Dead and Gone

by William Casey Moreton

  “When did that happen?”

  “Last week.”

  “Why did Terry put a drug in my drink?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I searched her eyes. She maneuvered the slice of veggie pizza around so that she could attack it from the small end. Was she telling the truth? I thought I knew her pretty well, but sitting there I just couldn’t tell either way. Looking back on our relationship over the past year, she was clearly a very good liar. I felt anger begin to boil just beneath the surface. I felt like an idiot. She had used me. She had lied to me. She had played me like a stooge. I bit down hard to keep from telling her off. Because right now I needed her to cooperate, and that wouldn’t happen if I lashed out. It wasn’t easy to hold my tongue. I took a deep breath and let the wave pass.

  The beer helped take the edge off.

  “OK, then, answer this,” I said. “So the blackmail scheme was a disaster. What reason would Terry have for doping my drink?”

  “He didn’t say a word to me. I didn’t see him that night. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since the weekend. I was pissed at the world. I thought I was going to be rich, you know? I had plans for that money. Then suddenly, all my plans were shot to hell.”

  I drifted back to Tuesday evening. The memory had acquired more depth. More color. The blockage was slipping. I could smell the food, hear the low hum of chatter around us. Terry was seated across from me. Veronica Wagner to my left. Keith Potts, one of the Kellogg’s honchos to my right, and his peer, Don Crabtree, seated between Veronica and Terry. Terry ordered wine and wasted no time polishing off the first few glasses. He’d been a world class drinker.

  Veronica was gorgeous. She was built like a dream and flirted like a super star. I could still smell her perfume.

  Terry was seated opposite me, so how could he have put anything in my drink? It would have been too obvious. How could he have made any kind of move like that without me noticing? He was wearing Armani. All black. The shirt unbuttoned enough to complete a casual look. He was laughing — always good with a joke. He was keeping Keith and Don entertained, but also maintained a wondering eye on Veronica’s plunging neckline.

  In my memory I stared at my wine glass. I’m right-handed. The glass was to the right of my dinner plate. Terry was seated at about eleven clock. Thus, slightly to the left of me. From his seat it would have required more than an arm’s length to reach my wine glass. I studied it hard, shaking the fog from the mental imagery. I imagined him tipping forward slightly in his seat as he noticed my attention distracted by Veronica’s charm and beauty. Perhaps he reached for salt, or for more bread, and he extends his reach by — let’s say — an extra four or five inches, and discreetly passes a hand over the rim of my glass. It would have been a move so quick and smooth it would have likely gone completely unnoticed. The result would have been a small chalky tablet dissolving in my glass of red.

  Even that scenario seemed like a stretch. I didn’t think he could have pulled it off without being noticed. So I didn’t think that’s how it happened.

  Ellen had to be lying. I was certain of it. There had to be a ton of stuff she wasn’t telling me. I couldn’t trust her. Truthfully, I’m not sure how much I ever did.

  I dropped our plates and cups in a trash bin on the way out the door. Ellen was still clearly shaken by her experience.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She didn’t respond.

  She hugged her arms around herself and shrugged her shoulders, avoiding eye contact, with me or anyone else. I still wasn’t used to the chopped hair. She looked like a refugee, though an admittedly stylish one. It would be getting dark soon. Thunder rumbled over the constant sounds of traffic. I hoped the next round of rain would hold off.

  There was a cop standing at an intersection, watching the sidewalk, bored but alert. I saw him and stopped, hooked a hand around Ellen’s arm and turned away from the cop.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Walk,” I said. Maybe I was being paranoid, but it seemed reasonable to assume that the cops on the street would be on the lookout for an adult male matching my description. That would be me, of course. Curry had called my cell and told me about the body found in my apartment, and I had yet to make an appearance. For the uneducated, that would tend to look slightly suspicious. My cell rang again as we hurried south. Curry again. I had ignored his repeated calls. Again, perhaps not the wisest choice, but I had nothing to say that he’d want to hear, and vice versa. I had no intention of surrendering to police custody at the moment, considering I wasn’t responsible for the murder of the woman in my apartment.

