by Peter Hartog
I led the way along the catwalk to the blasted door on the opposite side. I didn’t bother sifting through the bloody wreckage. There wasn’t much left of the mercenary I’d shot. The corridor beyond was less worked compared to the rest of the complex. As we walked, I smelled refuse and rain. The corridor inclined steadily, then leveled as we reached another metal door. My phone buzzed, but I ignored it. I pulled the door open. A blast of bitterness greeted me.
A narrow back alley filled with trash led to the street, about half a block from Kraze. Cold rain fell from the leaden sky of morning. We were drenched in seconds. I glanced over my shoulder. Another small camera perched above and to the right of the door frame. A little red light blinked, barely perceptible in the gloom.
I see you, Rumpelstiltskin. And I’m coming.
“EVI, bring the pod around,” I said, breath streaming out before me. “Keep it away from the nightclub. We need immediate evac.”
“Affirmative,” the AI’s voice sounded grainy. “You also have several messages from Lieutenant Samuel Gaffney, and one from Captain Mahoney. Shall I play them for you?”
“Sure,” I grimaced, bracing for an unflattering verbal barrage.
Sometimes, I hate it when I’m right.
“Holliday, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Gaffney’s snarky, outraged voice blasted in my ear. “Goldjoy is my fucking case, asshole! The 98th has no jurisdiction here, and you can bet your ass both Flanagan and IAD will hear about this the first chance I get. Call me ASAP.”
His other messages were shades of the same. I cleared them before moving on to the one from Mahoney.
“Tom, I’ll take care of things here. Call me when you’re somewhere we can talk.”
Surrounded by gloom, fog, and rain, we were wisps on the wind, stealing away from the complex unseen. The pod emerged from the early morning mist like a dream, and out of sight of the circus that had set up shop around Kraze. Once inside its cozy, climate-controlled confines, I collapsed onto one of the command chairs, and looked to Besim.
“L’Hotel Internacional,” she replied, taking one of the passenger seats.
I had EVI rev the engines, and we high-tailed it over there.
L’Hotel Internacional looked like some giant had dug up an eighteenth-century German castle and dropped it next to Central Park. Its sprawl engulfed four city blocks, protected by a massive wall of bedrock and granite towers lit by faux watch fires. The place boasted rising spires, conical glass domes, and gold-plated statuary of radiant angels and regal men on horseback guarding its entrance. A fancy walkway, illuminated by flickering torches in sconces, connected the hotel to the Central Park Shopping Mall across the street.
It remained one of the most sought-after destinations in Empire City for the rich and shameless. The place was an anachronism. It dwelled in a part of the city where all the other more modern buildings surrounding it had been torn down and rebuilt using spell-forged steel, glass, and concrete. With the trees of Central Park as its backdrop, the place stood apart from the other tall, gleaming structures like a white swan in a sea of pigs.
Marble and stone were its armor; elegance and opulence, its currency. I was more than a little disappointed when Deacon confirmed the hotel didn’t have a moat and drawbridge.
EVI maneuvered the pod into the half-moon shaped entrance. I was conscious of the bright lights and curious stares from several hotel employees and guests, still up and about despite the early hour. The incongruity of our drab ECPD vehicle parked next to the sleek personal chariots of Empire City’s upper crust wasn’t lost upon me. I looked for the red carpet to be rolled out, and a fanfare of horns trumpeting our arrival. Instead, a single puffed up, rosy-cheeked middle-aged man in red, white, and gold livery, tall black hat, and white gloves greeted us as the pod’s hatchway extended. He stared down his nose at my disheveled appearance, eyes narrowing in disdain.
My fingers fumbled for my badge. Damn, I was bone tired.
“Good morning, and welcome to L’Hotel Internacional,” he said in bored tones as I slunk down the steps, Leyla on my heels. “I wasn’t aware of any issues at our hotel requiring the attention of the police. How may I be of service?”
I was about to respond, when Besim appeared at the pod hatchway.
