Hard Look

by Robert J. Randisi

  My trail through St. Pete, Sarasota, and Longwood had led me to Ray Cortez and an uncooperative Rick Delta. Thanks to Sarah Connor, I might soon have Ray Cortez’s address and/or phone number. Until then, my time was really my own. I didn’t decide to do anything about that, though, until I reached Lake Buena Vista. On impulse I got off there and found myself driving among these luxury hotels. A tourist would have to throw budgets out the window to stay in any of these hotels. Their proximity to Disney World alone would have made them expensive.

  I stopped in a few small shopping plazas and walked around a bit, even had a soft frozen yogurt to chase the Chinese lunch down—which, incidentally, hadn’t been half bad. Not the same as Chinatown, of course, but not half bad.

  In a small gift shop, I bought a straw replica of a Panama Jack hat for a lot less than the real thing would have cost me at the Pier, and I wore it out, just for fun. On the way out of the store I stopped at the racks of postcards by the door and idly turned the displays. Most of these places seemed to carry much the same postcards, although this one—again, given how close to Disney—had more Mickey, Minnie, and Donald cards than most. I turned to leave when I noticed another rack on the other side of the doorway, and these were more the kind of postcards that had brought me down here. Scantily clad women frolicking in the sun. I went out to my car, retrieved my jacket, and took the original postcard from the pocket. I checked the backs of the new cards on the rack, comparing them to the one Meyer had given me, and by matching the manufacturer’s ID number, identified some of them as Sunny Coast cards. The girl that I liked was on a few of them, wearing a skimpy bottom and a green V-necked top that she was yanking down with one hand, pressing it tightly to her generous breasts. I turned those over and saw the photographer’s name: Ray Cortez. Ordinarily, I hate coincidence, but this really didn’t apply. I mean, this was Cortez’s business; he dealt in sensational-looking girls, and this one certainly was sensational. If worse came to worst, maybe I’d run across this girl while I was looking for Sandy Meyer

  I was about to leave when a card caught my eye. It was on the bottom of the display, which was why I hadn’t seen it first. I leaned over and picked it up, and there was something familiar about it. It was the suit. It was the same suit that the girl was wearing in the card Jerry Meyer had given me. Once again I took out that card and compared. It could even have been the same girl, only this card showed her full-length from behind. The same dark tan, the same white strings on the suit and—if the color was right—the same color hair as in Sandy Meyer’s photo. This photo did not get as close up as the other one, so there was no way I could see if she had a birthmark. There was the photographer’s name, though, and sure enough it was “Ray Cortez.” I took a couple more of this particular card and carried them to the register.

  “These cards are pretty dusty,” I said.

  “They’re from an older batch,” the fat woman behind the counter said. “Why don’t you take some of the others? They’re newer.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, “I like these.”

  I thanked her, refused a bag, and put them into the pocket of my jacket with the original.

  I got back in the car and started back to Tampa. If this was the same girl on Meyer’s card, and if Meyer was right that it was Sandy, then Ray Cortez was definitely my way to get to her.

  If you could use the word “definitely” in conjunction with so many ifs.

  18

  When I got back to my hotel, it was almost 4:00 p.m. I didn’t use the front entrance. I parked near a small side door and went in that way, because it left me nearer my room. I wish I had one of those sixth senses you read about in so many books. You know, where the detective—or the hero—gets to his door and just knows that there’s something nasty on the other side. I didn’t have any such feeling when I was unlocking my door with one of those flat, cardboard hotel keys they use these days. The light flashed green and I pushed the door open. Even once inside I was still blissfully unaware that anything was amiss. It was only because I saw that my message light was on that I walked around to the other side of the bed, and that’s when I saw the body.

  There was a man lying on the floor next to my bed. He wasn’t moving, and he sure as shootin’ wasn’t breathing either

  My first instinct was to get out of the room. I was being set up, that much was clear, and the setup wouldn’t work unless the cops found me there with the body. I didn’t run, though. I took a minute to lean over the body to try to get a look at the man’s face. It was battered and bruised—he had apparently been beaten to death—but he was familiar. It took me a minute or two, but I finally placed him. He was the guy who had been following me in New York. I didn’t peg him right away without the brown leather jacket.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I said, knowing that I was being set up, and now I did have to get out of there fast.

  I looked around quickly to see if I’d left anything that would indicate that I had been back to the room; then I left the room and retraced my steps to that side door. I made it just in time, and kept myself from rushing out into the parking lot as two sheriff’s cars pulled in. I stood by the door, waiting for them to pass, then eased out into the lot.

  The two cars stopped in front of the hotel, and four deputies got out and went into the lobby. I got into my rented car, drove it around to the back, then made a U-turn and drove back to the front. I parked closer to the front door this time, got out, and entered the lobby, trying to look cool. I was sweating, but I hoped that anyone interested enough to notice would think it was just from the heat.

