He turned that one over in his mind a couple of times. Then he backed up a step and gave me a three-inch nod. Maybe only two inches.
I broke out the military ID (inactive) and the Trans/Oxana card. The first was just for luck and he barely glanced at it, but he studied the T/O card like it was a winning lottery ticket. Then he looked back up at me.
“What’s a ‘Loss Prevention Specialist’?”
“Someone who keeps shady customers from planting cocaine in hotel suites.”
“How did you stop him?”
“Guess I scared him off.”
“You’re what they call a scary guy back east, huh?”
I choked back a smart-ass comeback. Took a deep breath.
“Detective, we’re on the same side. The bald guy just hit the top of my shit list, and I’m guessing he’s pretty close to the top of yours now too. Let’s be friends.”
I was ready for anything from a left jab to a hug, but I wasn’t ready for what I got. He started laughing. Just threw his head back and roared, like I’d told the knee-slapper of all time. He had a bit of a paunch, and it shook a little. I actually saw a couple of tears running down his cheeks. He turned to his colleague.
“He destroys evidence. He fakes us into jumping the gun on a search. And now he’s going for Citizen of the Year. Can you beat that?” He shook his head as the laughter subsided. His voice suddenly ratcheted all the way down from semimanic to fairly normal. “Give him your card so we can blow this two-bit pop-stand.”
The female cop and I traded business cards. The two of them did half-hearted ID checks of everyone else on their way out. At the door he paused and looked back at me.
“You have our number.” I nodded. “And we have yours.”
As soon as the door closed, the two sofa spuds started jabbering intensely at each other. He wasn’t getting NOTHIN’ from me, man! Goddamn right! Goddamn cops! I wish he HAD come after me! Damn straight, man. I looked at my watch. 5:34. More than enough time.
I found the ice bucket—classy thing; real wood on the outside, real plastic on the inside—and walked over to Wells.
“Let’s get some ice.”
Chapter Thirteen
Wells turned roughly the shade of the plastic in the ice bucket. He looked like he was about to say something that would start with, “Hey, man.” I wasn’t in the mood for it.
“I can talk with you or I can talk with Levitt. Your call.”
After thinking it over for two seconds or so he gave me a dejected nod and slouched toward the door. We made the trip in silence. He started to say something as we stepped inside the ICE SODA room. I waved my hand to shut him up.
“This isn’t a dialogue.” I put the bucket under the ice maker and pushed the handle, producing a rumble and a clatter and a lot more than a bucketful of ice. “I talk, you listen. Clear?”
He nodded.
“Don’t know how the bald guy got to you. Don’t care. Point is, I know he did. So I’ve now officially got your balls in my hip pocket. If I tell Levitt he’ll believe me, and even if he doesn’t he’ll can you just to be on the safe side. You’ll be lucky to get a job selling shoes in Oxnard.”
I paused. He was looking down, licking his lips, flicking the bristles on his moustache with the tip of his tongue.
“But I’m not going to tell Levitt. You know why? Because having your balls in my hip pocket means I can use you. Here’s the way I’m going to use you. You’re going to stay on the tour. At some point between now and when the tour ends, the bald guy figures to come back to you. Now pay attention to this part. When that happens, play along. But you tell me. Capice, paisan?”
He looked up and managed to make eye contact with me. He nodded—the world-weary, nothing-more-to-lose nod of a defeated man.
“That’s good, bro.” I clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly kind of way. “That’s real good. We’re gonna get along just fine.”
It’s not that I particularly enjoy this kind of thing. Proxy says that perfect loss prevention means you never raise your voice, and I guess she’s right. But two tours in combat zones will hard-wire something into you: Nothing matters but the mission. You can argue with that all you want to—but good luck getting rid of it.
