by James Carol
‘No.’ I banged the door shut.
Because of the geography, the Imperial Hotel was one of the newer buildings on Main Street, dating back to sometime around the mid-twentieth century. The really old buildings were the ones surrounding the town square. As you moved outwards the buildings got progressively newer, as dictated by the rules that governed the slow crawl of urban sprawl. Even though the Imperial had first opened its doors just after the Second World War, those windows still gleamed and the facade was shining like it was new.
A blast of cool air hit me as I stepped from the outside brightness into the tomblike gloom created by the hotel’s heavy stonework. I pushed my sunglasses up onto the top of my head and made my way to the reception desk. There was worn dark wood everywhere and the lights were shielded by green shades. The carpet was red and gold, but repeated cleaning had dulled the colours. The outside of the building might have suggested the 1950s, but inside it was 1850.
It took a couple of minutes to go through the check-in procedure. When we were done the concierge handed me a key with a wooden fob that had The Senator’s Suite carved into it.
I have two conditions when I take a case. The first condition is that I get a suite rather than a room. This went back to my FBI days. Despite that multibillion-dollar annual budget, federal agents still had to watch the nickels and dimes. I’d seen the inside of more cheap motel rooms than I care to remember, and that was enough of a reason to insist on a suite. Being a nomad doesn’t mean you have to live in a tent.
The second condition was a bottle of single malt. Anything over twelve years was acceptable, but eighteen years plus was preferable.
I told the guy at the desk that my luggage would be along later, then headed back outside and climbed into the passenger seat. Taylor had kept the engine running, and the air-conditioning was turned to full. He was watching stick figures being massacred on his cellphone.
‘Tommy Taylor. Someone your size, that would be suitably embarrassing. Little Tommy Taylor. Kind of rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?’
He closed his phone and put it away. ‘So Shepherd wasn’t able to help you out?’
‘Who said I asked Shepherd?’
Taylor raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m going to need a different hotel.’
‘Why? This one’s the best in town.’
‘I know, and as far as your work buddies are concerned this is where I’m staying.’
‘You want me to lie.’
‘Only if they ask.’
‘And I’m guessing you’re still not ready to talk.’
‘Soon. So, do you know another place or not? I’m looking for quiet and anonymous. Somewhere they don’t ask too many questions.’
‘Yeah, I know a place.’
Taylor put the car into gear and pulled away from the sidewalk. Fifty yards on he hung a right, and five minutes later we reached the railroad line. The car bumped gently over the tracks, the heavy chassis rising up before settling back on its shocks.
The roads in this part of town were still in good condition, but they weren’t as pristine as Main Street. There was the occasional pothole, and the occasional stray piece of litter blew through like a tumbleweed. The state of the houses was consistent with what you’d expect to find in a relatively prosperous white-collar neighbourhood. Some were cared for like palaces. Paintwork in good order, grass neatly mowed and a flag drooping from a pole in the airless afternoon. Others were crumbling wrecks with overgrown lawns, missing roof tiles, and paintwork that was worn back to the wood. Most fell somewhere between those two extremes.
Morrow Street was lined with bars on both sides, grey two-storey buildings with dark windows. Interspersed amongst these were a couple of guesthouses and diners. Mostly it was just bars, though. This was the dark heart of Eagle Creek. Every town had one, because every town needed one. This was a place where a college kid could get served with ID that was obviously faked, a place where a horny guy with a pocketful of cash could find some relief. If you wanted to score some weed, this was the place to come.
We pulled up outside a guesthouse two-thirds of the way along the street. The door and window frames were bright red, a splash of colour in amongst all the grey. Hannah’s Place was painted in red on the sign above the door, the letters swirly and flamboyant. I got out of the car, retrieved my suitcase and laptop bag from the back. Taylor took the case from me and I followed him across the sidewalk.
It had just gone four and Morrow Street was deserted. The place had a desolate, lonely feel, like a film set that was about to be dismantled. A couple of bars were advertising Happy Hour from 5.30 ’til 7.30. Bad math aside, that was when the area would start to come alive. By nine o’clock enough alcohol would have been consumed to get the place really rocking. I wasn’t expecting things to get busy this evening. A Wednesday night the day after a brutal murder, everyone would be staying away in droves.
The inside of the guesthouse was cool, clean and spacious. The scuffed red and white floor tiles were laid out like a chessboard, and there was a faint smell of lemons in the air. A red leather sofa had been pushed into the nook below the staircase. The Fifties Americana feel was enhanced by the black and white stills from old Hollywood that hung on the walls. Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis. Rock Hudson and Doris Day. Paul Newman. Marlon Brando. We walked over to reception and Taylor dinged the old-fashioned brass bell.
‘One second,’ a voice called from the back room.
The girl who followed the voice into the room was in her early to mid-twenties but looked at least thirty. Her hands had seen their share of hard work, and she was lean from being busy rather than hours spent in a gym.
