by Cat Connor
“Do I even want to know how they make their money?”
I shook my head.
My brain sloshed. It was a most unpleasant feeling.
“One more call, then I’ll let this go,” I said with promise in my voice. I flipped through the recent contacts list in my phone. Before I found Misha’s number, I noticed Rowan’s cell number. I didn’t call Rowan. I was sure I didn’t call Rowan.
“Did someone call you from my phone?”
He nodded and said, “Yeah, you did, you weren’t feeling very well. I think you hit the wrong number.”
“I was calling Mac.”
The words hung in the air like a giant neon ‘loco’ sign. They flashed a few times too, in case Rowan missed them.
So I didn’t look like a complete nutcase I opened my contact list and showed him the entries for G. His name was right below Galileo. There were no other G’s in the list just Galileo and Grange. I must’ve flicked too far and hit the wrong entry. It didn’t explain why I was calling my dead husband. I doubted I could successfully explain that act of lunacy, so I left it alone.
“Galileo?”
“It was his screen name.”
He handed me back my phone. “Calling me was an accident,” he said with a grin.
I called Misha and in my clumsy Russian asked if Hawk was a gambler. Misha pulled up files and trawled through documents. I could hear paper turning and file drawers opening. There was no reference to him gambling. No bookies, no illegal gambling activity that anyone knew of. But then no one knew who he really was, so unless he used Hudson Hawk or Eddie Hawkins at casinos and during related pursuits, there would be no record.
I closed my phone. Rowan was smiling at me. He had a surprised yet pleased expression on his face as if he’d discovered something that no one else had.
“What was that? Russian?”
“Da. Ja nemnogo govorju po-russki,” I replied with a smile.
“I love it and I have no idea what you said.”
“Yes. I only speak a little Russian,” I translated quickly then added, “And it sucks but Misha seems to appreciate the effort.”
Rowan laughed. His eyes drifted back to the gaming tables.
“Do you need to go down there and do some Special Agent stuff?”
“Ah no. Special Agent stuff isn’t very smart when the agent in question would fail a breathalyzer test and a toxicology screen.” Although the effects of the Demerol were all but gone.
He nodded and filled up my glass. I hadn’t even noticed the arrival of a fresh bottle of champagne.
There was a moment earlier in the evening, when I considered drinking at all after a migraine was plain stupid. It vanished somewhere in the middle of the second glass.
“Look,” I said and pointed to Sam as he crossed the room downstairs. I couldn’t see Lee until he was standing next to the person in question. He’d come up from directly under us. The woman caught my eye again. She looked uncomfortable.
Time to call Lee back. “I think he was here to meet that woman.”
“Yes, SSA.”
We hung up.
When I looked over at Rowan, he was watching me.
“How did you know?”
“I dunno, sometimes I know stuff.” My honesty didn’t make me look any more normal. With a minimal shoulder shrug, I said, “Guess I pick up subtle clues no one else sees or something.”
There was a theory I’d toyed with on that and it seemed to hold true for Carla as well. My ability to see things/know things about people was a survival mechanism from living with an insane mother. I noticed early signals that things were going to turn to custard and could react accordingly. Carla had exhibited similar ability. She had a similar background.
I settled back to walk Rowan through the events that would now take place.
We watched the scene unfold. The suspect’s winning streak began to fail. He remained calm and didn’t seem bothered by the turn of fate.
For whatever reason, the man looked up. If he’d known I was there, we would be staring into each other’s eyes. I’d seen those eyes before. Watching.
I called Sam. “I’ve seen him before. We need to pull the crowd photographs of all the crime scenes from the Butterfly Murders. I’m sure I saw him at several of the scenes.” I was sure it wasn’t Hawk but he was somehow involved and he wasn’t a New Zealander, of that I was certain.
Those scenes had had eyes. The Unsub had rigged cameras and was streaming video of us working the scenes, until I worked it out and had all the scenes searched for cameras and bugs.
“He doesn’t look like the picture of Hawk in person.”
“It’s someone connected to what happened back home.”
“We’re on him.”
“I’m watching.” I hung up.
Rowan filled my glass again. This was going to end in a mess.
“I hope that prick had a nice day,” I hissed as we watched Lee slap his hand down on the Hawk’s wrist. With one twist, he was face down on the roulette table, cuffed and patted down.
Lee raised the man’s head by grabbing a handful of hair and pulling.
Sam spoke to the woman. I saw the gold of his badge flash in the light as he moved. A few seconds later, he opened his cell and mine rang.
“We’ll take him back to the hotel office and call in Sean. Do you want her?”
“It’s your call. We’ve got nothing and no reason to hold her. My feeling is she’s a New Zealander, so tread carefully. But get her details and check her player’s card for her name. I bet she has one.” I chuckled to myself. “A card I mean, not a name. Although she would have one of those too …”
Really, I should stop talking.
“Will do.”
“Good job, guys. I’ll be here toasting you with champagne.” I couldn’t tell but I think I slurred a few words.
Sam laughed. “Take it easy, Chicky Babe.” And hung up.