  I checked over my shoulder for the cop.

  His eyes were on us. No good.

  “Faster,” I said.

  We upped our stride. Then we took a corner and did our best to blend into heavier foot traffic on the sidewalk. I checked again and saw the cop make the corner behind us.

  “Bad news,” I said.

  She noted the concern in my tone and took a look for herself.

  “Who are you running from?” she asked.

  “Just keep moving,” I told her.

  Just then my cell rang again. My ex-wife was calling. I wanted to say, Connie, this is kind of a bad time for me. I ignored it. She immediately called back and I cursed her under my breath. I still love her to pieces, but wow, her rep for bad timing is legendary. Please go away, I begged.

  We ducked inside a florist shop and hid down one of the aisles near the back. Killed ten minutes, then emerged with great trepidation. No sign of the cop now.

  Don’t trust anyone. Hopper’s words. I couldn’t shake them. He’d been out of his mind, of course, thinking I was Terry instead of me. I couldn’t shake the image of him sprawled in the street, blood on his face, blood on the pavement, the light going out of his eyes as he died.

  Be careful. Why would he have told Terry to be careful? Who was he trying to protect him from? Senator Shelby? That seemed obvious, but how would Hopper have known anything about the Shelby connection?

  The security video from Terry’s apartment was still bothering me. I replayed it in my head. I watched Terry come and go. Watched him enter the elevator with Chandler. Watched Chandler leave alone. Watched Terry leave the final time. Then I remembered the time stamp on the screen and tried to make sense of it. It didn’t make sense, because according to the video, Terry left and didn’t return before his body was found in the bathtub of his apartment. Something about the order of things seemed strange. The details just didn’t add up.

  CHAPTER 35

  I told Herb I needed to see it again. He unlocked the tiny closet-size room and queued up the video. I sat in the chair at the desk and leaned in close to the flat-panel screen. Ellen watched over my shoulder. Herb forwarded through the dead spaces as before, and again the footage failed to show Terry returning after his final ride down in the elevator.

  Ellen put a hand on my shoulder and looked down at my face.

  “What is the problem?” she asked.

  I shifted my weight in the rickety caster chair. “The problem is we don’t see him return to the apartment,” I said.

  “So?”

  “So, a few hours later he was dead in the tub. The question is how did he get there?”

  I could see her thinking.

  “Oh, I see,” she said, nodding slowly.

  The same unanswered questions still remained.

  “Do you recognize the young guy?” I asked Ellen.

  “No,” she said without hesitation.

  “His name is Chandler. He’s gay.”

  The information registered in her eyes.

  “What was he doing with Terry?” she asked.

  “Good question,” I replied.

  CHAPTER 36

  The Asian kid was a new employee and didn’t seem terribly concerned with following instructions. His supervisor at the hotel was a guy named Mathers, and Mathers hated training newbies, especially college types like the Asian kid who ty
pically turned up their noses at a little honest work. Mathers had learned to watch him like a hawk because you never knew what the kid might screw up next.

  They worked for the hotel maintenance crew. There was always something to be repaired, or a mess to be cleaned up, or a plumbing fixture needing to be replaced. The to-do list was endless, and Mathers never stopped complaining that there weren’t enough hours in the day to get it all done. Mathers was carrying a cheese sandwich and studying his clipboard as he hurried through the basement on the way to his tiny office. The shirt of his hotel uniform had a coffee stain above the breast pocket because he was always bumping into someone as he rushed around.

  He glanced up from the clipboard as he chewed a bite of sandwich, and saw the Asian kid pass going the opposite direction with a can of paint in each hand. The kid never made eye contact. Mathers paused for a beat and watched the kid disappear around the corner. Something was always being painted. The kid was barely a hundred pounds and so the paint cans looked out of proportion to his body. Mathers shook his head and hustled on. He only made it another fifty feet before his subconscious told him to apply the brakes. He decided he better check what the kid intended to do with those cans.

