by Mike Nappa
“Everything checks out. The ASLA board of directors did indeed assign her to handle the entertainment and auction for their charity event, and she did indeed donate the Poe collectible before the auction was changed to be a dual event. As for The Raven, he’s never really been a suspect.”
“And Mama did find Andrew Carr for you,” Trudi said thoughtfully. “Why would she do that if she was implicated?”
Samuel nodded. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded newspaper clipping. “There’s also this,” he said. He laid it on the table, and Trudi saw it was an advertisement for an upcoming event. “Mama found it.”
“The Edgar Awards?” she said.
“Big literary festival, named after Edgar Allan Poe and sponsored by the Mystery Writers of America. Every April they have a gala banquet in New York City—”
“But this year they’re partnering with the University of Georgia”—she scanned the advertisement—“to hold the ceremonies in Athens, on April 28?”
“Right,” he said. “Something about encouraging young authors to achieve greatness in mystery writing. And a contract dispute with the big hotel that’s their normal venue in New York.”
“Wow, that’d be fun. Why didn’t they ever do something like this when we were going to UGA?”
“You’re missing the point, Tru-Bear.”
“Right. Okay. So Mama thinks the Edgar Awards might have a connection to Nevermore?”
“No,” he said. “She thinks it’s just as much a dead end as the Max Roman fundraiser. But she thought I’d want to know about it anyway.”
“So what do you think?”
“Well,” he said, and she could see him searching out logical conclusions in his head, “maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe these are all red herrings. There is no real evidence of a threat, none that I can find—and you know I have been looking. Maybe the fundraiser is just a fundraiser, and the Edgar Awards are just the Edgar Awards.” He shrugged.
“Look,” she said. “I’ll just go to the Max Roman fundraiser and check it out, how’s that?” She didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d already RSVP’d for her and one guest to attend. It didn’t seem like good timing to reveal that. “I’ll be your inside man, your spy. I’ll take Eulalie with me, teach her some imbedded surveillance techniques and enjoy a little taste of luxury for once. It actually sounds like a fun and fancy-free girls’ night out. If we spot anything that seems mysterious, I’ll text you and you can come save the day. Buzz Lightyear to the rescue and all that.”
He laughed at the Buzz Lightyear reference, and Trudi felt the warmth of his joy. They fell silent, each losing themselves in their own thoughts.
It didn’t take long before Trudi’s mental synapses wandered from the possibly mythical Nevermore plot to curiosity about The Raven. Ever since he’d stood her up, he’d lived in the background. She understood he was working as a security guard for Sister Bliss’s Secret Stash now, which she figured was a good step for him. And she’d eventually gotten what she thought was an apology from him, sort of. It had come in a text from an unknown number, saying just, I’m sorry, Trudi. She couldn’t say for sure it was from him, but she assumed that was who it was. Trudi had opted not to respond.
She also had read his background file from BKGUSA. She understood some of the reasons behind his choices now. Had to be hard killing your mother in a drunk-driving accident, she told herself. Had to be hard. She also had to admit that Samuel was right. There was nothing tangible tying the street magician to Nevermore.
Samuel sat up in his seat, and Trudi had come to recognize that posture today. A new girl was approaching, a redhead this time, which was actually kind of rare in the ATL. Out-of-towner, Trudi thought. She spotted Samuel noticing the cocktail-waitress curves on this one and reminded herself she needed to get back to the gym today.
“Are you here to sing?” he asked when she drew near.
She smiled at him, a sultry, vampirish look that fit well with the auburn tresses surrounding her face. She glanced over at Trudi, hesitated, and then leaned down to whisper something in Samuel’s ear. She pressed a folded slip of paper into his hand, then stood and walked toward a bank of elevators. Samuel unfolded the paper, and Trudi caught a glimpse of a hotel keycard inside it. He read the neat printing—a room number, she guessed—then folded it and put it all in his pocket. He looked suddenly distracted, and Trudi took the cue.