As I watched them leave, our target brushed against the woman purposely by pulling back as the guys steered him toward the door. They hauled the uncooperative man out of the Casino. The woman disappeared in the other direction.
I flipped my phone open again and called Sam back.
“He gave her something.”
“Thanks SSA.”
This time I closed my phone and put it away. Enough interruptions for one evening.
If there is a God, he’ll stop me making any more of a dick of myself tonight too.
Sixteen
Bitter Wine
I leaned with a little too much reliance on the wall by my door as Rowan swiped my key card. White papers stuck out from the doorjamb. As the door swung open, I slid my hand over the edge of the paper and grasped it in my fingers. At a quick glance, I determined they were two more photographs. I shoved them into my bag while convincing my legs to walk through the doorway.
We stumbled into the room. That might have been my fault. Neither of my feet knew what they were doing and the photographs blew my limited concentration.
“Okay?” he asked, steadying himself against the small kitchen counter.
“… sure …” I replied watching the floor undulate. My right foot hovered in midair while I waited for solid ground. I could see it coming.
“It’s been quite a night,” he said.
“That’s rarely a good thing. Why won’t the floor stand still?” I put my foot down expecting a solid surface to be closer than it was.
An arm encircled my waist and caught my fall.
“The floor’s not moving, it’s you.”
“It’s annoying whatever it is.”
“Let’s get you to bed,” he said. His arm moved a little, the floor disappeared altogether as I felt a slight pressure on the back of my legs.
“I can walk,” I protested. It was minimal at best.
“Cannot. You suck at walking.”
“Well you suck at … at …”
Damn, I had nothing.
“… at … something.”
>
I felt his muscles ripple as he laughed. “Do that again.”
“What?”
“Laugh,” I said. My head bumped on his shoulder. He smelled good.
“Shush,” he replied. He was humming; his choice of song amused me. ‘Put the boy back in cowboy.’
Words filled my swimming head and fell out my mouth, “Drinking champagne is stupid – if we’d been drinking Jack, I’d be fine now …”
The room over his shoulder spun. Concentric circles of light swirled around Doc’s face.
Rowan’s voice met my ears, “Honey, you haven’t got the body mass to drink Jack.”
“Wanna bet?”
Rowan carried me through the bedroom doorway. I saw colored circles cartwheeling out of control across the ceiling. They moved in time to the song in my head.
“Not good,” I mumbled or maybe I just thought it.
He deposited me on the bed.
The room rocked back and forth, alternating the rocking with a twisted spin, music wafted on each movement. I was at a loss to tell if the song was real or in my head.
“What’s not good?”
Oh so I did speak. The lights spiraled. “Spinning.”
He laughed. “Don’t lie down yet.” Rowan moved pillows, piling them up for me to lean back on.
“When’s your concert?” My words were so clear and coherent in my head, even though I had a sneaking suspicion I was slurring up a storm.
“Tomorrow night.”
My eyes closed. My whole body swayed and started to twirl. My eyes pinged open. The swaying was at odds with the bed spinning.
“Whoa.”
“Too much movement?” The enquiry came with genuine amusement.
“Not for a roller coaster.”
Doc appeared. “Thanks for bringing her back safe,” he muttered to Rowan. “I can take it from here.” He didn’t seem amused.
“See you tomorrow, Ellie.” Rowan said. His lips brushed my cheek. “Thank you for a fun night.”
“Goodnight,” I replied. I’m sure it was fun but I doubted I’d remember much of it.
I don’t know if I smiled or if I thought I did. I was living another one of those moments I’d bet forty million women would give their right arm for, except it wasn’t like that at all.
“You need sleep,” Doc said. “How do you feel?”
“Tired, drunk, okay.”
“Drink some water,” he said, lifting a glass from the nightstand and handing it to me.
I downed the entire contents of the glass.
There was something disjointed happening. The glass floated in midair then hovered over the nightstand before bumping down.
Way too much champagne. I felt nothing but unpleasant spinning.
Drunk. Not numb enough to feel nothing.
I scrunched down a little on the pillows and settled into a more comfortable position.
“Goodnight, Doc.”
“Goodnight Conway.”
If I hadn’t been so drunk, it would’ve been a perfect moment. I could cope with the accompaniment of a quiet serenade while I drifted off to sleep, even if it was in my head, even if it was another Bon Jovi song.
A strange twist of conscience saw me try to determine if it was cheating to have Bon Jovi in my head while eating dinner with Rowan Grange.
My alcohol intake probably prohibited reasonable thought.
Laughter bubbled up and suddenly it wasn’t laughter, it was an overpowering urge to vomit.
What a perfect end to a fabulously screwed day.
My feet hit the floor and I rushed to the bathroom. The darkness was almost as soothing as the cold porcelain.
I heard Doc say he’d get me a glass of water. He flipped the light switch. Light flooded the bathroom. “That’s always going to be wrong, having the switch upside down like that,” he said.
My head was in the toilet and cared little for the position of light switches!
This was the night that kept on giving.
Doc disappeared, came back and set a glass next to the sink. He crouched beside me and held my hair. I wanted to fall into the fuc’n toilet.