Back in the suite we found Trowbridge. He’d returned a little early and was basking in the glow of his triumph. Luci had perched herself again in front of the computer. She held the doll in her lap this time, because the hand she wasn’t using to peck at the keyboard was holding a phone to her ear. As far as I could tell, everyone in the traveling party was in the room now, most of them milling around Trowbridge and telling him what a great job he’d done. Everyone except one.
“Where’s Katrina?”
“Freshening up.” Seawright answered my question. “She said she’d pop back here in a few minutes.”
What’s wrong with this picture? I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I noticed Trowbridge looking at me.
“Understand we had some excitement while I was gone.”
“Jumpy cops.” I shrugged. “Hoping for six seconds of screen time.”
Luci put the phone down and attacked the keyboard with both hands.
“Jenny was just about to take orders for room service. What are you up for? Bacon cheeseburger, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah, except hold the bacon and the cheese. Fries would be good.”
Seawright spoke this softly into a PDA. Meanwhile, Luci scooted out of her chair, trotted over to the credenza next to the television, picked up a green Crayola, tore a sheet of paper from a spiral notebook, and scurried back to her chair.
“Carrie is going to be happy,” Trowbridge told me.
“Your costar?”
“Yep. They’re going to put her chick-fight back in to punch up the numbers on the next test-screening.”
“Mud wrestling in her underwear?”
“Yep. Gotta admit she looked good in that scene. Can’t blame her for being pissed about the first cut.”
Knock at the door. Wells jumped to answer it. Thompson came in. Thank you, God. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been sweating it.
Trowbridge bolted for her but Luci beat him, yelling, “Mommy, mommy, mommy!” Trowbridge managed to give Thompson a worldclass hug, but he had to compete with Luci, who jumped into her mother’s arms, squealing with delight.
“You were wonderful,” she told Trowbridge after she’d rubbed noses with her little girl.
“So I’ve heard. What do you want Jenny to get for you and Luci when she calls down for room service?”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that very thing. Luci, you’ve been in this hotel room for hours, and you’ve been eating room service all week. How would you like to go out, just you and mommy, for some McDonald’s or KFC?”
“And Annabelle?” Luci asked.
“Of course, and Annabelle.”
“Yayyyy!”
Thompson swiveled her head back toward Trowbridge.
“That’s okay, isn’t it? She needs some fresh air, and I need some time with my girl. We’ll only be forty-five minutes or so.”
“Sure. Of course it’s okay. You two have a great time.”
Exit Thompson and Luci. This was the first time I’d seen Luci really excited. I didn’t blame her. I would have loved to have gotten out of this gilded hothouse for a thick, juicy steak someplace where the locals ate, even if I’d had to blow my whole per diem on it. But the Asset was here and I didn’t know where the bald guy was, so that meant I was here too.
The Hotel Devo probably set some kind of record by getting the most complicated room service order I’ve ever heard of up to us in less than half-an-hour. I was grateful for the effort because it was after seven-thirty on my east-coast biological clock and I felt hungrier t
han a nun in Lent. No doubt we got the quick service because His Royal Highness Kent Trowbridge made us a priority.
While we chowed down we watched a TiVo of the interview. I’m no judge of this kind of thing, but he looked plenty good to me. Everyone oohed and ahhed through the thing—everyone except Trowbridge himself. He focused intently on the screen, occasionally giving his head a slight shake. When it was over he looked up. He didn’t have to snap his fingers. Seawright and Wells hopped over to him.
“This guy gets a fruit basket or something, right, Jen?”
“Yes. Premiere collection.”
“Good. He did a nice job with me. Jeff, make a note. Need to get a sunshine yellow dress shirt exactly like the one I wore today—except no button-down tabs. Have them pick it up at Calvin’s and Fed Ex it to whatever hotel we’re going to be in tomorrow.”
“Got it.” Wells thumbed something into a palm-sized something or other.
“The button-down makes me look like a high school English teacher.”
“Got it.”
“Where’s the script Levitt is going to have kittens if I don’t look at?”
