid to turn out the lights at nighttime.

  People love my novels. Absolutely love them. But even more would love them. If only they knew about them and had the chance to read them. But too many don’t know they exist or get a chance to read them. That’s because the powerful people who control the literary world don’t draw enough attention to what I write. Don’t give me enough of a chance. To be read. To be heard. They won’t because they know that if more people learn about and read my novels, I’ll outshine everyone else.

  So they conspire to hold me back. To hold me down. So they can keep on enjoying all the spoils. All the riches. All the fame. All for them. Too little for me. To perpetuate their own self-serving schemes and scams.

  But I’ll show them. Yes I will. I’m going to get even. Teach them a lesson for raining on my parade.

  Right now. Right this week. They’re all together. At their famous one week writing conference.

  They’ll all play right into my hands. Just like putty. Like putty in my hands. When they read my story. My novel. Not about me. Not my story in that sense. But the story I’ve written. My novel. THE COMPASS. What a great title.

  And when they read THE COMPASS, they’ll have no choice but to recognize me for the creative genius that I am. That this novel is pure genius. Really could happen. Did happen. Just the way I’ve written it. That’s when I’ll get my just dues. My … recognition.

  Chapter Two

  “How was your day?”

  “I’m not … sure.”

  “What kind of an answer is that? What do you mean?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Here’s what happened.”

  At first, he was … surprised. Shocked would be more precise. Either way, the more he listened, the more captivated he became.

  Seemed his wife got a call from their son’s nursery school teacher. Their son was in trouble. Again. The wife’s presence was immediately required. To pick up the son, take him home. At least take him away. Anywhere else. Permanently. He would not be welcome to return.

  “Why? What did he do? This time.”

  “What he did—this time—is not what’s important. It’s what I did that’s important. This time.”

  He stared at her. “All right then. What the hell did you do?”

  She smiled at him, sheepishly. Then, averti
ng her eyes from his: “I just wanted to fix it. So I slowly took out my wallet. And offered … to fix it.”

  “My God. Were you out of your mind? And the teacher? What did she do?”

  “She … fixed it.”

  “Oh.”

  Chapter Three

  Our country has lost its moral fabric. Its moral compass as it were. Parents all over the country paying huge six figures, even seven figures, to employ fraudulent means to get their kids into college. Paying others to take their college entrance exams. Photoshopping their pictures to make them look like star athletes. Sometimes even defrauding their own children. Too often.

  Corporate enterprises not being forthcoming and transparent as well they should in revealing their own problems. Outright concealing and covering up their problems. The Catholic Church and its pedophile priests. The U.S. gymnastics governing bodies and colleges concealing and covering up the doctor who was molesting teenage and pre-teenage gymnasts. USC leadership concealing and covering up the staff gynecologist at the student medical center who was abusing students coming in for gynecological exams. Now having to pay millions of dollars in reparations to those who were mistreated and injured.

  People just aren’t learning. Someone has now been killing participants at a well-known weeklong writing conference attended by thousands. A conference where I do not receive the respect that I should. And the conference organizers and directors, who know this is going on, are not being honest and transparent with the thousands of participants who are at risk and are unaware. This misguided behavior is going to bring down this organization too.

  GREAT STORY. COULD SIT around reading it all day. Even though I already know how it ends. Ah, but duty calls.