Pig, she thought. I can’t believe I wanted to go to Hawaii with you.
“Well,” she said aloud, “I’m going back to the office.”
Samuel watched the redhead get on an elevator.
“I’ll see you later, then?” Trudi said, standing.
Samuel stood and looked at her hard, his jaw tensing. “Okay,” he said slowly. She could see the wheels spinning in his head. “I’ll call you.”
She started to leave, and he caught her arm. “Be careful out there, Tru-Bear.”
34
Raven
Atlanta, GA
Downtown
Friday, April 7, 11:33 a.m.
7 days to Nevermore
Let’s see, am I ready for this?
The lights are out in my hotel room, making it easy for me to blend into the darkness. I’ve got the washrag rolled up just right on the floor, slipped between the doorframe and the door to hold it open barely an inch or so. Just enough so I can use one eye to peek down the hallway, looking toward the elevators, without really being noticed. Also, that crack in the doorway gives me audio access to the hallway for the things I can’t see. This could be helpful.
From behind my door, I can still use the little peephole to see the full view of Room 615 across the hall, so that keeps my range of vision focused when it needs to be.
I’ve moved my telephone to the queen bed nearest the door. The cord doesn’t reach all the way to the edge of the bed, but it’s close enough. I don’t want it to be right next to the door anyway. I take one last look at my preparations and finally exhale.
I think I’m ready.
I hear the elevator go ding! and peek through the tiny opening in the doorway. It’s her. Now I feel my heart rate starting to pick up. She starts to tap lightly on my door, but I open it before her fingers can land. She greets me with a warm smile.
“Okay,” she says. “I think he’s coming.”
Her red hair is skimming the shoulders of her dress, business casual I think they’d call it. Flattering, but also practical for travel.
“I feel like I’m a secret agent in a spy movie or something!” She giggles conspiratorially.
“No.” I smile. “Nothing that exciting, Cherise. Just trying to get him away from the crowd for a private audition.”
“I think he’ll have to be crazy not to put you on the show. Your act is amazing. At least the parts of the act that you showed me.”
I give a mock bow. “Well, you were a good partner.”
“Ah, you’re just reading my mind again.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence between us, and I have to fight the urge to look down the hallway. If Cherise has done her job, then Samuel Hill should be coming up that elevator any minute.
She takes a little breath and flips a strand of hair behind her left ear. “I’m glad we bumped into each other in the lobby this morning, Marv. How else would I have known to try The White Orchid espresso?” It seems like she’s stalling.
“I know, right?” I say. I’m trying to be patient, but I can’t help sneaking a glance down the hall now. Time to leave, Cherise, I think. I’m hoping I can Vulcan-mind-meld that message into her pretty little brain.
“Well, anyway, I guess I should be going,” she says at last.
It worked!
“Thanks again, Cherise,” I say. I cross my fingers and hold them in the air for her to see. “Here’s hoping!”
She smiles at me again, and I realize some men would be overjoyed to have this woman’s attention. She’s attractive, obviously successful in her work, fun
ny, and generous. So why am I so uninterested in her?
All your fault, Trudi, I tell myself. The heart wants what it wants, I guess, even when it can’t have what it wants.
“Anyway,” she says again, “I’m flying home to Tampa today. Already got my stuff in the rental car”—she gestures to Room 615 across the hall—“so the room is all ready for your talent agent. He can just throw the keycard away after your audition. I have automatic checkout, so the card won’t work after noon anyway.”
She keeps saying anyway, which I think must be a nervous habit.
“Thanks again,” I say. “Remind me to call you when I’m rich and famous.”
“Well, here,” she says, fishing in her purse. She pulls out a business card and looks positively shy handing it to me. “My company is sending me back to Atlanta in two weeks. Maybe you could call me and we could get together for dinner or something when I’m back in town?”
