Why do we hurt each other so? I wish I knew.
The latest winner in the Derrick Cotter hotel sweepstakes is an exclusive boutique establishment in Covent Garden. I settle into a club chair in the lobby bar, one that has an unobstructed view of the doors to the street as well as the front desk. When the spotty young waiter approaches, I order a gin and tonic (when in London, after all) and settle down to wait.
I’m relaxed as I sip my refreshingly tangy drink. By cloning Derrick’s texts I know his planned rendezvous is not scheduled for another half an hour. My research has revealed whom it is he’s meeting. I know they are meeting here.
They like to think they’ve been careful, with their judicious use of coded messages to communicate and the rotating cycle of hotels they’ve frequented, but really it’s all playacting. Anyone who was looking could find them. Maybe on some level they want to be caught.
I don’t have to stay here at the hotel. The cameras I installed in the rendezvous hotel room before their arrival are motion activated. It only took fifty quid to get a hotel staffer to reveal that Mr. Cotter had a favorite room and to provide access. I could sit in the comfort of my own hotel room down the street and watch the live feed if I could stomach it. I order another drink.
Derrick comes in and greets the desk clerk with familiarity. A key card slides across polished wood. Derrick requests that a bottle of champagne be sent up to the room.
I observe him with frank curiosity, certain he will take no notice of me. He hasn’t seen me in years. But beyond that, clad as I am in drab layers of crinkled linen, with orthopedic shoes on my feet and a gray wig on my head, I might as well be invisible. Not only to Derrick, but also to most of the people who’ve passed me in this lobby. Apart from the spotty waiter, the single person to acknowledge me in the time I’ve sat here was an elderly woman with a walker whose eyes sought mine in commiseration of the indignities of aging.
Derrick’s a little heavier than when I last saw him, his hair thinner. He’s vain about his hair, I can tell; a few long strands are draped across an incipient bald spot. He’s also adopted a cocky swagger that he displays in his amble to the elevators.
Miranda Holcomb arrives seventeen minutes after Derrick. I’ve never seen her in the flesh before and her appeal is readily apparent. Dewy pale skin with that perfect English rose flush on her high cheekbones. Curls of auburn hair escaping from a silk scarf loosely knotted around her head. Miranda saunters through the lobby with a sinuous, languorous grace that causes every man in the room to stare. And more than one woman. Miranda wields her sexual power like a club.
From what I’ve pieced together, Miranda and Derrick have been having an affair for over a year. Sweet relief.
It’s not that I don’t care Holly’s been betrayed. I do. I feel his pain like my own. But if he’s betrayed, he’s not complicit. It’s Derrick’s hands that need a washing, after all.
I like to believe that Holly will be more hurt by Derrick’s betrayal than by Miranda’s, but I’m not just flattering myself that I hold his heart. The adulterous pair deceived Holly on a business level as well as a personal one, using the cover of his contacts and associations. Holly has no children; Holcomb Investments is his baby, Derrick his most trusted lieutenant.
I speculate about Miranda and Derrick’s plan. They’ve amassed quite a tidy sum in the Caymans, although nowhere near Holly’s immense fortune. Do they have a “magic number” they are trying to accumulate? What then?
In a sick way I can understand Derrick’s motivation: a score that thoroughly humiliates the man to whom he owes everything. Dependence can be corrosive, rusting out gratitude and turning it hollow. But would Miranda actually walk away from Holly’s billions and his social prominence? Endure the predictable scandal? The world that Holly moves in will inevitably pick sides, and Miranda and Derrick won’t be on the winning end of that coin toss.
People do all sorts of idiotic things in the name of love, I remind myself. I’m not immune, try as hard as I might. It’s why it’s best for me to live the way I do, untethered, responsible for others only as I choose to be, and never out of need or desire. It may be lonely, but it’s safe.
