Room 702

by Benjamin, Ann

  “I know.”

  “You keep saying that you know – so do yourself and your wife a favor, show her.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “And she’s right.”

  “About what?”

  “You are going to make a great dad.” Nancy reaches across and grips his hand, “I hope it goes well at home. See you next session.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  April 25, 8:16 A.M.

  Special Agents Tooze and Arevalo pace precisely in the suite. Tall, muscular and menacing, Jace Tooze, a former collegiate basketball player at Georgetown, stands on the small patio, dominating the space and keeping a keen eye on the street below. Stacy Arevalo, the senior partner in this case and nearly a foot shorter than the younger man, sits on the couch in the lounge, but keeps an alert interest on each of the doors. In addition to the round the clock protection the duo are providing, there are plainclothes agents in the lobby, an agent dressed as one of the housekeeping staff, another agent among the kitchen staff, plus a back up team off site at a nearby hotel.

  For the past three weeks, the pair have been responsible for moving the star witness in a major drug related case around California. With calculated precision, the team has moved locations frequently and without warning. Although the actual trial started the previous week, today is the first day Francesca Frey is due at federal court.

  “Frizzy, what’s taking you so long in there?” Stacy Arevalo asks the closed bathroom door.

  “Don’t shout at her,” Jace says, walking in from the porch, carefully closing the door behind him.

  “She hates me and after this is all over, at least I don’t have to be constantly put down by a fourteen-year-old.”

  “I don’t see what the problem is between you two. She’s actually an amazing young woman.”

  “That’s because she likes you,” Stacy says goes to pace the lounge, leaving Jace alone at the bathroom door. Over her shoulder, she says, “Now see if you can encourage her royal highness to join us, will you? We need to be in motion by 0900.”

  Jace has no idea why the spunky Frizzy has taken a shine to him, but he’s grateful she has. Other than sharing the same race, there wasn’t much in common between them. Having long ago memorized her file, Jace is still surprised at the amount of determination and poise Frizzy showed, especially given the amount of sadness and tragedy in her life. Born to a single mother who died from a drug overdose when Frizzy was only three years old, the girl had been in and around the foster care system for years. She is not always the most well spoken young woman (and when agitated tends to speak in near untranslatable slang), but the Special Agent is routinely impressed with how incredibly intelligent Frizzy continues to be.

  Walking into a police station six weeks ago, the fourteen year old had more or less pushed forward an investigation the combined ATF, FBI and local law enforcement teams had been trying for over eighteen months to get traction in.

  After the death of a close friend the year before, Frizzy had started paying special attention to the local gang she believed responsible for his murder. Although she wouldn’t admit her feelings outright, after various conversations, Jace believed she didn’t particularly care if she lived or died as long as she got revenge. The realization saddened him. More or less dropping out of school and spending all of her time tracking the organization, Frizzy had captured irrefutable evidence on one of the premiere drug traffickers in Southern California. Frizzy had photographic evidence, recordings, and knew real names of key players in the organization. In addition to the murder she was going to testify against, she had witnessed a number of different felonies. After walking into the precinct and demanding to see the Lieutenant on duty by name, she had tipped officials off to a major import of cocaine. When Jace had asked why that deal, Frizzy had told him it was because she knew she finally had to act. She’d let a number of transgressions pass, but this deal would fund years more violence and addiction in her neighborhood. During one of the most successful drug busts in Southern California, the collected street value of the cocaine, fresh from Colombia, was rumoured to be nearly twenty million USD. Additionally, during the bust, a number of high-ranking members of the organization had been arrested or killed.

  Although many of the higher ups in the gang had been incarcerated, the kingpin of the organization Julio ‘Jay Jay’ Alvarez was still at large. After the bust had concluded and none of the arrested members had posted bail, the county had reached out to their community contact and asked if she had any other evidence. Although Frizzy had been wary, she had perked up when Jace had entered the room of the station. Pointing directly at him, she said, “I’ll talk to that guy.”

  With no further explanation, Frizzy had latched onto Jace. Her refusal to work with anyone else had forced his boss to reassign him to the case. Jace, a younger agent, had initially welcomed the advancement in his career. However, as the weeks progressed, Jace found himself growing more attached to Frizzy and the outcome of the trial. Furthermore, once she felt confident Jace was in her corner, Frizzy revealed she had video of Julio brutally murdering a young man, who had been reported missing a few months previously. While the quality of the video wasn’t fantastic, Alvarez clearly identified himself in the video. While the federal judge had some initial reservations about the influence of a teenage girl as the key witness for the murder trial, the District Attorney’s office had canvassed and gotten numerous character descriptions placing Frizzy as someone who could be trusted.

  Seeing her, interacting with her, Jace realized society and the entire U.S. system had failed children like Frizzy. And like most days recently, when Jace got up in the morning he made the choice to try and be there for her where everyone else hadn’t. He was going to prove to her that there were redeemable people in the government. Tapping lightly on the door, he asks, “Come on, Miss Frizzy, it’s almost time to go.”

