by Mike Nappa
“Arby’s,” she said aloud. “First it was Arby’s. Across the street from the office. Just a few days ago.”
She remembered now. Eulalie had noticed him after coming in from lunch on Tuesday. He was sitting at the outdoor tables with a large burrito in front of him, facing toward the front doors of Coffey & Hill.
“Trudi,” Eulalie had said, “come look at this.” After Trudi joined her, she pointed across the street. “That guy was there when I left for lunch an hour ago. Still there now, and it looks like he hasn’t eaten any of his food. What do you make of it?”
She stared through the plate glass at the sunglasses. “Maybe he just likes to suffer through hot, muggy days outside?” Eulalie had looked at her, surprised for a second, before she realized Trudi was joking. “Or more likely, he’s keeping an eye on somebody in our little strip mall and reporting back to somebody higher up.”
“Us?”
“Yeah.”
Trudi had gone back to her office and resumed her work. She couldn’t stop anybody from watching her, and as long as he didn’t do more than that, she’d leave him alone. But she did keep open the drawer in her desk that held her loaded Beretta Tomcat. Just in case.
He was gone the next day, and she hadn’t seen him again until this morning.
“And he was at the Ritz,” she told herself as she steered her Focus into the parking lot at Coffey & Hill Investigations. “Back by the bellhops. Maybe he was the joker sending contestants over to Samuel. But I’m not really fond of the idea that he left the same time I did.”
She checked her surroundings before getting out of her car, just to be safe, but everything seemed normal. No black trucks nearby, no watchers in sunglasses stalking the area. She went toward the front door and saw a FedEx Letter envelope leaning against the glass.
“What?” she said to nobody. “The office is open, and Eulalie’s inside. How lazy does a FedEx guy have to be to just toss our delivery toward the front door?” She was already in a bad mood, and this day was just getting more annoying by the minute.
When she picked up the envelope, she noticed something peculiar. There was no packing slip or air bill with the envelope. Just like the Hawaiian vacation delivery, she told herself grimly. It really must be easy to steal these envelopes out of those FedEx boxes all over the city.
“Hi Tr—” Eulalie started to say when she entered the office.
“No calls,” Trudi interrupted her. “And take the rest of the day off.”
“Is everything—”
Trudi didn’t wait for her assistant to finish. Instead, she just went into her back office and shut the door. She tried not to slam it, but maybe it did hit the jamb a little harder than normal anyway.
“Ms. Coffey?” Eulalie’s voice came softly through the intercom. “Is everything okay? Did something happen at your meeting with Mr. Hill this morning?”
Trudi sighed. Maybe she should tell Eulalie everything. After all, Samuel was stringing her along too. She ought to know about his, um, extracurricular activities, right? But in the end she just said, “Everything’s fine, Eula. Just take the afternoon off and enjoy a long weekend. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I need to concentrate on it. Alone.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end, and then Eulalie said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Trudi leaned over and looked at the video monitor feed of the reception area. She watched Eulalie quietly gather her things and then go out the front. She was grateful to see that her assistant paused to lock the door behind her. At least she wouldn’t get surprised by any unexpected visitors. Not this time.
Trudi studied the FedEx envelope for a moment, then dropped it on her desk without opening it. She wanted to be a little more prepared for what might be inside. She clicked an icon on her desktop computer and in short order had called up the surveillance footage files from her outside camera. The direct-to-digital surveillance feed had been a little more expensive when they were installing the security system, but as far as Trudi was concerned, it had paid for itself a dozen times over—including this time, right now.
She started the replay at one hour ago and was pleased to see that at 11:03 a.m. the FedEx delivery had not yet been made. She fast-forwarded through the footage until, at 11:51 a.m., a black Ford Ranger pulled into view. She watched the guy in the gray hoodie jump out of the truck and then casually drop the envelope at her front door. He was gone again by 11:53, and then she saw her own car pull in the lot at 11:56. She shut off the video playback and hunched down in her chair.