A beatific smile blossomed like the dawn across the bellman’s lips. His sudden transformation from disinterested arrogance to fawning deference was so sudden, he nearly fell over himself.
“Doctor Saranda!” he gushed with oily delight, stepping past me and bowing. “What an unexpected pleasure! Welcome home! It would be my honor to assist you with anything you require.”
Besim glided down the stairs and toward the gleaming glass of the hotel without a word. Her haughty eyes dismissed the man and gilded entryway. She moved toward the gleaming lights of the hotel foyer as if she owned the place.
Maybe she did?
“Giles,” Deacon greeted the bellman without warmth. He blew smoke into the other man’s face. “Tell your people Doctor Saranda is not to be disturbed. These two are her personal guests. Am I clear?”
“Of course, Mr. Kole! I shall see to it personally! Discretion is my middle name!” Giles bobbed his head several times, stifling a cough. “Is there anything else? Could I interest you in a fresh breakfast whipped up by our world-renowned chefs? Or perhaps a fine Bourdeaux, warmed to perfection, to whisk away the damp and chill?”
“Yeah,” Deacon growled, flicking ash at Giles. “Shut the fuck up, and make sure nobody goes near the pod.”
We left the bellman and moved after Besim.
“Friend of yours?” I asked with a crooked smile.
Deacon gave me a pained look.
“Fuck no. This goddamn place is a disease.”
Despite the rain and cold, the entryway was kept at a pleasant temperature beneath its broad expanse of metal and stone. I gawked openly as we passed through the entrance to the hotel. My pride was relieved to see Leyla doing the same. We were tiny fish swimming around a massive bowl, surrounded by a lavishness and grandeur we rarely encountered.
“Not the kind of place I’d expect you and Besim to call home,” Leyla said.
“Girl, there’s lots you don’t know about me and her,” Deacon shot back, his brow furrowed in annoyance as he took in the hotel, a sour expression on his face.
He picked up the pace.
Leyla and I exchanged a look and shrugged.
The grand foyer opened into a broad, airy hall filled with dazzling chandeliers of crystal. Long stretches of thick carpeting displaced white marble veined with gold. Dust was apparently not allowed past the front door. The air was warm and tinged with cinnamon, while soft strains of delicate music from stringed and wind instruments circulated around us. An enormous fountain that could easily have filled the main floor of the 98th precinct was inset at the center of the vast room. Its centerpiece was a theatrical display of men on horseback charging into some nameless fray with flowing cloaks and drawn swords. Water poured from spigots cunningly crafted along the base of the marble, conveying the illusion that the statuary rode atop the liquid surface as if held there by some invisible hand.
A gallery of floors rose above us, each with its own little balcony and waiting area. Two banks of elevators held court in the back, the sheer walls creating the illusion that the machines were fashioned from light and air, and not glass. Holo-tapestries hung on the walls to our left, cycling between hunting scenes and panoramic vistas. Periodically, new images melted into view, replete with different colors, fabrics, inlays and settings. Additional torches along the walls burned without smoke, more holograms to add to the ambience of wealth and excess.
“Style without substance,” I said sadly, offering Leyla a rueful smile. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
Besim stormed across the hall. A few well-manicured guests offered pleasantries, but she ignored them as completely as she had Giles the Pompous Bellman. The hotel employees we
encountered were drawn to wealth like sharks smelling blood in the water but wilted under Deacon’s withering glare.
Past the elevators, we turned a rounded corner down a long hallway with two empty dining rooms and an ostentatious gift shop filled with Halloween bric-a-brac. The sounds of the busy foyer and its music faded in the distance. Another turn found us in a side alcove. A man and woman dressed in matching gray pant suits and wearing earpieces stood at its end, hands clasped behind their backs.
“Gaff, Bryant,” Deacon greeted them with a slight nod.
An elevator door in the wall slid open between them.
“Nothing to report, sir,” the woman replied. She had a severe face and calculating brown eyes that strafed Leyla and me before returning to Deacon. “Orders?”