  “Willyoucomeinhereaminute?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Can you come in here?”

  Jace looks to Stacy and she nods, making motion for him to go inside. Their surveillance has been anything but orthodox, but their section chief has marked this case as a priority. To keep their star witness happy they’ve done everything from buy cartons of Pall Malls (if Jace never smells one again, it won’t be too soon), packets of Oreo Doublestuff cookies, and cases of Dr. Pepper.

  Jace grabs some of the cookies the hotel sent up, then opens the door and walks in, closing the door behind him. Frizzy is sitting fully dressed in the bathtub. Looking around the room, he decides it will be best to get on her level. Grabbing a bath mat, he settles on the floor and asks, “What’s up?”

  “The Ice Queen let you in?”

  “What have I told you?”

  She rolls her eyes, but answers, “‘Insults will get me nowhere.’”

  “That’s right.” Digging into his inner coat pocket, he produces a pack of cookies and says, “I brought you something.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Mind if I eat them?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  The agent, glad for his fast metabolism, digs into a cookie with gusto, and asks, “So, you okay for today? You know what’s going to happen?”

  “Today is my first official deposition.”

  “That’s correct. So, what are you stressing about?” Unless he’s reading her body language incorrectly, she’s tense. For someone who constantly projects how confident she is, something is different.

  “I just don’t know if it’s enough.”

  “What is?”

  “Jay Jay ordered a hit on my friend. He dead. Ain’t nothing I’m going to do is going to bring him back.”

  “But?”

  “I just think about all the other people’s friends and family out there. Am I doing enough?”

  “Of course you are, how can you even ask that?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Listen, not only are yo
u helping us bust the worst of the worst, we’re also going to give you a new start when this is over.”

  “Back into the foster system, no thanks.”

  Jace sighs heavily and says, “If there was any other way, you know we would change it. However, when you turn eighteen, you’ve got a significant amount of money dedicated for whatever college you want to attend – or wherever you want to go.”

  “What if I become an emancipated minor?” she challenges.

  “I wish you could just be a kid for a few more years.”

  After shooting him a look that clearly says, ‘I am most definitely not a child,’ she says, “I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How about I come and live with you?”

  Jace smiles and says, “Sorry kid, as much I would love being your guardian, I’m a single man with a crazy schedule and there’s no way any court is going to make that happen.”

  “If you don’t want me, you can just say so.”

  “That is the exact opposite of how I feel. I think you are courageous and anyone would be lucky to have you for a daughter.”

  “But…”

  “You deserve the full family experience, a mom and a dad. I can’t give you that.” When the usually loquacious Frizzy doesn’t respond, he says, “How about this, when the case is over, I’ll help you go through the families we’ve put on the shortlist to be your guardian. We can go and meet them together. Does that sound okay?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “I guess.”

  Something he’s been wondering from the very beginning has constantly tickled his brain. With a few minutes until they need to be downstairs, he queries, “Why do you trust me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you tolerate everyone else, but what is it about me?”

  Frizzy picks at the quick of her already chewed fingers and says, “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “I promise, I won’t.”

  “When I was with my third or fourth foster home, they had a grandmother living with them. She was in to all sorts of juju and crazy shit.”

  “Language…” Jace warns.

  “Fine. Anyway, I didn’t believe her that much – thought she was crazy, but then she predicted some shit that came true. She told me at some point in the future I would have a guardian angel come looking for me.”

  “And why do you think that’s me?”

  “If you don’t think I’m crazy now, you’ll think I am if I tell you.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy. As I’ve told you previously, I think you’re an incredibly brave and intelligent young woman.”

  Ignoring his compliment, she continues, “Fine – when you came into the room that day, I swear I was all but hearing trumpets and seeing you with wings. I knew you were sent to look after me.”

  “Really?”

  “Hell yes. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that if something shows up that wants to help, you gotta just accept it.”

  Burdened with the extra responsibility of being someone’s guardian angel, Jace hauls himself into a standing position and says, “Then let me keep doing my job. We’re almost there – think you can make it to the end?”

  “As long as you’re with me.” Frizzy stands in the bathtub and Jace extends his hand to her, which she takes as she steps out of the tub.

  There is a knock on the door and Stacy says, “We need to go.”

  “You ready for this, kid?”

  “Yup.”

  “I meant what I said. When this is all said and done, I’ll help you find someone nice.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  April 30, 11:46 P.M.

  “I need to see her!”

  “Sir, I’ve already told you, Holly is not available.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sullivan.”

  In the suite and leaning precariously over the phone on the desk, Brendan Sullivan loudly snorts one of the last remaining lines of his cocaine stash and blubbers, “She was available in February.”

  “Yes, and now it’s April, almost May. Is there some other service the Winchester can provide you with?”

