by Becky Clark
“You two enjoy yourselves. Mr. Sparkles and I will be revisiting his obedience training.” Carl lowered the terrier to the floor.
“We’ll be in the bar if you change your mind,” Brad Pitt called.
Carl gave a wave and Mr. Sparkles snarled at me as they walked toward the patio area.
Brad Pitt moved in the direction of the bar, but stopped when he realized I wasn’t with him. He circled back to where I stood. “Coming?” he asked.
“I have some nice wine in my minibar.”
Seventeen
As Brad Pitt and I walked across the lobby, my stomach churned and my tremor became more pronounced. I was equal parts terror and righteousness. I knew in my gut that Brad held the key to Hanna’s disappearance. Unless Jack did. Or Viv. Or Roz. Or Michael Watanabe.
Brad was the only one I could concentrate on right now. I reminded myself that he was either the kidnapper, the muscle, or just a harmless flirt. Regardless, I had a foolproof plan.
Beginning with Clementine. Mr. Sparkles’s handler might or might not remember me if all this went sideways, but Clementine would. I saw her leaning against a table sipping from a Hello Kitty thermos. I gestured comically to her to come over to us. She ignored me. I tried again. She puckered up her face and spread her hands, palms up.
“Come here.”
Clementine did some loud staring at me. I knew what she was thinking: that if I wanted to talk to her, politeness and protocol dictated I go over there. But I knew if I did, Brad Pitt wouldn’t follow. I needed him to hear our conversation. I gestured again.
With body language that would make any recalcitrant teen proud, she heaved herself from the table, made a show of recapping the lid to her thermos, and shuffled over to us.
“Just a sec,” I said to Brad Pitt while we waited for her.
When she reached us, I said, “Hey, Clementine. I wanted to tell you that since I don’t have anything else on my conference schedule today, I’m going to chill in my room. Upstairs. Maybe do some writing.” I desperately hoped she would pick up on the fact that I had to present another workshop that afternoon and deliver my keynote speech tonight. I clenched my fists to control my tremor and hoped she wouldn’t call me out on my lie. I purposely avoided mentioning Brad Pitt’s name so he wouldn’t get suspicious that I was setting him up or leading him into a trap.
“That’s why you called me all the way over here,” she stated rather than asked.
“Yep. Just wanted you to … you know … know.”
With an eye roll and a tug at her beret, she turned away from us and I was left alone with my plan.
Brad Pitt had been checking his phone while he waited for me, and now he slid it into the pocket of his khakis and smiled at me. “Ready?”
As I’d ever be. “Yeppers.” What the hell? Chill, Charlee.
We got to my room and I ushered him inside. I immediately excused myself to the restroom and splashed cold water on my face. When I returned, he was standing behind the loveseat staring out the sliding door. I glanced at the digital clock on the desk: 11:45. Perfect.
“Nice view.” He moved toward me. “Nice view in here, too.”
His voice was like honey and I had to remind myself of my purpose. And my boyfriend. For a million different reasons, Ozzi would hate this plan. Unless it worked.
I let Brad Pitt grope me long enough to steal his phone and slide it into my back pocket. I couldn’t run the risk he’d call for help or make the call to have someone kill Hanna or a conference attendee, since time was almost up. I had to separate him from his phone and keep him sequestered. There was only one place I could do that.
“Slow down, cowboy. We’ve got all afternoon.” I disentangled myself and offered him two hand towels from the bathroom. “The sun’s finally out. Go dry off the furniture while I get us some wine.”
“Whatever you say. I’m all about the slow and easy.”
“And we don’t really know each other. Let’s talk for a while.”
He slid open the patio door and stepped out, one towel in each hand.
I found a demi-bottle of Malbec that looked to hold probably two glasses of wine. I knew I’d be drinking it alone. He glanced at me, grinned, and went back to drying one of the wrought-iron chairs.
As he maneuvered around the patio, the sun played tricks, shooting silvery rays in unnatural directions that made me dizzy and left a sour taste in my mouth.