She had big brown fawn eyes, and her blonde hair was short and spiky. Piercings in her ears and nose, and a baggy Gutterpigs T-shirt. It looked like she’d cut her hair herself. It was a practical style for someone who didn’t have any spare hours in the day. No time wasted in beauty parlours. No time wasted brushing it through. No time wasted, period, because time was precious.
I subscribed to a similar school of thought. My hair was a scruffy white mess that hung to my shoulders. Getting ready meant scrubbing a hand across my head a couple of times after I’d gotten out the shower.
The girl saw Taylor and her smile made the years melt away. For a brief moment she looked her real age. There was an understated beauty there that a tough life had tried hard to steal away.
‘Hey, Hannah.’
‘Hey, Taylor.’
Taylor turned to me. ‘Jefferson Winter meet Hannah Hayden.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Hannah meet Jefferson Winter.’
‘Cool name,’ I said. ‘You’re a palindrome.’
She smiled. ‘I can honestly say that’s the first time anyone’s called me that.’
‘Winter needs a room.’
‘Well he’s in luck, since that’s what we do here.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any suites?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, they’re all up on the third floor. They’ve got great views.’
‘Since there are only two floors, I’ll take that as a “no”.’
‘I could give you our best room. It’s no suite, but it does have its own bathroom.’
‘Chocolates on the pillows?’
Hannah raised an eyebrow.
‘How about a candy bar, then? It’s been a while since lunch and my blood sugar level is starting to dip.’
She gave me the look, then shrugged. ‘I don’t have any chocolates, but I’m sure I can find you a candy bar.’
‘In that case you’ve got a deal.’
Hannah looked me up and down and reeled off a price that was probably twenty per cent higher than the going rate. I paid for two nights in advance, then put down an extra hundred and turned it so Benjamin Franklin was staring straight at her.
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to anyone that I’m staying here.’
‘Sure.’ The money disappeared.
She handed me the
key and Taylor grabbed my suitcase before I could get to it. He led the way up to the second floor and we walked along a narrow corridor to the door at the far end. Hannah was right. The room was no suite. But it was clean and tidy, and the mattress was firm, and there were no alien life forms growing in the bathroom. It would never feature in my top ten, it probably wouldn’t even figure in my top fifty, but I’d stayed in a hell of a lot worse.
The drapes were pulled to keep the heat out and the way the material glowed reminded me of a Chinese lantern. Taylor had dumped my case on the bed and was standing there staring at me.
‘I want answers, Winter.’
‘I’m betting you do. If you didn’t, it would mean I’ve completely misjudged you.’
‘Seriously, I want some answers.’
‘And you’ll get them. First, though, there are a couple of things you need to get for me.’
I reeled off my list then handed him the key for the Senator’s Suite at the Imperial. Taylor narrowed his eyes at me as if he was trying to peer inside my head.
‘If you want, I can write that all down,’ I offered.
Taylor just stared.
‘And change your clothes. That uniform’s got to go.’
Taylor’s stare turned into a glare, then he walked over to the door. He stopped with his hand on the handle and glanced over his shoulder.
‘When I get back I want those answers.’
10
The door clicked shut and Taylor’s footsteps faded away. I spent the next five minutes rearranging the room, fussing and moving stuff around and getting comfortable. Then I plugged in my laptop speakers and set the computer to play some tracks at random.
The first act of The Marriage of Figaro filled the room. The act opens with Figaro measuring the space where his bridal bed is going to go. This was Mozart at his most playful and it never failed to make me smile. Even when things got really dark this had the power to bring light back into the world.
I phoned down to Hannah and asked for the Wi-Fi password and some coffee. In addition to the usual junk, my inbox contained an email from Chief Olina Kalani of the Honolulu Police Department, and a new request from the New York Police Department.
Requests like the one from the NYPD came in on a daily basis. Two or three requests wasn’t unusual. The problem was that there were too many for me to deal with, so inevitably I ended up letting down more people than I helped. This was something I’d had to learn to live with, but it wasn’t easy. Some days I feel like that Dutch kid who tried to stop the leaks in the dyke with his fingers, but instead of water it’s blood leaking through my dam.
The tone of the email from Chief Kalani was polite but pissed. The media had jumped on the story of his rapist, and the news was filled with scare headlines. An investigation like this was bad enough without fear being added into the mix. I typed out a quick reply asking him to send everything he had on the case, and signed off by saying that if anything jumped out at me I’d let him know. Once that was done, I logged onto the webpage the unsub had set up.
07:22:20.
For a whole minute I just watched the screen, the seconds ticking away, those numbers marching ever closer to zero. During that time another six pixelated stick figures went off to meet their maker. It was one of the longest minutes I’d ever known.
