IN ROOM 33

by EC Sheedy

  Christian turned the kitchen light off, which left only his table lamp to battle the gloom in his over-large living room, and shuffled along the hall to his chair. He didn't need light; he knew every step and corner of his home as a blind man would.

  He set a glass of cool water on a coaster beside his chair. He approved the use of bottled water—much more sanitary than the tap—and considered himself clever to have adopted the practice of having one of his hotel guests supply him with a case at regular intervals. The water glass centered accurately, he settled back in his chair.

  With Lars gone, he'd have to find someone else to handle water delivery on a steady basis. No doubt he'd have an unpleasant period of adjustment until the new guests arrived to take up the various tasks he required. Until then he'd taken the precaution of having Michael bring a case with him when he came tonight. Good insurance. Another successful Plan B.

  He glanced out at the terrace, where Michael was doing his final gardening chore, aerating and loosening the soil in the large planter. He worked under a portable work lamp rigged to the eave of the rooftop stairwell entrance. Christian wondered how David would feel, taking up the gardening tasks again. Not that it mattered. David would do what he was told; kill the silly girl, do Christian's gardening, and... take out the garbage.

  Mike opened the terrace door—too wide. A gust of fresh air wafted across Christian's face. He had the briefest moment of enjoyment before unseen, dangerous microbes nettled his flesh. "Close the door, Michael. Quickly." He'd wanted to yell but had contained himself. Containment was everything. "Are you all done out there?"

  "Yeah."

  "Come here, then. We'll say our good-byes, and you can be on your way. I have your money ready." Christian held out the envelope with his left hand.

  The hulk of a man took a step closer, until he was directly in front of Rupert's chair. He glanced down at the tarpaulin rustling beneath his feet. "Doin' some painting?" he asked, reaching for his money.

  "Yes. A little spatter work." Christian lifted his right hand, the one with the Smith and Wesson, and fired three times. The first two bullets went into Michael's fortunately very large chest, and he crumpled to his knees, wide-eyed. The third shot was to his forehead—slightly off center, Christian noticed, but close enough to finish the job.

  Christian set the gun on the table beside him to cool and took a sip of water. He looked at the clock. Perfect. He tucked his carpet slipper-clad feet under the edge of the tarpaulin to lift it, reverse the blood flow.

  He watched the blood ooze away from him and frowned. He hadn't expected so much. It was troubling. No matter.

  In minutes David would be here to clean up the mess.

  Chapter 15

  "You're good at that," Joy said, after Wade had closed Cherry's door behind them and they were walking up the hall. Wade had insisted on checking on Cherry and Gordy before heading to Sinnie's room.

  "Good at what?" He gave her a puzzled look.

  "Calming people down. Saying the right thing."

  "Cherry's made of the right stuff."

  "Yes, she is, but I think Lars and Rebecca being gone really spooked her," Joy said.

  Looking fiercely preoccupied, Wade didn't answer. He pushed the fire door to the stairwell open. She knew he was thinking about Henry, and after Cherry telling them how badly beaten the police said he was, so was she. Together they climbed the dark stairs to the third floor.

  "The lights? Didn't you replace all the bulbs yesterday afternoon?"

  "Yes, and they were gone this morning."

  "What do you think it means?"

  "I think someone likes to do his dirty work in the dark."

  "Cheery thought." The idea of someone slinking around the Phil's dingy halls made the hair on Joy's nape rise.

  In the third floor hall, Wade said, "I'll get the keys." He disappeared briefly into his room, came out sorting through a handful of keys.

  They were in the stairwell heading up to Sinnie's place on five when they heard it. Both stopped abruptly. For a moment they only looked at each other.

  "Backfire?" Joy asked, not quite able to believe the old stairwell had just nicely magnified the sound of gunshots.

  "Not unless there's a road race on the roof."

  "The penthouse? Where that poor old man lives?"

  He didn't answer her question; he grabbed her hand. "Let's go." He tugged her up the stairs to the seventh floor.