  That was a smart move. Right as Mathers rounded the corner, he spotted the kid hoisting the second can up into one of the big Dumpsters near the delivery dock. The blood went straight to Mathers’ head. There were a million regulations for the proper disposal of paint, but tossing it into the trash wasn’t one of them.

  Mathers marched over and shoved the kid aside.

  “Who told you to throw those cans into there?”

  The kid stared at him and shrugged.

  Send every one of these punks back to China, Mathers thought. I’ve got no use for them here. All they do is take jobs away from hardworking Americans!

  Mathers hitched his hands on his hips and scowled at the chipped blue metal on the front of the Dumpster.

  “Were those lids on good?”

  The kid shrugged again.

  Mathers could feel the heat rising on his face.

  “Bring me a step ladder,” he told the kid.

  He placed the ladder in front of the Dumpster and stepped up where he could see inside. One of the paint cans had come to rest on top of bags of garbage and was within easy reach. Mathers leaned in and took hold of the handle. He handed it down to the Asian kid. The second can had settled deeper down among the trash. It wasn’t going to be a simple matter of reaching in with a hand to retrieve it. Someone was going to have to climb in, but Mathers wasn’t going to do the Dumpster diving himself. He’d make the kid do it. That would teach him a lesson.

  Mathers came down off the ladder.

  “Go get it,” he said.

  The kid stared at him with a vacant look on his face.

  “Don’t play stupid with me, boy. Get the other can out of there. I’m going to stand right here and wait because I don’t trust you to get a job done right. So get after it.”

  The kid hesitated, then went up the ladder and dropped into the Dumpster. Mathers listened to the sounds of him fumbling through the bags of garbage. A grin twisted across his face. Then he heard the kid gasp, followed by a scream.

  Mathers went up the ladder and looked inside. The kid was scrambling to get out, and Mathers quickly understood why. Because the kid had moved aside garbage bags and uncovered a dead body.

  * * *

  Blake McConnell was sitting on his bed with his laptop balanced on his thighs and his cellphone earbuds plugged into both ears. He’d been scrambling all day, multitasking, moving mountains, doing his damnedest to make sure the team didn’t encounter any major snag this early in the campaign. He couldn’t shake the sight of Shelby’s barf from his brain.

  McConnell was a major Type-A overachiever and rarely slept more than three or four hours a night. He loathed sleep or anything else that slowed him down. He ate like a bird and lived on coffee. On his iPod he had meditation audio tracks his doctor wanted him to listen to in an effort to bring his blood pressure down to healthy levels, but McConnell always fast-forwarded through the tracks to speed things up. He could worry about his blood pressure and general health after Shelby was in the White House. Until then, there was too much work to do.

  The phone on the nightstand rang. McConnell stared at it. It was the hotel landline. He ignored it. It rang again and McConnell cursed. He twisted sideways and stretched out to reach it, grabbing at the receiver as he simultaneously popped the earbud out of his right ear.

  “Hello?” he barked.

  The voice on the other end of the line was the hotel manager.

  “Yeah, this is McConnell,” he replied. As he listened to the information coming over the line, the color started draining from his face.

  “What do you mean you found the senator’s body? Where?” he asked. “He’s dead? What do you mean he’s dead? That’s not possible.” Even as the words crossed his lips he felt himself turning pale.

  “Give me two minutes,” he said, suddenly barely able to breathe. “I’m on my way down.”

  * * *

  Terry Burgess stared out the window at the haze over the city. He couldn’t relax. His body was riddled with anxiety. It was time to go.

  He was dressed and standing at the window, wanting to be far away, wanting for this to all be over and behind him. All he had left to do was exit the hotel, find his car, and drive to the airport. Easy enough, right?

