Chapter 10
I drove over to the hotel where the three of us — Monica Davies, Greg Larson, and I — were staying. Given the hour, the crowd was sizable. The police had the entrance cordoned off. Two TV crews were interviewing men in the uniform blue sport coats worn by hotel employees. And the ghouls drank it all in. I call them ghouls with complete hypocrisy. I’ve been a ghoul many times myself. Proximity to death is exciting because it isn’t us who are dead. It might scare us and make us sick — people burned to death can haunt you for a long time — but it makes us feel lucky, maybe even for a moment or two, immortal. We’re alive and they’re not.
I parked my car and took my place with my fellow ghouls.
The entrance to the hotel was wide and well-lit, with long windows stretching across the entire width of the front. Beyond the glass I could see guests standing in small groups, talking about the invasion of the police and emergency workers. This was a better-dressed collection of ghouls than the one I was with. A pair of uniforms burst out of the front door. The white box-style ambulance that had been parked on the front walk now went into reverse and got as close to the doors as it could.
She came down in a black body bag on a white gurney. Comments crackled through the crowd like summer thunder — flashes of pity, excitement, and even black humor. Not even professional wrestling could beat the death of a young woman. It was devoutly to be hoped that she’d been good-looking and nude when they’d found her.
The crowd on the far side of the rope line had the preferred view of the ambulance. They were mere feet from it. Several of them were pointing things out to one another as the ambulance team raised the gurney up and over. The first thing I noticed about the people over there was that two or three of them were attractive women. I’d never meet any of them, but glimpsing them was fun in a melancholy way. Then, behind the tallest of the women, standing next to the building in the cold autumn night was the red-haired man.
Tan Burberry coat, collar up, long red hair with a curl that touched his forehead. A blunt harsh face that was handsome in a severe way. You saw them in Chicago working for businesses that were secretly owned by the mob. They knew how to talk properly, dress properly, and be polite. They were never executives — their actual titles were as murky as their actual jobs. But guessing what they were used for was all too easy.
And then he was gone, pushing his way back through the crowd.
I did the same thing with my crowd. From what I could see, the quickest way to the other side was to run to the parking lot in back. I didn’t get far. As I rounded the corner of the hotel a uniform appeared and held up his hand. He also raised his flashlight and burned the beam into my face.
“Hold on. You have some ID?”
“Look, Officer, there’s somebody I need to see on the other side.”
“You a guest in the hotel?”
“Yes.”
He snapped his fingers and held his palm out, a thickset middle-aged man with dark, suspicious eyes and the mannerisms of a hall monitor.
The best thing to do was get it over as quickly as possible. When I handed him my wallet, the beam fell from my face to my ID. “From Chicago?”
“Yes. Look, I really am in a hurry.”
“Who is it you need to see so bad?”
“Old college friend. Just spotted him in the crowd on the far side.”
“You know a woman was killed here tonight.”
“I know. But I didn’t do it and neither did Paul.”
“Paul?”
“My college friend.” I was tempted to say that I was working with Susan Cooper but decided against it. I wanted to keep her name out of it. I could see over his shoulder. Cars were leaving, flashes of headlights turning the cop into silhouette.
He still had my wallet. “Dev Conrad.”
“That’s right.”
He beamed his light on my driver’s license again. He was either memorizing it or trying to levitate it. He frowned and handed it back. He’d been hoping to plant my ass on death row, but he hadn’t been able to come up with a good enough reason. “Get out of here.”
“Thanks.”
He waved me past as a couple came up behind me. I walked when I wanted to run but running would only make me interesting to him again. The rear of the hotel was lined with Dumpsters. A loading dock protruded from the center of the building. Parking space was limited to fifteen yards of macadam.
The two cars closest to me were empty. The silver Pontiac near the alley had a driver. The red-headed man. His headlights came on and he started backing out.
I yelled for him to stop and darted toward him. He laid down a long strip of rubber getting the car into the alley. For three or four seconds I had a good look at him. The brutal appearance was lessened by his cold smile. He was under the impression this was some kind of game. Then he was gone in a fishtailing, tire-screaming exit that went on all the long way to the end of the alley. I couldn’t even get close enough to identify the license plate.
When I turned back to the hotel, my good friend the cop was standing there. He looked happy. “Guess Paul didn’t want to see you, huh?”
“Yeah. Guess not.”
“How about letting me see that wallet again?”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I said so is why.” He shook his head and addressed an unseen person. “He asks why.”
I gave him my wallet. He flipped it open, then used the communicator on his shoulder. “Tell Detective Kapoor there’s somebody here she should probably talk to.”
“What the hell’re you doing?”
He held up a finger to quiet me. “Right. I’ll bring him to the back door now.”
After he finished talking, I said, “This is a waste of time.”
“Maybe to you, but this whole little deal is strange.”
“What ‘whole little deal’?”
“You’re in a big hurry to get back here, and then this supposed friend of yours races away. Somebody was killed here tonight, and that makes this whole little deal suspicious. At least to me.” He returned my wallet. “I’m covering my ass, man. You go in and talk to the detective and she asks you a few questions and you’re out of here.” Then: “This isn’t Chicago. People’re used to murders there. We aren’t. Anybody look a little weird at all, they got to be questioned. Hell, I should’ve sent you to the detective when you came running around the corner.”
No point in arguing. He was just doing his job, and by admitting that he was covering his ass he dropped the tough-guy stuff and became a human being. Still and all, I doubted if I’d invite him to my next birthday party.
The back door was under a long narrow canopy. He had to knock twice. While we were waiting, he said, “My name’s Bob Sullivan, by the way.” He was amused again. “In case you want to file any complaints. Badge number 205.” He was a tough guy again.
Another uniform answered the door and led us through the kitchen and then the dining room and then out to the lobby. This late, everything had been shut down for a few hours anyway.
Three detectives had divided up the lobby. Each had a short line of people to interview. Most of the interviewees were hotel employees, but there was a handful of guests, too. Sullivan steered me to the shortest line. I assumed the detective I would be seeing was the slim woman in the dark-blue suit. She was talking to a bellhop. She was attractive in a dark silken way. Indian, I guessed.
“You want some coffee? They’ve got a big pot of it going over there.” Sullivan nodded to a table that had been set up with snacks and coffee.
“Thanks.”
Despite the line being short, I was on my second cup of coffee by the time the detective was ready for me. She indicated a chair that had been brought in from the dining room. I sat down. There was a matching chair for her, but I’d yet to see her sit down. She offered me a long, slim hand and another smile. “I’m sure you want to get to your room as soon as possible, Mr. Conrad, so I’ll make this as quick as I can.”