  He stopped outside a door in an entrance hall lit only by what Joy guessed was a forty-watt bulb hanging from a cord a foot above their heads. Whoever had been turning out the lights on the Philip hadn't bothered with this one.

  Wade rapped on the door. When there was no response, he knocked again.

  "Yes?" Someone said from inside. Quite a few feet from the door, Joy guessed.

  "Are you all right in there?" Wade shouted.

  "Who's there?"

  "Emerson."

  There was a moment of silence. "Go away."

  "We heard shots fired," Joy said, adding her own shout to Wade's.

  "Who's that?" The tone was sharp, the voice closer now, against the door.

  "Joy Cole, Mr. Rupert," Joy said, raising her voice.

  "I'm the new owner of the Philip. We wanted to be sure you were okay."

  The door opened a crack and in the yellow light cast from the single bulb, Joy saw an ancient face—parchment skin, eyes deep-set under hooded lids, and a lipless mouth. White hair grew in sparse patches on his liver-spotted head. Shorter than her five-foot-seven, Rupert stared up at her from behind a thick chain that stopped the door from opening more than six inches. "The new owner, are you?" His lip curled with scorn, and he studied her with unconcealed distaste.

  "Yes, I—" She stopped, his animosity hitting her in waves. Either they'd woken him up and he was irritated, or he'd hated her on sight.

  Wade spoke from behind her, his voice low. "We heard shots, Rupert. And they came from here."

  "They did not. Now please leave this floor. You have no rights here." He stared through Joy. "Neither of you." He started to close the door.

  "Are you sure you're okay—" Joy reached out, her knuckles glancing off the hand he had curled around the door edge; he gasped, looked at her hand as if it were a strike-ready cobra. She yanked it back.

  "Go away. And don't come back here," he snapped. "This is my home. Stay below stairs, and don't come here again." He closed the door in her face. She heard bolts slam.

  Joy looked at Wade, grimaced. "Not exactly the welcome wagon."

  "Don't take it personally. He's not crazy about me either."

  "Maybe it was the TV."Joy rubbed the hand she'd inadvertently touched him with on her skirt. Somehow the old man had made it feel dirty.

  "Did you hear one?"

  "No."

  "Neither did I." Wade stared at the door as if he'd like to break it down. He raised his hand to knock again. Joy stopped him.

  "The old man was more than angry, he was terrified. From what I hear, he's agoraphobic. Given his age—and that kind of fear—it might be dangerous to push ourselves on him." She still held his arm. "Unless we have to. Let's check six," she added. "The shots could have come from there. Or it might have been backfires after all, and the stairwell acted as an echo chamber, magnified them."

  He looked doubtful, but nodded. "Okay, we'll check six, then we'll go to Sinnie's." They took the few steps to the stairwell door and opened it...

  ... on a stunned David Grange.

  "David," Joy said when she gathered up a few working neurons. "What are you doing here?"

  "I was looking for you." He smiled, and Joy could see him rally from his shock, pull his slick brand of cool around himself like a magician's satin cape.

  "Up here?" Wade eyed him with suspicion. "This is a long way from the third floor."

  "I thought if I couldn't find her, you'd be somewhere about, and I could leave a message. I didn't want to leave the evening as it was." He looked at Joy. "Yo
ur mother was upset, Joy. I should have stepped in. I'm sorry."

  "You came here to apologize for my mother." She didn't bother phrasing it as a question. Something was wrong here. But then, something always felt wrong when she was around David Grange.

  "That and—" He glanced at the door behind Wade. "Can we get out of here?"

  Wade's gaze followed his to Rupert's door. "Fine by me. We'll go to my room."

  When they were settled in Wade's room, Joy sat across from David at the table while Wade lounged against the kitchen counter. "Tell me again why you're here, David—crawling around the Phil's halls at midnight," she asked.

  "Okay... let's start with this. I'm in love with your mother, Joy—"

  "Of course you are." Joy had heard these same words from Stephen and others like him through the years. Her mother's allure was universal. And every man she'd ever caught in her web had been compelled to air his feelings to her daughter. A puzzle Joy never solved, as mystifying as their inability to see in Lana the tiniest of faults. She hated to think of Wade among them.