She stared at the envelope, still unopened, on her desk.
An unbidden image of Samuel doing unspeakable things with a trampy redhead flashed in her mind. She stamped it out quickly, then stood up behind the desk.
“It’s not fair,” she said through gritted teeth. “Why do I have to be the one who forgives?”
She felt like being angry, but no fury came. Grace doesn’t have to be easy, I guess, she told herself, it just has to be grace. She sat up and spotted the FedEx envelope again. All right, then. She reached over, tore open the top, and dumped the contents onto her desk.
She actually jumped when the phone rang.
“Coffey & Hill Investigations,” she said without looking at the caller ID.
“Trudi.”
Just the sound of Samuel’s voice made her head ache. “What is it, Samuel. Your redhead leave already?”
He sighed. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Trudi. I’m not with any redhead, and I never was. I had to follow a lead.”
For some reason, even knowing that he might be lying about it, this made her feel suddenly better. She perked up considerably and tried not to sound relieved.
“Okay,” she said. “I retract my accusations and humbly offer an apology.” She reached over to finally examine the FedEx contents still lounging on her desk.
“Forgiven. But listen, Trudi, about that Max Roman fundraiser next week?”
“Mm-hmm. I think Eula and I will have fun, so don’t worry about—What is this now? Hold on, Samuel.”
“What? What is it?”
“Hold on.”
“Everything okay over there?”
“I’m fine, Samuel. Just hang on for a second.”
“Okay, good. Listen, I need to run down a few things this afternoon, but about that Roman fundraiser? I want to be your ‘plus one’ at the party. You don’t think Eulalie will mind, do you?”
“Samuel.”
She found two things in the envelope this time. The first was a sheet of paper that held a printed itinerary for the supposed Hawaiian vacation she and Samuel were scheduled to take tomorrow. She had to admit it looked great. There was a couple’s massage on the calendar. Surf lessons. The requisite luau and a few other touristy, romantic options.
“I can’t really tell you why,” he was saying, “so I’m just going to ask you to trust me this time . . .”
But she didn’t spend much thought on that because the second item from the envelope demanded most of her attention.
“. . . but please, I’m asking nicely, may I be your date next Friday night?”
It was a 5x7 photograph.
Samuel’s voice faded into the background as she stared at the picture, slightly grainy, as if taken from a distance and enlarged.
She guessed that the boy featured in it was five years old, maybe six. His face was cherubic, with tinted skin that reminded her of a freshly baked pumpkin loaf. His eyes were a light chestnut color, with slivers of dark pigment flaked within. He had long lashes, chubby little jowls, and a delighted smile. On his head was a square head cloth, red-and-white patterned, with a double circle of black cord. She couldn’t make out much of what was in the background, but the desert browns and reds told her all she needed to know.
He was looking up at someone, arms reaching out as if to receive a gift, or like he was asking to be lifted up in a mother’s arms. A mother who was not Trudi Sara Coffey.
“. . . Trudi? Are you stil
l there? Tru?”
“Sorry, Samuel,” she said brusquely. “I think you should probably come over here, after all. You’ll want to take a look at this.”
“Okay,” he said. “How about if I stop by later this afternoon? First I want to—”
“No, come now,” she said. She kept all emotion out of her voice. “It looks like this Hawaiian vacation isn’t just an invitation for us to get out of the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Samuel, you need to see this.”
36
Raven
Atlanta, GA
Downtown
Friday, April 7, 11:47 a.m.
7 days to Nevermore
Detective Hill stops in front of Room 615, listening. I’m grateful he doesn’t give a second look to Room 614 across the hall, where I’m hiding.
At first I think he’s going to just use the keycard Cherise gave him and go inside, but this guy is apparently a gentleman. He knocks, then waits for a response. Only after knocking a second time and still getting no answer does he finally swipe the keycard through the lock and open the door.