“Sure, yeah,” I say, and I cringe inside because I know I’m lying. You deserve someone a lot better than me, Cherise. I hope our Vulcan mind-meld is broken, and that she didn’t just hear that in my head. “That’d be great.”
“Okay, anyway . . .” She holds out a hand, and we shake. She’s professional about it, but I feel her fingers linger just a little too long. “You’re definitely my favorite artist! Now I’d better get out of here before your producer shows up. I’ll go out the back stairs so we don’t cross paths again in the hallway.”
“Thanks, Cherise. You’re the best.”
She heads down the hall, away from the elevators. I catch her looking back at me as she walks away. “Was great meeting you, Marv,” she says. “Call me.”
“Absolutely,” I say, and I feel like a big jerk because I know I’m never going to call Cherise Amagan, Corporate Trainer, but I just don’t know what else to say. She disappears into the stairwell, and I’m alone again.
In the darkness I can still make out the shapes of the various boxes and random artifacts that Mama Bliss has stored in this room. Apparently she didn’t want to keep all the auction items for the upcoming political dinner at her store, preferring to keep everything here at the Ritz-Carlton instead. “Besides,” she’d told me, “they’re giving me a discounted room rate as incentive for using their facilities for the big event. Be a shame not to take advantage of that. I’ll probably stay there myself the night before the ASLA charity auction.”
Still, she hadn’t wanted her auction valuables to go unguarded, even locked up in a Ritz-Carlton Deluxe Room. “I got me a personal security guard now,” she’d said, winking in my direction. “And I don’t think you’d mind it too much if you had to spend a week or so living in the lap of luxury, keeping watch over antique books and collectible paintings, now, would you?”
Well, she didn’t have to ask me twice, even though a couple of her regular security guards weren’t happy about “the new kid” getting such a plum assignment. Sad to say, I didn’t feel sorry for any of them. After nine months in my ratty apartment in the Old Fourth Ward, I was looking forward to a downtown situation like this one.
A few of Mama’s warehouse guys and I moved in a load of the auction items this morning, even before check-in time at the hotel was supposed to start. I guess Mama Bliss gets special treatment here, which works out fine for me. Then they left me on duty, with instructions to go downstairs every once in a while to get something to eat, or just to stretch my legs—but that I should never be gone more than half an hour from Room 614 until next Friday, when everything would be transported downstairs for the event.
They also left behind some of Mama’s papers for the fundraiser, and I saw the RSVP list for the dinner. Trudi Coffey’s name, “plus one,” was on the seating chart. That got me a little concerned.
My first unpleasant thought was I’m to be the table entertainment for Max Roman’s fundraising dinner. There’s going to be no way for me to avoid seeing Trudi—and whoever the muscle-bound dork is that she’s bringing as her date.
But more importantly—and I don’t know exactly how to feel about this—I have a strong suspicion that Max Roman’s big event is not going to be just a political fundraiser and charity auction.
For starters, there’s that little list on the back of Mama Bliss’s picture of her grandson. Six names on the list. Four crossed out, and the last two—both of them—will be in the same place on April 14.
At Max Roman’s fundraiser.
Knowing who those two names belong to, I can’t see that this is a coincidence.
Second, Mama Bliss keeps peeking at that picture when she thinks no one’s watching her. It worries me, because I remember the flat tone of her voice when she hinted to me about the meaning of those last two names. “Justice for all,” she’d said. I can understand that, but I also know enough of war to know that sometimes “justice” includes collateral damage.
If something bad is going down at Max Roman’s fundraiser, will Trudi get caught in the crossfire?
Third, over to the side of the auction boxes, someone—I don’t know who because I didn’t see it happen—has placed five long, sturdy canvas bags reinforced with leather on the ends. They’re locked shut with little padlocks on the zippers, but I can tell there’s something heavy and metal inside each padded bag. It doesn’t take a genius to know that those are rifle bags, and to guess what’s probably inside them. Maybe they’re selling antique guns at the charity auction? I hope that’s all it is.