  "And she loves me," he went on. "But when you marched out of the restaurant tonight, your mother was upset, and I realized how big a wedge there is between the two of you. And a big part of it centers around this place." He cast his eyes around, looked disgusted. "This damned decrepit, old hotel."

  "That you're so hot to buy from me," she reminded him dryly.

  "More so than ever."

  "And why's that?"

  "It's dangerous here. I tried to warn you days ago, but you wouldn't listen. There are people—" he stopped abruptly.

  Joy paused to study him. He sounded serious, and for the first time, actually sincere. And maybe nervous?

  "What people?" Wade stepped closer.

  David stood and the two men faced each other, eye to eye, evenly matched in weight and height. Neither prepared to back down. "I've said enough. And I can't tell you what I don't know."

  "It seems to me you know a hell of a lot more than you should, Grange." Wade's eyes narrowed. "And I think you'll do whatever you think needs doing to get your hands on this place. Including threatening Joy."

  "I want this place, sure—and the profits to come with it. Personally, I can't wait to demolish this hellhole." He looked at Joy. "As for harming you to make that happen"—he half-smiled—"that wouldn't make your mother happy, would it? And right now, making her happy is all I care about. I asked her to marry me tonight, Joy, and she said yes. You're looking at a happy man. A very happy man."

  And he looked to be exactly what he said he was.

  Joy shouldn't have been so surprised. Nothing her mother did shocked her anymore, but accepting another man's marriage proposal when your husband's body was still cooling in the grave reminded Joy—again—of the shallow ground on which her mother built her life. Then she remembered the kiss she'd caught between David and her mother. Even through the jaded eyes she'd come to use when studying her mother, she'd seen the passion between them, the warmth in Lana's eyes. She wondered if it were possible that her mother and this man were truly in love.

  "Does my mother know about these 'dangerous people' who don't want me to own the Phil?"

  "No. But I know she'd want you safe."

  "Let me guess. And for me to be safe, I should sell you the Philip, give her the money she believes is 'rightfully hers,' and leave town."

  She cast a glance at Wade. She wanted to know what he was thinking, but his face gave nothing away—except a dark interest in the conversation between her and David.

  David went on, his voice forceful. "This isn't all about money, it's about your being... protected."

  "That's it," Wade said. "You've said all you're going to say, Grange, so get the hell out of here. If the lady needs protection, you can bet she'll have it." His face was a tight mask of anger and threat. The air around him hummed with it, but he didn't shift a muscle.

  David got up, settled a cold gaze on him. "I'll go, but not before I add this. You don't have pockets deep enough to buy this place, Emerson. No matter what you bid, I can top it."

  Wade's gaze was steady. "We'll see about that."

  He shook his head. "You're fools. Both of you," he said, and with that was gone.

  Joy stared at the door he'd closed behind him. "Do you believe that?" she whispered, more to herself than Wade.

  Wade pushed away from the counter. "That guy's got an agenda." He paused. "As, apparently, have you and your mother." His jaw worked and a muscle ticked. "But all that's best left for later. Let's go to Sinnie's room. Our question-and-answer session can wait. People dying can't."

  * * *

  "You're late." Christian's mood was sour. It was after twelve-thirty. He'd spent an hour looking at the obscene sight at his feet. The blood was beginning to agitate him. He slipped the chain on the door, and David pushed his way in, opening the door far too wide for Christian's comfort.

  "I met some friends of yours outside your door a few minutes ago. I had to double back."

  "Ah, yes, the 'new owner' of the Phil." Christian danced the words out of his mouth in a little-girl voice. "She looked to be no more than twelve years old. The presumption of her!"

  "Everybody looks twelve years old when you're as ancient as you are," David said, then squinted. "Damn, it's dark in here, Christian. Why the hell don't you turn on some lights? Or are you terrorized by them, too?"

  "Don't be stupid," Christian lied. "I have the lights off for a reason. I do everything for a reason."

  "Don't I know it," David said, his voice tired.