Somehow, my life had become a sitcom and mostly it wasn’t even funny. It pretty much blew. As a matter of fact, it blew chunks. Surreal didn’t even begin to cover the madness. The only thing I could come up with at that moment was that expensive champagne didn’t make puke taste any better.
I sat back on the floor, pulled a facecloth off the sink and wiped my face. Part of me wanted to hold the cloth over my mouth and nose until I suffocated.
“Bed,” Doc said as he stood up. His hand reached for mine, it was much nicer using his hand rather than the toilet bowl to haul myself to my feet. A wave of ‘what a fuc’n idiot’ hit me with a vengeance.
Wouldn’t it be great if you could get a do-over when days turned to absolute shite?
Really, it’s all fine. Because it was all so insane, that it had to be one of my more colorful hallucination interludes. I’ve gone from seeing things as parts of TV shows, to getting messages from songs, to living a full-on psychotic break involving a rock star of mega proportions, and he liked me enough to hang around. Absolutely fuc’n nuts.
At least I’m not a boring two-dimensional person. I have at least four dimensions or is that personalities?
The breathing in the room grew slower.
My eyes closed.
Seventeen
Wasted Time
Morning brought with it one hell of a headache. At least it was a hangover and not another migraine.
There was a reluctance to move on my part. I was warm and comfortable. Movement seemed like a painful thing to do. My head pounded as if a herd of elephants was stomping around in it and then there was the lingering feeling of idiocy, caused by recalling the night before.
It didn’t get much worse than that.
“Morning,” Doc said from the other side of the room. He was sitting, fully clothed on the edge of his bed, watching me.
“Morning,” I replied finding my voice a little husky. “What day is it?”
“Thursday. How do you feel?” he asked.
“Crappy,” I replied.
“To be expected. Food will help.”
Why did he care? It was self-inflicted.
It didn’t seem that important, the questions in my head faded, there was something else brewing.
Hope. Maybe I wasn’t as lost as I thought.
Big fuc’n maybe.
“You awake?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“You’re quiet.”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“The case.”
I looked at my watch and I knew it wouldn’t be long before Sam and Lee bashed on our door to brief me regarding the night’s interviewing.
“Breakfast should be here already,” Doc said.
“When did you organize that?”
“Last night when I saw the mess you were in when you got home,” he replied.
I let it slide and sat up, immediately wishing I hadn’t. My everything hurt.
“I need something stronger than Tylenol this morning,” I muttered, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I didn’t stand right away. I let the walls stop moving and the floor cease undulating first. “Something between Tylenol and Demerol.”
He watched me. I felt his eyes. I heard his unspoken questions. My mind flicked on an internal sound track and a Bon Jovi song blared ‘Something for the Pain.’
“I’ll get you something for your headache.”
I grinned at him. “I’m fine, honestly.”
“Famous last words?”
“Maybe,” I replied as I shut the bathroom door.
“I’m going to see if breakfast is here,” he called.
I turned on the shower hoping to drown out the remnants of the night lurking in my head. Red-rimmed blue eyes stared blankly at me from the mirror as steam edged in. I looked like crap, which was good becau
se that was exactly how I felt. It’s comforting when things match up. After a few minutes standing under hot water, I began to feel better. I tipped my head back and let the water tumble over my throat and shoulders.
Cleansing, soothing water washed away the night. The aches in my body dissipated barring the one slightly sore area over two ribs. I tried to see but couldn’t quite.
Clean and revived I stepped out and dried off. I wiped the large mirror with the towel and checked my ribs again. A light bruise spread about three inches around my side. He must be made of steel. Body armor was called for if I intended on falling through a doorway and landing on Rowan again.
I sighed and pulled on the white robe and tied it low around my waist. My wet hair hung dripping down my back. It didn’t matter if the robe got wet.
Once dressed, I chose to put the robe back on to keep my clothes dry. My head wasn’t up to the noise associated with blow-drying my hair. On the nightstand were two small white pills and two slightly larger white pills with a note and a glass of water. “Two Codeine and two Ibuprofen, take them all. Your headache will thank you.” I put them all in my mouth and swallowed them with a large mouthful of water.
Doc called out, “Breakfast!”
Breakfast was laid out at a small table. Doc was gone. Rowan pulled out a chair for me. “Thank you, where’d you come from and where’s Doc?”
He shrugged. “I came by to check on you. Doc said I should stay for breakfast. He said to tell you, he’s gone for a run.”
I smiled. “Awesome.”
“You coming tonight?”
“Don’t have a ticket.” I picked up my fork.
Scrambled eggs, just like mom used to make.
“I’m sure I could arrange that,” he replied, lifting his fork laden with eggs.
I swallowed my mouthful. “It’s okay, I have a badge …”
He laughed. The atmosphere during breakfast was comfortable. Neither of us mentioned the more stupid events of the night.
Banter, verbal sparring and good coffee punctuated the first meal of the day. Laughter peppered the conversation.
“I’ve seen a few of your movies,” I said.
“Read your book,” he countered.
“Got three of your records.”