PERFECT
Magali Guzman,
New York City
Maggie reminds herself that since she created an avatar to interact on this site, whoever it is she’s communicating with may have done exactly the same. This might explain why after an eager response to her first message from a person she believes to be Stephanie Regaldo, there has been considerable and frustrating negotiation about how and where to meet, including a number of postponements of scheduled appointments. Maggie sighs. The latest message is yet another delay.
She feels a presence over her shoulder and switches computer screens without missing a beat, hiding her chat room conversation from prying eyes. Swiveling around in her chair, she sees Karen staring at her expectantly. “I’m sorry,” Maggie apologizes to her colleague. “I was a million miles away.”
“Clearly. Listen, girl, I’m trying to plan your going-away party. Brennan’s or McNeil’s?”
“How can you even suggest Brennan’s?” Maggie asks, laughing. “Not after the Christmas party!”
“McNeil’s it is.” Karen laughs back, before going on to debate the relative desirability of a Thursday versus a Friday night.
Planning the party makes Maggie’s life as a UC feel tangibly and tantalizingly close. Diego’s right. Why risk everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve by chasing a shadow in the dark? What do I even expect to learn?
Overactive imagination.
“Magali Guzman! I can’t believe that didn’t get a laugh.”
Maggie startles when she realizes Karen is staring at her, with hands planted on her hips and an expression of faux outrage on her face. “What? I’m sorry. A lot on my mind,” she apologizes.
Karen points discreetly at Ryan Johnson, lurking a few cubicles down. “I said, we should call it for McNeil’s but tell him it’s Brennan’s.”
Maggie rewards Karen with the roar of laughter her friend was seeking. But seeing Ryan takes Maggie back to the interviews they conducted together when working the Elliott case. Rachel Ferris’s words float through Maggie’s mind so loudly she’s shocked Karen doesn’t hear them: “Anything that looks perfect is a lie.”
If “Stephanie Regaldo” ever does give Maggie a firm time and date, she may meet her, after all. She’ll have to be careful, play her role with precision, just long enough to see if there is anything tangible linking this blue-collar Jersey girl with the tragic past to the disappearance of a wealthy Manhattan socialite and her son. Just long enough for Maggie to see if she tingles. This can be the end of it, depending on what she finds. Or she can turn it over to official channels. Maybe she’ll find nothing. It’s probably nothing.
Maggie wonders if Diego has ratted her out to their parents. He probably wouldn’t say anything to their mother, but Dad is entirely possible.
Sometimes it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. Maggie learned that from her dad too, although he applies the principle to such matters as eating the last slice of chocolate cake or impulsively splurging on a new barbecue. She’s not entirely sure Dad would approve of her current interpretation, but the lure is impossible to resist.
After all, it’s just one meeting.
WILD
Catherine,
London, England
For nostalgia’s sake I picked the Mandarin Oriental hotel in Hyde Park for our rendezvous, even though I have no idea if the warm feelings I harbor for the hotel’s counterpart in Paris are mirrored within Holly in any way. He’s had a new wife, and probably other lovers too, since our limbs tangled in silky sheets back there in Paris. It’s possible he doesn’t remember the Mandarin at all.
He’s expecting to meet an emissary dispatched by me with information that is “too sensiti
ve” to relay except in a face-to-face meeting. The last half is true at least. And once I share what I know he’ll be grateful I came in person.
I slide onto a barstool, aware of a few appraising and appreciative glances coming my way. My hair is loose and frames my face. My dress is clingy and dips suggestively into my cleavage. My shoes are patently absurd, sky-high stilettos with straps that snake up my calves. I haven’t seen Holly in over two years and intend on making an impression. I order a Lone Apple, from the signature cocktail list. It seems appropriate.
Early so I could pick my position and assess the room before Holly’s arrival, I have to bat away the overtures of a handful of overconfident men in bespoke suits as I wait. Holly’s running late and my nerves rise. My pleasant memories of the Mandarin Oriental in Paris twist to less charming ones: a bruised Jake Burrows stumbling from the hotel, the resistance of the plunger as I stabbed a hypodermic needle into his neck, catching his body before he crashed to cold concrete. It was for Jake’s benefit, but he’s harbored some resentment ever since I came clean about the incident.