He also seems to be the cautious type. He swings the door inward but doesn’t follow it right in. Instead, he studies the opening, checking the room before entering. He reaches in and turns on the light, then dips his head in before finally allowing his body to follow. When the door to Room 615 finally clicks shut, I run to the telephone on one of the two queen beds in my room and dial the phone across the hall.
I hear it ring. Once. Twice. On the third ring, he picks up.
“Hello,” he says.
It suddenly hits me that I didn’t think about what voice to use for this call. If I use my own voice, will he recognize me? He only met me once, and it was a brief meeting at that. But is it worth the risk?
I’m blessed with fairly decent skills at vocal impressions. My Michael Jackson imitation has gotten me more than one date. I’m not bad at Arnold Schwarzenegger, either, or another half a dozen or so people. I can even do a spot-on impression of Marge Simpson. But I don’t think MJ or Arnie or Marge is a good choice right now. What’s the right voice for this call?
I take too long to respond. Samuel Hill hangs up.
I hear Room 615 open and, before I can stop myself, I’ve redialed the number. The phone rings in my ear, and I also hear it through the crack in my open door.
Room 615 clicks shut. A moment later, Samuel Hill picks up the phone again.
“I’m listening,” he says. “But not for long.”
“Don’t hang up,” I say. Even I’m surprised to hear Scholarship’s voice come out. But then I like it. It sounds strong, powerful. Like somebody you don’t want to mess with.
“Who is this?” he says.
“That’s really not any of your business, now, is it?” I say in Scholarship’s voice. I feel like I’m starting to get the hang of this. Voices are about more than just inflection and pronunciation; they’re about imbuing inflection and pronunciation with personality. I think, after my recent meetings with the football player, I’ve pretty much got his personality down pat.
“Just don’t hang up,” I say again.
“Give me a reason,” he says, and I have to say I’m impressed. He’s not imitating anybody but himself, and he still sounds just as intimidating as Scholarship.
“It’s about Trudi Coffey,” I say.
“That’s what your redhead said when she whispered in my ear. And that’s all she said. So what is ‘it,’ and why is it about Trudi?”
“Next Friday, Trudi Coffey is planning to attend the Max Roman fundraiser at the Ritz-Carlton hotel.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’d suggest you go with her,” I say.
I think it’s funny that I’m actually sweating right now, like Samuel Hill is going to come crashing into my room and bust me for making an anonymous phone call. Plus, what if I’m wrong? What if there is no secret dangerous plot that involves the fundraising dinner? Well, no harm, I guess.
But if I’m right, I may just save Trudi’s life.
“Does this have something to do with Nevermore?” he says suddenly.
Okay, that’s surprising.
“I, uh . . .” I don’t know what to say. How did he hear about Nevermore? Is it something bigger than just a note on the back of Mama Bliss’s picture? If I remember right, Trudi said he was working on a case that used “The Raven” poem as a background. Maybe it’s tied to this fundraiser?
“It’s . . . I mean . . .” I’m struggling now, and we both know it.
He waits. I want to ask him questions, to find out what he’s talking about when he says “Nevermore,” but I think it’s probably time to bring the conversation to an end.
“Just go to the party with your ex-wife,” I say eventually. I figure that’s enough. “Consider this good advice from a friend.”
I hang up fast, before I can stumble over anything else. Then I sneak over to the door and peek out through the crack. The room across the hall is silent. It’s hard not to count the seconds while I’m waiting for something to happen, but I force myself to breathe and think about anything but time passing. Then two things happen simultaneously.
First, Samuel Hill strides briskly out of Room 615 and into the ornate hallway on the sixth floor of this fancy hotel. Second, the elevator goes ding! and I hear someone get off. Before the elevator passenger comes into view, though, I see Detective Hill stop and stare toward the new person on the floor. He has a wary look on his face, but his voice is calm and conversational.
“They let you bring a gun into the Ritz?” he says.