Now or never.
I placed a plastic cup upside down over the top of the bottle and walked with elaborate nonchalance to the balcony door. As I passed the coffee table in front of the loveseat, I bent my knees to set down the wine. Three seconds later I’d closed and locked the balcony door. Brad Pitt hadn’t noticed. He kept drying the tabletop. The eighth floor was too high for him to jump, and I knew the furniture was bolted down so he couldn’t cause mischief out there. We’d both be safe until the police arrived and I could show them the Strength in Numbers website comments.
Sitting on the loveseat with my back to the balcony, I dialed Viv’s number over and over until she picked up.
“Good grief, Charlee. What?”
“Is Hanna back yet?”
“No, what—”
“Hang on. We’re doing a conference call.” Before she could speak, I put her on hold and dialed Detective Kelly. I clicked them both in. “Detective Kelly, it’s me, Charlee Russo. I have evidence of that kidnapping I was telling you about. Viv Lundquist is on the line with me. Her daughter, Hanna Lundquist, was the one kidnapped. They want a ransom of $339,000 and said if it’s not paid by noon today, they’re going to start killing people at the writers’ conference at the Pacific Portland Hotel.”
“Is that true, Ms. Lundquist?”
Viv didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not. Charlee is overreacting. She doesn’t have kids—do you have kids, Detective?”
“I do.”
“Then you know that twenty-five-year-olds have lives of their own and don’t have to tell us where they go. Charlee is just overprotective and an imaginative novelist. I’m so sorry she’s wasted your time.”
Detective Kelly was quiet for a moment, then said, “Ms. Russo, you are this close to being charged with false reporting. Watch yourself.” He disconnected.
Viv stayed on the line, though, to shriek at me. “You’re going to get Hanna killed! I have this under control. The kidnapper said he’d call me, but not when. That’s why I haven’t been answering your calls. Time’s almost up and if he tried to call just now—” Viv released a strangled cry. “I’m going to offer him all the money from the conference fund. It’s not as much as he wanted, but it’s all I can get my hands on. Maybe it’ll be enough if I promise him the rest later. Besides, he can’t expect me to get to the bank on Saturday!”
I heard her take big gulps of air. Quietly I asked, “Viv, has Hanna really been kidnapped, or …”
“Or what?”
“Or are you in some sort of financial jam?”
“Oh my god, Charlee. Seriously? How can you even ask that?”
“Just answer my question, Viv. Because if this is some sort of scam—”
“Scam.” The word landed there with a thud.
“Viv, if this is some sort of scam, then I’m in so much trouble.” She didn’t hear since she’d hung up on me.
Didn’t matter, because who was I kidding? I was in so much trouble anyway.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and heard a light tapping on the balcony door.
“Charlee? The door’s stuck.”
I dropped my phone on the loveseat and turned around. Brad Pitt peered in with his hands cupped around his eyes. When he saw me looking, he quit tapping the glass with his index finger and used it to beckon me over. I reached for the bottle of Malbec on the table, twisted off the screw cap, and tipped a long pull straight from the bottle.
What should I do now? I would have bet my favorite knock-off Ferragamos that Viv would finally have allowed the police to be involved. And
that Detective Kelly would have been at least curious when I’d named names. And didn’t ransom and a threat of murder rise to the level of professional law enforcement intervention? I hadn’t even gotten a chance to talk to them about the SIN website. Did people really call all the time and bother them like this? Were the police immune to people like me?
I squinched my eyes against Brad Pitt’s renewed tapping. It reminded me too much of that poem by Edgar Allen Poe: “Tapping, tapping … at my chamber door … merely this and nothing more.”
So instead of solving Hanna’s kidnapping, I’d kidnapped someone of my own.
I picked up the bottle again. Tipped it back. With a sigh, I stood and moved to the sliding door. But instead of unlocking it, I leaned against the back of the loveseat and looked outside. Tipped the bottle again.