  One deputy was in the lobby, standing off to one side. I ignored him and went directly to the front desk. The clerk had his back turned, and when he wheeled around and saw me, he stopped cold.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “H-hello,” he said. He was nervous, and his eyes kept flicking over to the deputy.

  “Any messages for me?” I asked. “I’m in three-oh-four.”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . yes sir,” the clerk said, “th-three-oh- four!”

  He said my room number real loud and I played it innocently.

  “That’s right,” I said, enunciating carefully, “three-oh- four. Is there a problem with that?”

  “Uh, no, sir,” the clerk said, “n-no problem . . .”

  He looked relieved as the deputy came walking over, and I turned to face the peace officer, trying to keep my reactions natural for the situation.

  “Is there a problem, Deputy?” I asked.

  “Are you Mr. Jacoby?” he asked, mispronouncing my name.

  “Jacoby,” I said, correcting him, “yes, I am. What’s going on?”

  “Sir,” the deputy said politely, “could I ask you to just stand by for a few moments? There’ll be someone here to talk to you shortly.”

  He was a large, lantern-jawed man whose skin was pink and shiny. I was sure he was either bald beneath the hat, or his hair was cut that short. He didn’t seem capable of producing beard stubble, even though he had to be thirty if he was a day.

  “What’s it all about, Officer?” I asked.

  “Sir,” he said, “someone will be here to speak with you—”

  “You said that already,” I said, summoning some New York indignation. “Can I go to my room?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sir, as I said—”

  “Don’t say it again,” I said warningly. He backed up a step, tensing. I decided to ease off, because I didn’t want to get shot.

  “Look,” I said, making my voice calmer, “just tell me what’s going on.”

  He debated, then said, “There’s been an . . . accident in your room.”

  “An accident?” I said. “In my room.” I looked at the clerk and said, accusingly, “You let someone in my room?”

  “No, sir!” the clerk said. “I didn’t let anyone in your room.”

  “Then what’s this about an accident?”

  A
t that point two men entered the lobby. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but they were cops. My guess was that they were the detectives.

  “What do we have?” one of them asked the deputy.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I said before the deputy had a chance to respond. “Are you the detectives?”

  Both men looked at me. One was as clean-cut as the deputy, in his thirties, with a brush cut like Mickey Spillane. The other had been on the job longer, was in his late forties, potbellied, and bored looking. The only thing they had in common was the haircut.

  “Who are you?” Clean-cut asked.

  “My name’s Jacoby,” I said. “This deputy is keeping me from going to my room and won’t tell me why.”

  “If you give us a chance,” Bored said, “we’ll find out what’s going on, and then we’ll let you know. That sound fair, Mr. Jacoby?”

  “I suppose so,” I said grudgingly.

  “Why don’t you have a seat,” Clean-cut said. “We’ll go to your room and see what’s going on.”

  The deputy, his hand on his gun, pointed to a sofa in the hotel lobby.

  “We won’t be long, Mr. Jacoby,” Bored said. “Just have a seat.”

  I made a show of considering their proposition, checked my watch—why? Because that’s what people do—and then said, “All right.”

  They nodded their thanks. I walked over to the sofa while the detectives talked briefly with the clerk, then went upstairs.

  I waited patiently for them to come back and ask me about the body in my room.

  19

  I waited as patiently as I could, trying not to squirm beneath the gaze of the shiny-skinned deputy. Even his arms were shiny, without a hint of hair on them. It’s funny how guilty you can feel beneath the steady gaze of a cop, even if you have nothing to feel guilty about. I didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. At least, I hadn’t killed anyone. I was lying, though—sort of. That is, I would be as soon as they started asking me some questions.

  Certainly, they’d ask me if I knew the man, or if I had ever seen him before. Saying that I didn’t know who the dead man was, that wasn’t going to be a lie. And saying that I hadn’t killed him, that wasn’t going to be a lie either. However, if they asked me if I had ever seen him before, then I was going to have to lie. I mean, if I admitted to having seen him before, I’d have to say when and where, and I’d have to say what had happened. No matter how I looked at it—or how any rational human being looked at it—when the cops looked at it, all they would see is motive. So I was better off saying that I had never seen him before, because there wasn’t anyone who could tell them I had. A good lie is a lie that can’t be disproved.

  That is, if any lie can be called a good lie.

  And, of course, if they happened to ask me a dumb question like whether or not I knew there was a body in my room, I’d have to lie again—sort of. I mean, I didn’t know it was there until I walked in—only I wasn’t going to tell them that I had already walked in once. I was going to tell them that I had only just returned to the hotel and hadn’t been to my room yet, so how was I supposed to know there was a body in my room? That was another lie that they wouldn’t be able to disprove.

  Then if they asked me why there was a body in my room, that wouldn’t be a problem. I mean, I didn’t really know why he was there; I only suspected that he was there to set me up for killing him. Now, why anyone would want to set me up, that was a question I was going to have to ask myself. But asking myself questions was going to have to wait until I answered all of the cops’ questions. I only hoped they’d be satisfied with my answers and not offer to put me up for the night. I mean, I’d go back to their headquarters and make a statement, that was no problem, but if they offered me one of those rooms with the bars, I’d have to politely decline.