  His thoughts drifted to Nick. His best friend and all around good guy. Terry wished things could have been different. It didn’t have to turn out this way, but now there was no other choice. Sometimes that’s how the chips fell. There was no point living with regret or trying to change the past. Better to accept fate and just roll with the hand you are dealt. So all he could do was salute his old buddy and wish him well, because there was no turning back.

  He pulled a ball cap down over his brow and put on a pair of sunglasses. He unlocked the door for a quick look into the hallway. The hallway was empty. This was his moment. He pulled the door shut and walked to the elevator. Two businessmen in suits stepped out of the elevator and past him, too occupied by conversation to notice him. The elevator doors started closing as nervousness made his stomach tighten. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. In a few minutes he would be home free.

  Then he heard a voice shout, “Hold the door!”

  Terry opened his eyes and saw someone dashing for the elevator. He made no attempt to hold the door. The man reached it just in time and managed to put his arm through and the door retracted. Terry recognized the man as Shelby’s campaign manager. Suddenly, his chest tightened and he could feel his pulse in his ears. McConnell glanced at the panel of buttons and saw that the lobby button had already been pressed. McConnell was breathless. He appeared frantic. The door closed and the elevator began to move.

  Terry Burgess eased to the rear of the car and stood with his back to the wall, remaining silent and still. He needed to reach the lobby and slip away without McConnell noticing him. It only took a few seconds before he noticed a distinct shift in McConnell’s body language. Terry prepared himself for what he knew he would have to do.

  McConnell turned slowly.

  Terry watched him.

  McConnell’s head came around as his eyes tracked from the floor up to Terry’s face. Every movement seemed to unfold in slow motion. Terry’s eyes watched from behind the lenses of the sunglasses.

  He saw me, Terry thought. He’s going to recognize me.

  McConnell had twisted his neck enough to make full eye contact. The immediate recognition registered in the muscles of his face. As the information reached his brain that Senator Shelby was in the elevator with him heading down to the lobby wearing sunglasses and a hat, the most apparent question was why? Why had he left his room?

  “Harrison?” McConnell said, the tone of his voice expressing disbelief. “The hotel manager just called my room and said — ”

  Terry di
dn’t give him a chance to finish his thought. Even as the words rolled from McConnell’s lips, Terry’s hand was already behind his back, reaching under the tail of his jacket and gripping his gun. The silencer was still attached. The movement was quick. McConnell, stunned at having encountered him so unexpectedly in the elevator at that moment, was unprepared for the reaction required to save his life. He was surely confused by what he was seeing before him compared to what the hotel manager had told him only moments ago. He’d been told that Senator Shelby’s body was in a Dumpster in the basement, but here he was, in the elevator with him, looking very much healthy and alive.

  Terry brought the arm around with the gun.

  McConnell still didn’t understand.

  Terry glanced at the panel beside the door. They were nearly to the second floor. He didn’t hesitate. He leveled the gun with the back of McConnell’s head and pulled the trigger twice. A pink mist sprayed the stainless steel door as McConnell’s knees buckled and he folded like a rag doll and crumbled to the floor. Terry stepped over the body and reached for the panel, touching the button for the second floor just in time.

  The elevator stopped and the door opened at the second floor. Terry kicked the body out and pressed the button for the doors to close. He shoved the gun back into his pants and covered the bulge with the tail of his jacket. When the door opened at the lobby he exited the elevator and walked briskly toward the street exit. He was almost there when he heard someone call out for him.

  “Senator Shelby?”

  Terry didn’t stop. A second voice called to him but he didn’t slow or turn to look. He simply pretended like he didn’t hear. When he made it out to the sidewalk he ran into the street, dodging cars as they swerved around him, horns honking, tires screeching. He jumped in front of an oncoming taxi and it jolted to an abrupt stop to keep from plowing over him, but then the taxi was rear-ended by a black sedan whose driver was busy texting, and the taxi was shoved forward, clipping Terry’s legs out from under him, and he rolled up over the hood and went down hard onto the pavement, striking his head, the impact sending a cascade of sparkling light through his brain.