Brad Pitt removed his cupped hands from the glass and stepped backward, stumbling over one of the chairs. He tried to move it out of his way a couple of times before squatting to see that it was bolted down. He rested his backside against the wrought-iron table. He smiled at me. “Charlee, it seems you’re having second thoughts.” He raised his voice so I could hear. “Perfectly understandable. Protecting yourself. I get it. It’s hard to be a woman these days. We don’t have to do this. I’ll leave right away. Please open the door. I’ll even let you leave the room first, if that’ll make you feel better. Or call housekeeping. Or the concierge. Whatever you need to do to feel safe.”
I continued to stare at him and sip from the wine bottle. I had no idea what to do.
Brad Pitt flinched, then looked skyward. Soon, his shirt was spotty with raindrops. He laughed, though. “Hey, it’s starting to rain. This might be the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me. It’ll make a great bar story.” He flashed sad puppy eyes as it rained harder.
Had I been wrong about everything? Would a kidnapper be so charming about being locked outside in the rain? Or when he’d been expecting some afternoon delight? I’d really thought that Strength in Numbers information was crucial, but now I wasn’t so sure. And I really, really thought Viv would finally see reason and be thankful for the involvement of the police. And I really, really, really thought the police would show at least mild curiosity about my questions and theories.
What about Jack? Were the things I found suspicious about him simply evidence of him doing his job? And Roz could have any number of reasons for being in contact with Hanna’s rehab place. And I had nothing but gossip that Michael Watanabe was dealing drugs.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t all still have something to do with Hanna’s disappearance.
My head throbbed with indecision and cheap wine.
“Charlee?” Brad Pitt’s hands were cupped around his face, pressed to the glass again. “I promise I won’t tell anyone about this, if that’s what you’re worried about. It was all a misunderstanding that we’ll laugh about … maybe tomorrow. Just a little rendezvous gone catty-wampus. C’mon, please?”
I stared at him and drained the bottle. I was already in this much trouble, I might as well take it all the way. I wrapped my palm around the door handle but kept the lock engaged. “What did you mean when you said you foresaw a windfall in your future?”
Brad Pitt noticed I’d moved and stood directly in front of me. His shirt was soaked through and his hair dripped rain on to his nose. “What?” He cupped his ear.
I raised my voice and repeated myself through the glass.
“When I said what?” He frowned.
I didn’t respond this time. Just kept staring. He’d heard me. I could see him thinking.
His face brightened. “Oh. My expense account. I was happy to buy Carl and Mr. Sparkles a drink because I have a high per diem reimbursement.”
“What business are you in?”
“I’m a consultant.”
“What are you consulting in a hotel full of writers and dog show people? You’ve been hanging around the hotel but you’re not either one.”
“Those are the only two choices?”
He had me there. I tried a different line of questioning. “What do you know about an organization called Strength in Numbers?”
Brad Pitt crossed his arms. Stared at his feet. Then met my eyes. “I didn’t have anything to do with that lawsuit. It was my brother Greg who was involved in that annexation fiasco.” He placed one palm on the glass door.
“Then why was there a comment on the website from B. Pitt?”
“I don’t know. It was probably my brother Greg. G. Pitt.” He wiped his brow with his arm. “Look at your keyboard. Aren’t G and B next to each other? Just a fat finger typo.”
Were they? I moved to my laptop and opened it. Not next to each other, but the G was just above the B. Oh, fudge. All this because of a typo? My attempt to save Hanna went completely off track because G. Pitt couldn’t type?
My confidence plummeted. Not sure how I’d explain this if he ratted me out to the cops, I flipped the lock to let in this guy who was only guilty of wanting a tryst. I slid the door open to allow the sodden, miserable-looking man back inside.
“Brad, I’m sor—”
He hurled his body at me with a growl.
Eighteen
Brad Pitt pounced on me, but stumbled as he crossed the raised threshold.
I scurried backward, crashing into the loveseat. As I tried to make my way around it, he grabbed my arm and dragged me back. I thrashed and he lost his grip.