I wonder if I can close this door without anybody noticing, I think. The mention of guns in the hallway has me panicking just a little bit.
“That’s really not any of your business, now, is it?”
No way.
I can’t believe he said those exact words, though it does mean my impersonation of him was spot-on. I’m torn between congratulating myself and hoping nobody gets shot in the hall outside my door. Then another thought hits me.
What’s Scholarship doing here?
Through the crack in my door, I see Samuel Hill grin. Okay, this is a guy who thrills on confrontation, I decide quickly. He’s about as big as Scholarship, so I think he’d probably hold his own in a fight. But still, I’ve seen what the football player can do with his fists. I want to close my door, but now, like a guy who can’t take his eyes off a car wreck, I can’t look away.
“I’m just asking,” Detective Hill says, “because the sign in the lobby asks for all guns to be checked at the front desk.” He flips open his jacket to reveal an empty shoulder holster. “And yet here you are with a full rifle bag in plain sight. Makes me curious, you know?”
“Curiosity can be dangerous,” Scholarship says, and now he’s ambled into view.
“Maybe. But that’s why I get paid a miniscule salary from the good people of Atlanta. To be curious, especially when it comes to unlicensed guns in public places.” Detective Hill reaches into an inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out a badge.
Scholarship nods slowly.
“You don’t have to worry, officer. I’m not carrying a gun. Not today. And all my guns are licensed anyway. Now if you’ll excuse me—” He starts to push past, but Samuel Hill blocks his way.
“What we have here,” he says, “is what’s termed as suspicious circumstances with probable cause for investigation. So I’d like to look inside your bag, if you don’t mind.”
“And if I do mind?”
“I’d like to take a look anyway.”
From my perch inside Room 614, I can see Scholarship’s face over the back shoulder of Samuel Hill. Even though Detective Hill is a good-sized man, the footballer has at least an inch on him in height, and probably ten to fifteen pounds in muscle.
“No,” Scholarship says. “Now get out of my way before you and your tin badge get embarrassed.”
He starts to push past the detective, and then,
faster than I would’ve thought possible, it’s all over. When Scholarship lunges forward, Samuel Hill reacts with a speed and grace that’s rare to see in a big man like him.
First he leans back slightly, balancing easily on his left leg while his right foot delivers a choppy, straight kick at Scholarship’s left knee. The footballer drops his rifle bag and swings out wildly, his knee buckling before he can catch himself enough to straighten up to protect himself. Just as he’s rising back up, Hill presses his attack and jams four stiff fingers into his throat.
Now the baller is both stumbling and struggling for breath. The detective grabs his left arm, swings it behind, then pushes hard on the wrong side of the man’s elbow. At the same time, he chops another kick to that same gimpy knee.
Scholarship goes down face-first, still gagging, with Samuel Hill on top of him.
It seems like I barely blink twice before the detective has a knee pressed into the bigger man’s back and an arm-bar locked in to keep Scholarship from resisting any further.
“Hurts like anything, doesn’t it?” Detective Hill says from behind the other man’s head. “Spear fingers to the larynx are just no fun. If it makes you feel any better, I know this from experience. My wife taught me.”
Scholarship gurgles what I think is a bad word.
“I also know how to spot an old football injury. I’m guessing you blew out that left knee in college, and it never healed up quite right. I could see you favoring it just enough to guess that it wasn’t as strong as you like to pretend it is.”
Scholarship’s voice is coming back. This time he definitely says a bad word.
“Now,” Samuel Hill says, “we have a choice. You can cooperate while I put on your bracelets, or I can break your arm and then handcuff you.”
There’s a tense moment, and then Scholarship swings his right arm up and behind his back. Two seconds later, both wrists are cuffed and the detective has released his captive from the floor. The football player rolls, grunts, and leans his back against the wall beside Room 615. I see his eyes flit from Samuel Hill to his rifle bag, and then they rest for a split second on the door to Room 614, where I am.