  “No.” Brendan slams the phone down, irritated with the world. He remembers sex with Holly being particularly wonderful and he could use a good fuck. Sure, he could text or call any number of women in his phone, but there is something particularly easy about the no strings attached policy of a prostitute.

  Looking at his phone, he wonders if there still time to catch a plane to Vegas tonight? Could he get his driver to take him there? Could he be like those guys from Swingers? Where the fuck was that hooker? How the hell could she be busy? Didn’t she know who he was? Was she fucking some other dude in the hotel? Forcing himself to calm down, knowing it’s the drugs coursing through his bloodstream, he paces to the mini-bar and pulls out all the small bottles of vodka, and, twisting the tops off, drinks them rapidly in succession – welcoming the burn.

  As the alcohol begins to take effect, quickly mixing with the very limited contents of his stomach, he feels relaxed, then paranoid. He’s not sure what his dealer has given him, but the coke is not something he’s used to. Should he call his dealer? He vaguely remembers something about Jose mentioning a new supplier, but didn’t think much of the comment at the time.

  His heart continues to race.

  He goes to the window and looks warily out into the city.

  He knows the paparazzi are onto him, looking for some way to catch him out. He doesn’t want to be some aging spectacle for the public to laugh at. He doesn’t want a mug shot or to be paraded around, the butt of jokes on late night television.

  Borderline A list, and only barely holding onto his status, Brendan Sullivan knows his current lifestyle will eventually catch up with him. It’s been too many drugs, too much drinking, too many late nights. He checked in to the Winchester tonight to escape the sheer emptiness of his large house in the Hollywood Hills. He knows he should feel lucky. He’s one of the one percent. He’s made it. On Monday, he starts principal photography for his new film, one of the largest budgeted he’s been attached to.

  He should have spent this weekend cleaning up, getting the drugs and alcohol out of his system.

  Instead, he is already well into one of his more epic benders.

  Instead of learning lines and concentrating on the nuances of the character he is about to embody, he is clad in his underpants in a fancy hotel suite. He can barely remember the name of the character he is supposed to play.

  “I’m a cliché,” he says to the room.

  Needing a sound, anything other than the jumbled mess of depressing montage in his mind, he mindlessly flips through the channels, barely hesitating as he goes from one next station to the next. The colors and images blur past him in an endless cycle. Having worked tirelessly for the past ten years, each channel seems to be a reminder of the success he once had, a film or co-star he’s worked with previously.

  He stops suddenly and staggers towards the bed.

  There on the screen is his first film. His big break. The movie that made him a household name.

  Even through the haze of booze and drugs diluting his ability to think clearly, he remembers being on set, the friendships he made. He recalls tediously researching and getting into character. He thinks back to before everything went wrong and he married the wrong woman. Before he screwed people over. Before his ego spiraled out of control. Before the drugs and excessive drinking.

  Walking up to the flat screen, he pauses the image and begins tracing the outline of his face. What would he do, if he could go back in time and talk to his younger self? What would he tell that young man to do? What roles to take? What women to sleep with and which to avoid?

  Moving aside the comforter, he sits down heavily on the corner of the bed. The film brin
gs up his biggest regret – the one which may be the root of his problems, and the source of all his guilt. When he first started in the industry, he chose to crap on the one person who had fought for him. His first agent, Ken Petersen, had done everything for him – had fought for him to get the film that was frozen on the screen – had put his very reputation on the line. Reston Heights had been an independent film, but one that went on to do very well on the festival circuit and crossover into mainstream. The film had gone so far as to get him on the award circuit, to get noticed by the studios.

  And what had he done with his success?

  Signed with the next slimy agent from a big agency and forgotten Ken ever existed. He never returned his former agent’s call or letters. He hadn’t bothered to tell Ken he was changing representation and had forced his new agent to send the letter instead of calling or having lunch.

  Brendan suddenly feels sick.

  The realization takes his chemically altered brain a few moments; he is actually going to be sick.

  Dashing for the bathroom, he violently vomits partially digested remains of picked over room service in the pristine porcelain commode. Wiping his lips and flushing his mouth with water from the sink, Brendan staggers back to the mini bar and looks for something to rid the taste from his mouth. Not finding anything he likes, he looks to the top of the bar at the snacks and starts chewing on mints.

  Looking at the screen again, he is overcome with guilt and digs through his bag and finds his last baggie of cocaine. Hoping to completely numb his lingering feelings, he scrapes out a line on the desk, and quickly snorts the drug.

  Feeling relief as the drug spreads through his system, Brendan tells his character, still frozen on screen, “I should call him!”

  The role had been a period piece, and Brendan had played a tough greaser, circa 1952. He thought his character, Richie Chambers, would agree. Richie had been a challenge. The character had been struggling with homosexual feelings in a blue-collar town in an era where men were supposed to be men.