“Keep the area secure,” Deacon instructed. “No one goes upstairs.”
“Understood, sir.”
He nodded once as Besim stepped first into the elevator. We followed, the doors closing behind us. There were no buttons in the steel interior. A sudden push from below indicated we were underway. I felt my ears pop from the movement.
A moment later, we arrived.
A tall, handsome woman with close-cropped brown hair streaked with gray greeted us. She wore black slacks, a violet top and an unamused expression.
Besim tossed her longshoreman’s coat at the woman, who caught it without flinching. She moved past the woman wordlessly. Deacon made straight to the wet bar. Concern mixed with irritation flashed across the woman’s face. It dissolved as she turned back to address us.
“Welcome, Detective Holliday, Leyla,” she said in an accented voice I couldn’t place. The woman smiled, but there was little warmth to it. “I have rooms prepared for you, and refreshments should you require. Please, follow me.”
I had a million and one questions, but the sludge in my brain ground any rational thought. We entered a spacious living room filled with comfortable furniture and a roaring fireplace. All manner of artwork, from genuine paintings to busts and sculptures, were tastefully arranged so as not to impose one piece on the other. A mix of authentic Oriental and Arabian fabrics clung to the polished tile of the floor in patterns that added to the collection of color and comfort. What the hotel lobby lacked in substance, Besim’s apartments more than made up for it.
Heavy drapes of dark gold covered the far wall. Three open doorways exited the room, two to the left, and one to the right. A large holo-vision hovered before one wall, currently dark, with several lounging chairs arranged around it. My head swam in circles from the scent of lilac and chamomile that mingled with the warmth of the room. The woman led us to the right and down a short hallway toward a pair of well-appointed bedrooms.
“You’ll find that everything you need has been provided for you,” the woman instructed in clipped tones. “Please place your coat and clothing on the chair, and I will see to it that they are laundered.”
Leyla staggered into her room and fell face-first on the bed.
“Thank you,” I replied, raising my eyebrows in silent question.
“Mamika,” she answered, and left me alone. “Get some rest, Detective. You’ve had a long day.”
I shrugged off my coat while taking in the king-sized poster bed, a virtual workstation, holo-vision, lounging chair and closet. An open doorway led into a marble washroom, stand up shower, vanity, and brass tub. A fuzzy white bathrobe hung on a peg inside the door, with the letters LHI written in calligraphy along one sleeve. I found a matching pair of white slippers underneath the vanity. Several different flavors of shampoo and body wash were arranged neatly, along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, a fresh blade, and a can of shaving cream.
I don’t remember falling asleep, only that at some point, I did.
And with it, came the dream.
Chapter 29
The park was quiet and cold.
Old playground equipment sat lonely and unused. Rusted metal creaked as swing chains shivered in the late afternoon breeze. Ashen-gray clouds covered the winter sky. The few trees scattered around the area were naked, their limbs bare of leaves.
“I can’t do it,” I whined. “Ma, I can’t do it!”
The distance separating me from the far side of the jungle gym yawned like adolescence. I hung from the metal rungs with aching arms. My cheeks burned from the frosty wind billowing about.
“Yes, you can, Tommy,” my mother called from the park bench.
She wore her old faded blue-and-pink down coat. The blue and white scarf she’d knitted two Hanukkahs ago was wrapped around her neck. Its tassels fluttered in the breeze.
She gave me an encouraging smile, all warmth and love and tenderness.
“You can do anything, Tommy. You just need faith.”
“But it’s so hard,” I complained. My fingers ached. “I’m not strong enough.”
“Yes, you are,” she replied in a gentle voice, walking toward me. Her blue eyes shone, deep and wise. “It’s all there, deep inside.”
“If you say so,” I grumbled in the way only an eight-year-old could.
Shifting my grip, I took a deep breath and stretched out a hand, bare fingertips brushing the other bar. The movement made my grip slip more. I reached back frantically with my other hand to catch myself before I fell.
“See?” I cried. “I just tried, and I couldn’t do it. It’s too far. Can you help me?”