A hush falls when Holly enters the bar. This is a money crowd and Forrest Holcomb is made of money. No one is so gauche as to point at him or whisper. It is the absence of sound that demonstrates his status, the way conversation stops and even cutlery dare not clink. He pauses in front of a gold-etched glass panel, his features illuminated by a pool of light beaming from a copper fixture suspended overhead. His beard and hair are more silver than when I last saw him, his eyes a little more weary. But it’s Holly, my Holly, my man.
Holly’s appearance in the bar is assessed and digested. The patrons move on to fresh gossip. The buzz of conversation swells again. Holly’s eyes scan the room with the possessive power of someone who could buy everyone in it if he so wanted.
When those evaluating eyes meet mine, I stay poised despite the flush of heat I immediately feel between my thighs. I cross one leg over the other and let Holly get a good long look.
He crosses to me in a few bold strides. Orders a drink from the bartender and kisses me on both cheeks. “There you are, luv,” he says affectionately. “About time.”
It doesn’t take much to get him upstairs; a whispered invitation and we casually saunter to the elevator. His hand slides under my dress and up the back of my thigh to cup my ass. He moans when he realizes I’m not wearing underwear.
At last the door to the suite slams behind us, and we fall to the carpeted floor, urgent, panting, hungry, wild. The release when it comes is exquisite, a free fall from a great height, waves of pleasure rocking me across the universe and then back to the earth.
Later, curled together amid our strewn clothes and sharing a cigarette, I ask Holly about Peter Lombard.
“What about him? I told you. Good chap. A lot of promise. Could be the son I never had. Batty business what went on in Hong Kong, what? But, darling, what did you have to tell me in person?” Holly props himself up on one elbow and plucks the cigarette from my fingers.
I lay out my thought processes and research, presenting the information in a logical manner, asking Holly to let me finish the numerous times he tries to interrupt. I tell him my guess, that the shipment Lombard unknowingly brought into Hong Kong was a big score, maybe big enough for Derrick and Miranda to make a move if they’re planning on one. I also share my supposition that Lombard was picked for the role by Derrick precisely because of Holly’s affection for the younger man. If Peter succeeded in getting the diamonds into Hong Kong, it would be a win. If he got arrested and charged, it was a win of a different sort.
Holly pulls another cigarette from the pack and lights it with the burning ember of the butt we have going. He takes in a harsh inhale of smoke and plumes it out through his nose.
“Thank you,” he says gravely, running a finger along my cheekbone. “It won’t be forgotten.”
“Of course.”
He rises then, pulling on his trousers and shrugging into his soft cotton shirt. He steps into his shoes, leans over to kiss me deeply, and leaves without saying another word.
I can’t blame Holly. I was the one who set our rules and boundaries. But as the door clicks closed behind him, my heart breaks all over again.
MAD WORLD
Magali Guzman,
New York City
Never has time ticked by so slowly. Stephanie Regaldo finally confirmed a meeting. All day long Maggie’s been anticipating its cancellation, but with just ninety minutes until their appointed time it looks like they’re good to go.
Never has Maggie been so conflicted. She lured this young woman with empty promises of new information about the murders of her family, a cruel trick if Maggie discovers there’s no link between Stephanie and the Elliotts. That’s guilt-inducing enough, but the many ignored calls from Diego add a whole extra layer of spice.
She checks the clock again. Go time. It’s now or never, particularly with the unforgiving vagaries of the New York City transit system. Maggie shuts down her computer and pulls her handbag from a desk drawer, mentally rehearsing the role she’s about to play. Keep her talking. That’s the objective. Find out all you can, but don’t push so hard she’s scared away. Establish sufficient trust to keep the channel open.