  "Come with me."

  David followed him from the penthouse foyer to the living room. Stopping abruptly, he stared stupidly at the hulk of a corpse lying in front of Christian's chair, gorily illuminated by the pool of yellow light cast by Christian's lamp. "Jesus..." he said, the invocation drifting out on a ragged sigh. "You're crazy, you know that? You're fucking crazy, Rupert. What the hell have you done?"

  "I've cleaned up some scum." Christian took his chair. "And I'd appreciate your taking it from here."

  David's face blazed with anger."You brought me here to get rid of the body?"

  Christian smoothed his velvet lapels. He felt better now that David was here, but he wished he weren't so transfixed by the human waste on the floor. "Among other things, yes. It's not as if you're inexperienced in such matters." He gestured toward the terrace. "There's a large box behind the biggest planter—the one the tarp came out of. Put him in there. I'd have you bury him in the planter itself, but I have no intention of having the dearly departed Michael as a permanent terrace guest. One of those is enough. Tomorrow you can arrange for the proper equipment to remove him from the building. You'll need a dolly, I expect."

  David rubbed his forehead. "You expect me to get a body out of this place without being seen?"

  "I expect you to get a box out of here without being seen." Christian eased the tension from his bony shoulders. David was so recalcitrant."Your risk of being discovered is minimal, as I had the foresight to have the deceased"—he pointed at the corpse—"clear the hotel in preparation. The only people left are the boy and his mother on two, Emerson, and, for obvious reasons, the Cole girl on three. You'll have no difficulties."

  "You've gone a bit far, haven't you?" David's chin lifted as if surprised. "What about your precious security, your endless parade of door knockers?"

  "Rest assured, I've taken care of every eventuality." Christian said, slightly alarmed by the intensity in David's gaze. "There's a pair of overalls hanging in the storage box. Put them on to protect your clothes. The shovel is where it always is."

  "And what if I say, fuck you, Rupert, and walk out of here?"

  "I'll ignore your profanity, David—for now—because I know how grateful you are to me. How much you owe me." Christian picked up his glass of water, sipped, and put it down. "Now, please get this"—he pointed at the Michael thing with his toe, careful not to touch it—"out of my home immediately. When you've done that,
we'll discuss my plans for the Cole girl. To save you a trip—you see how considerate I am—you can take care of her tomorrow night, when you come to remove Michael. I want to wake up Saturday morning with all this chaos behind me."

  "Forget about the Cole girl. I'll get your goddamned hotel. There doesn't have to be any more killing."

  "I'm afraid I've lost confidence in your approach, David—and patience. I want you to kill the girl, and I want it done tomorrow." He paused. "Am I clear?"

  David stood in front of him and Christian watched a war rage across his face, heard the hard tug of his lungs at the cool night air. The long, hoarse exhalations. The sound of impotence. It was good to have control. Christian wondered idly how anyone lived without it.

  After more silent seconds passed, David took off his jacket and started to work on the tarp, his face set to an expression black as Hades. But even in this emotional milieu, he performed beautifully. In minutes the corpse was swaddled and tied.

  "Please ensure the box is securely locked. And double check the binding on the tarpaulin. I don't want leakage."

  David shot him a killing glance, dragged the blue-tarped body to the terrace, and, without a word, closed the door behind him.

  Christian relaxed back into his chair, knowing David had his work cut out for him, loading and securing that abhorrent bulk for removal. When he was done, they would discuss how Christian wanted him to kill the girl.

  Finally, everything was coming together—as it should. Within days, the Philip would be his, as it was meant to be from the very beginning.

  * * *

  "This is harder than I thought," Wade said, standing over Sinnie's three-drawer bureau. "I feel like a sneak thief."

  "I'll do that," Joy said, and stepped up beside him. "You check the top shelf of the closet. People always hide stuff there."

  "You've seen too many movies," he said, but took her advice and went to the closet.

  Joy opened the first drawer and was immediately impressed. Sinnie's drawers would make a mother proud, everything neat as a pin. But not much there. "What are we looking for, anyway?"