My mother stood next to me. The scent of her body wash reminded me of so many nights cradled in her arms as she sang me to sleep.
She stroked my cheek with cold, dead fingers.
“Oh Tommy, how I wish I could. But I can’t. You have to do this on your own.”
“But it’s just so hard, Ma,” I sobbed, disconsolate and defeated. “I’m not strong enough!”
“You’re stronger than you know. Don’t give up, honey. Don’t ever give up, no matter how bad things seem to be.”
I stared into her eyes, soaking in everything I found there, the love, the caring, the knowledge, warming my heart and strengthening my arms. I reached out toward the bar again and gripped it with a firm hand, then grabbed the next one.
“That’s it, my love,” my mother whispered. “Now, go. Find her, before it’s too late.”
I awoke with a start.
Light filtered into the room between the slit of the heavy drapes cloaking the window. My body was stiff, and I ached all over, but I felt alert and refreshed. I reached for my holo-phone on the nightstand, flicking it on to check the time.
It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon.
I grabbed a pillow and smothered my face with a groan, then checked my messages. Three more from Gaffney. My stomach rumbled in protest, its gurgling reproach reminding me of how I’d been neglecting it.
After a quick shit, shower, and shave, I found my clothes neatly folded on a chair. I put them on, marveling at how clean I felt. Maybe it was time I took better care of myself.
As I made my way to the main room, the glorious smell of freshly ground beans tickled my fancy.
“Good afternoon,” Mamika greeted as she handed me a piece of delicate white china filled with the black nectar of the gods. “I trust you slept well?”
Leyla was parked on a couch staring at her rig, several empty plates covered with crumbs decorating the table in front of her. Her innocent dominatrix outfit from last night had been replaced by a somber, plain black cotton top with matching mini-skirt and dark canvas slip-ons. Leyla looked up and smiled before returning to her screen. The heavy drapes were drawn away from the long series of windows on the far wall. Grey and gloom covered the outside world, hiding everything beyond except for the continuous rain streaking the glass.
I sat opposite Leyla and sipped my coffee.
“I did,” I replied.
“Very good,” she continued pleasantly. Whatever irritation was plaguing her yesterday was gone. “Should you require something more substantial than these refreshments, please let me know, and I’ll have our
chef prepare it for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, saluting her with my cup.
Mamika nodded once, then moved from the room and out of sight.
“Dammit!” Leyla swore.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Leyla placed her rig on the table with a loud thud.
“That third signal.” She looked at me. “Every time I get close, it disappears!”
Deacon strolled into the room and took the chair beside Leyla. His hair was combed, but sleep hadn’t been kind to him judging by the family of luggage stacked beneath his eyes.
“It’s not going very far,” she continued. “It hasn’t left Manhattan for hours.”
“Can’t you triangulate it based on past hits?” Deacon yawned, leaning forward to look at her screen.
“I’ve already tried that,” she snapped irritably, gesturing at the screen. “There’s just no pattern to it, and like I’ve said before, it jumps around a lot. I’ve cross-referenced specific street names and compiled a list.”
“Don’t mean shit to me.” Deacon studied the list, then shook his head.
Finishing my coffee, I moved over to them. My eyes raced across the screen, taking in the names associated with the coordinates shown. I nearly turned away when something caught my eye.
“No shit,” I breathed. “Leyla, can you provide the names for all the local businesses at the street corners you’ve got here, as well as dates and times for when the signal was tracked to them?”
“Sure,” she replied, manipulating the holo-windows. “I’ve already done that. Which ones?”
“Just the last twenty,” I said.
I got up and paced the room, anticipation and excitement filling me.
“EVI, I need you to pull up Vanessa Mallery’s bank statements,” I said out loud. “I want you to focus on the week before her murder.”
A series of banking entries appeared, projected directly to my retina. I used the movement of my eye to scroll through the entries until I found the ones I was looking for.
“Do you have that information yet, Leyla?” I asked intently.