Maggie has several different ideas about how to integrate the Elliotts into the conversation depending on what she encounters. She strategizes her options as she rides down the elevator and into the lobby of the Federal Building. She’s so absorbed in her thoughts that she collides with Ryan Johnson, who’s exiting the building just in front of her.
“Whoa, baby, you don’t have to maul me, just ask nicely if you want to take a ride on my pole.” Ryan smirks at her.
What a very consistent dick he is. “Thanks for the offer.” Maggie sidesteps him. “But I’ve got better plans.”
“What could be better than me?” Ryan blocks her way when she tries to pass. Gives her a sly grin. “And why am I the only one not getting a taste of your hot taco?”
Maggie dodges him again. I do not have the time for this crap. “Cut it, Johnson.”
“Yeah, cut it, Johnson!”
Maggie turns her head to see Diego, red-faced and furious, arm cocked back like he’s about to strike. She’s seen her brother’s temper enough times to know this is a critical moment.
“Who’s this?” Ryan taunts. “The better plan you’re spreading your legs for?”
Hearing those words, Maggie relinquishes any faint hope she might have had of stopping Diego’s balled fist. It connects resoundingly with Johnson’s square jaw. Men! Hijos de las gran putas!
Pedestrians scatter and yelp. Maggie can’t deny the burst of satisfaction that erupts inside her, seeing Johnson’s shocked face, but she grabs Diego by the elbow and hauls him down the street and around the corner. The crowd absorbs them into its flow until she gives her brother a solid, angry push. “What the fuck, Diego! I have to work with that asshole.”
“Asshole is right. How long you been putting up with that shit?”
“Why does it matter? And anyway, I’m a big girl. I can handle my own business.”
The need for confrontation hardens Diego’s features. “Can you? Without, say, using Carlos for your business?”
“That’s not fair. I like Carlos.”
“Sure, as long as he can get you something you want. And for a case that was shut down as an embarrassment to your beloved Bureau? I’ve never been undercover but I know it’s hard to keep your moral center if you’re in deep. How are you going to manage that if you can’t even keep your shit straight now? I’m disappointed in you, Magali, no lie.”
Diego’s words sting every bit as much as they are intended to. Maggie longs to bite back and spew some judgment of her own. It’s not like you’re some kind of saint! And what have I done that’s really so bad?
Knowing she’s about to secretly add another sin to the
list of her offenses makes her choke back the venom. She considers explaining it all to Diego. His intentions are good. Even now he’s only here because he’s looking out for her. Maybe she can make him understand. She glances at her cell. If only she had the time!
“And now you can’t stay off your maldito phone?” Diego glowers at her.
“I’ve got to go. I’m late for something important. But I promise you I’m not doing anything stupid.”
“Yeah, well, your current track record indicates otherwise.” Diego’s ire still runs high; even the satisfaction of the hard connect with Johnson’s jaw hasn’t dulled his sharp edge.
“Get out of here. Take a run and a shower. Cool down. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“If you answer my calls,” he shoots back, rippling with attitude.
“I will. I promise.” Maggie hurries off, her urgent steps melding into the familiar fast pulse of the city. She needs to get back into her groove after this double whammy of idiocy: Ryan (ordinary idiocy) and Diego (unordinary, extraordinary idiocy).
Partly her nerves jangle because she knows that Diego’s right. Not only is she taking risks that go against her training in this pursuit, she’s also brushing up hard against her personal moral lines. But she can’t shake the faces of Betsy and little Bear Elliott. Or her conviction that something is up with Stephanie Regaldo. It may not be what Maggie expects, but she’s embraced another of her dad’s philosophies, that of entering every encounter with “high hopes, but no expectations.”
Hell, no one may show up. Or someone may show up who’s not the woman I’m looking for. Or Regaldo could show up but have no info about the Elliotts. It could all be a mega waste of time.
The Empty Bed Page 24