I was thinking about those long bags when I took a break and went down to the lobby to get coffee and a pastry. I met Cherise, and maybe I lingered a bit too long because of her, and because she was nice and friendly, and because she seemed so delighted when I started showing off with some of my close-up magic tricks. But if I hadn’t stayed, I never would have spotted Trudi Coffey and Samuel Hill coming into the Ritz-Carlton.
Cherise and I slipped into a corner out of sight and watched them for a bit. She thought it was some kind of game, so when she asked who they were, I just made up the first thing that came into my head.
“Well,” I said, “he’s a talent scout for America’s Favorite Artist. She must be his assistant. Or mistress maybe.”
“Ooh, that’s kind of exciting,” she said. Then a girl sitting near us leaned in.
“Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing.” She was a brown-skinned young woman, dressed like she’d just flown in from Jamaica, but with a deep southern accent that sounded right at home here in Atlanta. “Did you say that guy over there”—she pointed toward the detective—“works for America’s Favorite Artist?”
“Yeah?” I said.
“I love that show,” she said.
“Me too,” Cherise said.
Then, before I could react, the faux-Jamaican stood up, scribbled something on a napkin, and said, “Wish me luck.”
Cherise and I had sneaked to another spot so we could see better what happened and, yep, the girl sang a little song for a confused-looking Detective Hill. And suddenly I thought, Maybe I should take Trudi’s advice, after all. Samuel Hill is good at helping, she said. Maybe he can help me to help Trudi stay safe.
After that, we started quietly spreading the news about the big-time TV producer taking auditions right here in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Atlanta hotel. It was an easy sell, and pretty soon there was a steady stream of people interrupting Trudi and Samuel. And then Cherise said to me, “You should go audition. Why not?”
“Ah,” I said, “I think they take mostly singers and comedians. And besides, there’s too many people pestering him down here. My act is better without distractions.”
Yeah, my evil plans work best when I make it seem like they’re someone else’s ideas, when I can make my words come out of their mouths. Next thing you know, Cherise—with my strategic input—came up with the whole scheme. She’d go over and get Samuel to come up to her room. I know how to work Hollywood men like that, she’d said. Then I’d wait for him up there and wow him with my magic.
I ha
d a feeling Detective Hill wasn’t the type to fall for a typical honey-trap, even one with Cherise’s skills, so I told her to whisper something special in his ear. Then I ran upstairs to get set up for the show.
What is taking Detective Hill so long? I wonder suddenly in the darkness of Room 614. Shouldn’t he be here by now? Maybe he didn’t take the bait?
Then, as if on cue, I hear the elevator ding.
I practically hold my breath as I return the door to its prearranged position. I test it quickly to make sure I still have the right sightlines, then kneel down and fade back into the darkness, trying to see who is walking down the hall.
It’s Detective Samuel Hill.
He doesn’t look happy.
35
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
West Midtown
Friday, April 7, 11:47 a.m.
7 days to Nevermore
“I’ve seen that guy before.”
Trudi Coffey lost sight of the black Ford Ranger on Northside Drive when she got caught at a stoplight outside the Georgia Dome. But before that, she’d driven close enough to the truck to see something that had jogged her memory. The other driver was of medium build, dark skinned, maybe late twenties. He wore a plain T-shirt covered by a light gray hoodie, and sunglasses. When he saw Trudi watching him, he gunned through a yellow light and disappeared north of Joseph E. Boone Blvd.
“Where have I seen that guy?”
It was only about a fifteen-minute drive from the Ritz-Carlton to the Coffey & Hill Investigations office, but Trudi used most of that time trying to place the guy in the Ford Ranger. It helped to take her mind off what she assumed her pig of an ex-husband was doing with that sexy little redhead back at the hotel. At a stoplight, she couldn’t contain herself anymore. She slammed the meat of her palm against the steering wheel a few times. She knew she was just blowing steam off her anger toward Samuel, so she used it to focus her mental energies on the other driver.