“In your bedroom. On the shelf right underneath the TV. ”
“All right.” Trowbridge stood up, half of his order still on his plate. “Hermit time. Tell me as soon as Katrina gets back. Anyone else, you don’t know where I am and you can’t reach me.”
“Got it.”
The suite had two bedrooms. When the door to the larger one closed behind Trowbridge, the answer to What’s-wrong-with-this-picture? popped into my head. No toys. As in 36-24-32 toys. Trowbridge hadn’t brought the Doublemint Twins, and he hadn’t had anyone pick up any local talent for him.
“Tell me as soon as Katrina gets back.” More than an hour had gone by since mother and daughter had left on what was supposedly a forty-five-minute jaunt. Chicks, as a class, can be real flexible about time, but this was right on the edge of worrisome. I dialed Thompson’s mobile phone number, got voice mail, and didn’t bother leaving a message. Instead I looked around for Wells, so that I could get the second key to Thompson’s room that I knew he had.
He was two moves ahead of me. He was already heading out the door when I spotted him. My first impulse was to go along with him, but then I remembered what I had in my hip pocket. He made it back in a little over three minutes. One look at his face and I knew we had a Problem. I hustled over to him.
“What is it?”
“Gone. Suitcase is gone, closet and drawers are empty. And I found this.”
He held up a cream-colored, letter-sized envelope with HOTEL DEVO imprinted in the upper left-hand corner. “Kent” was handwritten in a girlish scrawl in the center. It was sealed and there was something inside. Seawright bounded over. I could tell she’d figured out what the deal was.
“Should I open it?” Wells looked earnestly from me to Seawright.
“Is your name Kent?” I didn’t try to hide my sarcasm.
“I’ve gotta phone Saul,” Wells said, shaking his head.
“Phone Saul after you’ve given Trowbridge the letter.”
“Are you crazy?” Seawright asked me in a furious stage-whisper. “We can’t just drop a piano on him like this. We have to think things through.”
“Think what through?” The question came from across the suite.
We all snapped our heads to see Trowridge standing there.
Chapter Fourteen
I’ve gotta hand it to him. Impeccable timing, perfect entrance—pro moves. He held out his right hand and snapped fingers to palm twice.
“Gimme.”
Wells sheepishly handed over the letter. Taking his time about it, letting the suspense build, Trowbridge tore one end open. He took out a sheet of Hotel Devo stationery, folded three times. After a quick scan, he looked like a guy in a rom-com would look right after the only woman he’ll ever love tells him that she’s already married/in love with someone else/dying from an incurable disease/lesbian. Then, looking up and closing his eyes, he favored us with a not-bad impression of Thompson’s west Texas drawl. “‘Trow: You have just been so wonderful and I will never forget all you did for me and Luci. We have to go now, but don’t worry. You’re gonna do just fine, I just know it! Good luck! Love, Hurricane.’”
“Okay, Mr. Trowbridge,” Seawright said. “I know you’re upset, but you can’t let this throw you off your game. You did absolutely fantastic today. If you finish up the tour like you’ve started it, you’ll be killing on opening weekend.”
“I don’t think it makes a lotta sense to keep talking to Rotarians in third-rate loservilles who haven’t bought a movie ticket in twenty years.” Trowbridge collapsed into a white armchair. “Only three cities left anyway. Screw it.”
If Trowbridge just had the hots for Thompson, this was an overreaction. He could have almost any B-list actress in Hollywood and half the A-listers. Had he actually fallen for her? Oh shit. That would explain a lot, starting with everything he’d done from the moment he laid eyes on Thompson and ending with no toys in the suite. Which would mean that Thompson, who was my brilliant idea, was about to trigger breach of the MPA contract that Trans/Oxana had insured.
“Okay.” I slapped my hands together like a coach in pep talk mode. “Our jail coach took a powder on us. We don’t know why, or where she’s going, or how she plans to get there. Looks pretty hopeless. Perfect job for Trans/Oxana.”