  I looked at the young deputy, who hadn’t taken his eyes off me since the detectives left. I wanted to ask if he’d learned that in the police academy, but one of the detectives—the bored-looking one—returned just then, and I stood up.

  “Mr. Jacoby?” he said. “Would you mind coming with me to your room? We have a few questions for you.”

  That was okay, I thought as I followed him. I had all the answers, didn’t I?

  “Can you tell us why this man had your name and the name of your hotel in his pocket?” Clean-cut asked. He showed me a slip of paper on which was written my name, the name of my hotel, and my room number.

  Shit, I thought. I didn’t have the answer for that one, did I?

  We were standing at the foot of the bed, from where the three of us could clearly see the body, which didn’t seem to have been moved at all. The other three deputies were stationed around the room, probably to cut off any attempt on my part to escape. One of them was standing by the window, one by the door, and one out in the hall. The one by the door was a woman, an attractive blond woman in her late twenties. The other two were duplicates of the one in the lobby—and I didn’t know where that one had gotten to.

  Except to say, “I don’t know.”

  “This man obviously knew who you were,” Bored said.

  “Just because he had my name on him doesn’t mean he knew me—by sight, I mean.”

  “No,” Bored said, looking at Clean-cut, “that’s true enough.”

  “Do you have any ID on you, Mr. Jacoby?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I handed him my driver’s license and my private investigator’s license. He studied the driver’s license dispassionately, but then frowned when he flipped it and saw the investigator’s license. That one he handed to his partner, who also frowned at it.

  “Mr. Jacoby,” Clean-cut said, “you wouldn’t be in Florida on business, would you?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “I mean, you’re not licensed to practice in the state of Florida, are you?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “Only in New York.”

  “So you wouldn’t be so foolish as to come here on business, would you?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t.”

  Bored handed me back my licenses, and I replaced them in my wallet.

  “So let me get this straight,” Clean-cut said.

  “Excuse me,” I said, before he could get started. “You fellas wouldn’t mind telling me your names, would you?”

  “Well, of course not,” Clean-cut said. “I’m Detective Becker, and this is Detective Rizzo. That okay?”

  “That’s fine,” I said. At least I could stop thinking of them as Clean-cut and Bored.

  “So let me get this straight,” Becker said. “You’re here on vacation, and you’ve never seen this man before.”

  “Well,” I said, “I can’t really answer that until I get a look at his face.”

  “That’s right,” Becker said, “you can’t, can you?” Of course, if I had answered it, it would mean that I had already seen him.

  “Let me turn him over for you,” Rizzo said. He leaned over the body and turned it just enough so that I could see the face.

  “Looks like someone did quite a job on him,” Becker said. “Of course, we won’t know how he died until the medical examiner looks at him, but he certainly took a beating, didn’t he?”

  “Looks like it,” I said.

  “Know him?” Rizzo asked.

  “Nope,” I said, “I don’t know him.” The truth.

  “Ever see him before?” Becker asked.

  Lie with a straight face and a steady voice.

  “No.”

  Always easier to lie in one syllable or less.

  Rizzo let the body fall back down.

  “If you had gotten here first,” Becker asked, “and found him, what would you have done?”

  “What any good citizen would have done,” I said. “I would have asked for another room.”

  The deputy on the door—the good-looking blonde—laughed, then stopped when Rizzo looked at her. The other two deputies maintained their composure. I hoped I hadn’t gotten her int
o trouble.

  “Obviously,” I said, “I would have called the police and reported it.”

  “Well,” Becker said, “I guess you’d better get yourself another room. It looks like we’re going to be using this one for the time being.”

  “Can I do that now?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Becker said. “We’ll be busy for a while. Just don’t leave the hotel.”

  “Okay if I get something to eat downstairs?”

  “In Denny’s?” Rizzo asked, looking aghast. He even pressed his hand to his stomach.

  “What’s wrong with Denny’s?” I asked.

  “My partner has a delicate stomach,” Becker said.

  “I guess he knows the good places to eat, then?”

  “You want a good breakfast,” Rizzo said, “there’s the Village Inn, which is nearby. For lunch, the Olive Garden on Busch. Soup and all the salad you can eat. For dinner, if you like steak, there’s the Outback. They’ve got a great onion—”

  “Tony,” Becker said.

  Rizzo stopped and looked at his partner.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Becker looked at me and said, “My partner likes to eat.”

  “So I gathered,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just go downstairs, get myself another room, and then have some coffee.”

  “I’m stare you’ll cooperate with us through all of this?” Becker asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “I don’t like having bodies dumped in my room.”

  “No,” Becker said, “most people wouldn’t.”

  He looked at the deputy on the door and said, “Deputy Merrill will walk you downstairs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Deputy Merrill said, nodding her head. She kept her hands behind her back, as if somebody had said “at ease”—or is that “parade rest”?

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I know the way.”