I was in front of the loveseat. Brad Pitt leaped over it. I scrambled toward the hallway door. Every time I broke free, he was there to drag me back. I rolled the desk chair between us and thrust it at him like a lion tamer.
Grabbing the room service napkin I’d draped over the armoire cabinet last night, I flung it in his face while dodging under the open cabinet door. He was temporarily blinded and the cabinet smacked him in the face. I was within arm’s distance of the suite door and sweet escape when he slammed the rolling chair into me, knocking me off my feet. My shoulder hammered the wall. I sprawled in the alcove, fingernails scrabbling on the tiled floor.
He was between me and my exit. With calm determination he casually reached up and flicked the security bolt across the door.
Nobody was coming in until one of us went out.
I belly-crawled into the bathroom. Heaved myself up using the doorknob, panting, my shoulder screaming for ice. If I could just lock … the … door. I slammed it but it didn’t shut all the way. Brad Pitt had gotten the toe of his boot inside. Rammed it back open. I dove into the tub. He reached for me, grabbing and missing three times as I swam to the opposite end using the craziest non-aquatic stroke ever devised. He grabbed my ankle and held tight, a pit bull on a bone. I thrashed and squirmed, pulling him into the tub. He was a third of the way in at one end while I was a third of the way out at the other, but still he held me tight. I writhed to escape his grasp, pulling on the shower curtain for misguided and ineffective help. The curtain rod crashed down, blanketing us with the Mondrian-designed curtain. Flailing to unwrap himself, he let go of my ankle. Before I oozed over the edge of the tub, I tucked the curtain around him in an attempt to slow him down.
There’s a reason restraints aren’t made from a nylon/polyester blend. It didn’t hold him. He lunged for me. I retreated on hands and knees, but I only made it to the alcove outside the bathroom door before he leapt over me and blocked my exit with the six-foot rolling luggage cart.
I shoved it with all my strength, ramming it into him. He crashed into the wall with a loud OOF, then buckled to the floor. I found my feet and pivoted toward the bedroom—where I found my voice, too. I remembered Scout’s trick with the luggage cart and how the hotel manager had been adamant about the “No Barking” rule this weekend.
At the top of my lungs I yelled, “Sing, Scout! Sing!” over and over again, banging my fists on the bedroom wall, hoping Scout and Scott were done with their competition and back in their room next door.
I scrambled across the king-sized be
d, trying not to disturb the pillows and give away my location. Dropped down to the floor. I landed hard on the collapsed ironing board and clamped a hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out in pain. Maybe Brad Pitt would look in the closet first and I could zig the other direction to safety. I held my breath. Listened for the closet door. Silence.
Lack of oxygen made me dizzy and I slowly let out my breath. As I inhaled, I felt movement above me on the bed. Slow. Methodical. Again.
He knew I was down here. Stalking me over the top of the bed. My shoulder and knee were shrieking at me to move, to get away, but I had nowhere to go. The bed wasn’t tall enough for me to go under and I knew I couldn’t explode over the top with enough force to knock him out of the way.
I felt for the iron. I was sure it had to be down here somewhere. Every time I reached in a new direction, I felt the bed give with the weight of his crawling. I’d see his face over the edge any second now. I couldn’t find the iron. My only chance was to keep low. If he popped his face over the edge with his Jack Nicholson “Here’s Johnny” macabre grin, I could bolt.
Crawling low, looking like a super-slo-mo agility dog, I silently made my way toward the foot of the bed. I twisted my head and saw the comforter fluff with his weight.
Right hand and left knee. Four inches. Left hand and right knee. Four more. Ninja-like, four more.
His hand grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked. I twisted away, flattened on the floor. My hand hit something solid. Fingers slid around the handle. Rising to a kneeling position, I slammed that iron with the full force of my fury into the side of Brad Pitt’s face.
He collapsed spread-eagle on the bed. Still gripping the iron, I raced for the doorway shrieking my fool head off. I fumbled with the security bolt, sure he was ready to pounce again despite what I’d done to him.