Trowbridge flashed me a genuine grin. Shared the grin slowly with the rest of the room, as if he were milking a bow. Cocked an eyebrow at me.
“This oughta be good. Go.”
“You’re supposed to be in Denver tomorrow, swing through Santa Fe on Sunday, and then head to Tucson. You keep up your end of the deal, and I’ll meet you in Tucson with Thompson Monday morning.”
“How are you going to manage that?”
I turned toward one of the sofa spuds.
“When Jeff and I came back into the room after our ice-run this evening, Luci was talking on the phone. Did Thompson call and tell you to put her on?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged.
“And then Luci went on the computer, right?”
“She was already on. She spends half her time on the computer.”
“What I meant was, she stopped playing Hello Kitty or whatever and clicked on the Internet. Am I right?”
“I wasn’t really paying all that much attention.”
I nodded decisively as if that was exactly the answer I was looking for. Quick stroll over to the computer table. The loose-leaf Luci had scribbled on was still there. In laborious green crayon I read: 1050. The computer had Google running. I checked search history. Amtrak, Hertz, Greyhound. Called up Amtrak. Nothing leaving Omaha at 10:50, p.m. or a.m. Called up Hertz. 1050 didn’t appear in the phone number or the address. Called up Greyhound. Bus leaving Omaha for Phoenix at 10:50 tonight.
I looked back up at Trowbridge. I was smiling like a confident bastard who knew exactly what he was doing, instead of like a madly improvising hustler who might be looking for work by Monday.
“It would be helpful if Mr. Wells here would get a list of the calls made from Thompson’s room since five o’clock this evening.”
“That’s all?” This snarky little question came from Seawright
“Not quite. I’ll need a rental car down front in about forty-five minutes. Mid-size or larger. Not red. Not a Ford.”
Chapter Fifteen
So that’s how I happened to stroll into the Jim Thorpe Café at the Omaha Greyhound Bus Depot shortly after eight o’clock that evening. In addition to Greyhound’s10:50 run for Phoenix—and you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to connect those dots—there was this: at 5:48, Thompson had called a number with Simi Valley’s area code. She had spoken for seven minutes, which is longer than you can talk to a voice mai
l recorder. I hadn’t fit the call neatly into my Thompson-making-a-run-for-it theory, but I’m guessing she wasn’t calling about a dental appointment.
I figured Thompson would get to the bus depot nine-ish. After supper, she and Luci would kill as much time as they could in a downtown mall or department store, because no one wants to sit in a bus depot any longer than they have to. As closing time approached they’d look for a cab to the depot. I got there way before then so that when they arrived I could approach them with my customary finesse.
The Jim Thorpe Café didn’t really have a door. More of an arching entryway separating a darkened area where you could eat and drink from the garish fluorescence of the depot waiting room where you couldn’t eat but could really drink. I mean, there were three guys on the waiting room benches who didn’t even bother with brown paper bags. Just chugged Wild Turkey or Thunderbird straight from the bottle, then pulled the rotgut back down until it was time for the next hit.
Before going in, I scoped out an empty table in the right front corner. By then I was close enough to hear bells and bongs and other arcade music coming from the alcove where they’d stashed Pac Man and its cousins. From that table I’d be able to see the depot entrance, the ticket counter, and most of the waiting room. I sauntered in, priming myself for a sixty minute-plus wait.
“Tall Dude!” Luci’s voice from maybe twenty feet away. “That’s Tall Dude!”
I’d thought this through very carefully. Wrongly, but carefully.
I glanced in the direction of the voice. Thompson and Luci each sat behind a can of Dr. Pepper. Sitting next to Thompson I saw the bald guy. He had a cup of coffee. And next to Luci sat a black dude. Thin, wiry, maybe five-ten/one-sixty-five, looking like he could dance with Alvin Ailey or bulk up a little and play linebacker for a Division II school. The bald guy stood up, waving his arm at me and grinning like he was running for president of the Kiwanis Club and needed my vote.
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