I put the laptop to one side then lay down on the bed and closed my eyes and thought about what I’d learned so far. While The Marriage of Figaro played in the background, I thought about Gulfstreams and brand-new cop cars, and a small-town sheriff’s department that could afford to issue me with a blank cheque. I thought about paintwork that gleamed and windows that shone. Mostly I thought about Sam Galloway’s final moments, about flames licking at his skin, and that infinitely slow slide into agonised madness. I thought about the minutes leading up to his death and wondered about what he might have seen. In particular, I wondered about who he might have seen.
So far there were three things I knew for sure.
Firstly, wherever Sam’s killer was, whatever he was doing, he would be blending in like a chameleon right now, because that’s what killers like this one were exceptional at. They blended in. This guy was the quiet neighbour who always gave you a cheery wave and a polite hello. He was that work colleague who helped you out last fall when your car broke down. Who knows, he might even be the buddy whose barbecue you attended at the weekend.
That’s the thing with this type of killer. Bump into them on the street and you’d never know what they really were. They had wives and kids and jobs. They had lives. But those lives were an illusion, smoke and mirrors to hide their true selves.
I knew all about the smoke, and the mirrors. My father was a master illusionist. Fifteen murders over a twelve-year period and nobody suspected a thing.
The second thing I knew for sure was that Sam’s killer would be obsessing over what he’d done. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He would be doing his best to treat today like it was just any other day. He’d be saying all the right things and making all the appropriate responses. If anything, he’d be even more careful than usual to make sure he blended in.
And all the time last night’s events would be playing on a loop inside his head, an endless procession of sounds and images intruding into his every waking thought. In quieter moments, when he was sure he was alone, he might steal a few seconds to fully immerse himself in the memories, but the rest of the time he’d be making sure it was business as usual.
The third thing I was absolutely certain of was that unless somebody stopped this guy he would strike again.
There was one other thing that I was ninety-nine per cent certain of. That bombshell was going to be dropped on Taylor when he returned. I wasn’t sure how he’d react. Hopefully he’d be able to put his personal feelings aside and view things objectively. If he didn’t then I was on my own. That said, unless I’d read Taylor all wrong, I was confident it wouldn’t come to that.
A soft knock on the door brought me back into the here and now. I closed the laptop lid, got up off the bed and let Hannah in. She carried her tray to the bedside table and put it down, the smell of fresh coffee following her across the room. There was a banana on the tray. I looked at the banana, looked at Hannah.
‘That’s not a candy bar.’
Hannah smiled. ‘Ten out of ten for observation. Taylor said you were good. If you’ve got a problem with your blood sugar level, fruit is better. It’s a proven fact.’
‘It doesn’t taste as good‚ though.’
‘You’ll thank me later.’
I reached for the banana, looked at it like it was some sort of torture device, then peeled it and started eating.
Hannah’s smile turned into a grin. ‘You’re looking healthier already.’
‘I’m expecting a discount on the room.’
The grin turned into a laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’
I tipped two sugars into my mug and took a sip. It wasn’t in the same league as the Blue Mountain coffee served on the Gulfstream, but it was strong and packed with caffeine and it would get the job done.
‘Unless you’ve found the secret to eternal youth, I’m guessing you’re not the original Hannah.’
Hannah laughed. It was a great laugh, melodic and inviting. I wanted to hear more of that laughter. A lot more. Occasionally you meet people in life who you’re immediately drawn to. Something just clicks into place, and you instinctively want to know everything about them.
‘That was my grandmother,’ she was saying. ‘She bought this place back in the sixties. It’s been in the family for more than fifty years.’
‘You’ve known Taylor for a while, haven’t you?’
Hannah nodded. ‘We went to high school together. I was a couple of grades above him.’
‘The older girls don’t tend to give the younger guys the time of day. At any rate, that’s how it was when I was at high school.’
‘It sounds like you’re talking from ex
perience.’
‘Hard, bitter experience.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Alison Blane. She was two grades above me.’
‘And she broke your heart.’
‘Shattered it into a thousand pieces. So how come you were even aware of Taylor’s existence?’
‘Because he was the best defensive tackle Eagle Creek High has ever seen, or is ever likely to see. He was a legend.’
‘That figures.’
Her eyes narrowed and she smiled a smile that made her look much older. ‘You’re circling around something, and I’ve a pretty good idea what that something is, so I’d appreciate it if you’d get to the point. As much as I’m enjoying this little trip down memory lane, I’ve got work to do.’
‘What’s Taylor’s first name?’
‘And why would I tell you a thing like that? Especially since Taylor’s just given me fifty bucks not to tell you.’
I pulled a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and waved it in front of her. ‘Because Ben Franklin trumps Ulysses S. Grant any day.’
Hannah plucked it from my fingers. ‘I reckon that might just about do it.’
11
Taylor arrived back twenty minutes later, lugging a whiteboard that was as big as he was, a plastic shopping bag hooked around one meaty finger. He shook the bag onto the bed beside me. Inside was a collection of different coloured marker pens and the bottle of single malt that had been left in my suite at the Imperial. The whisky was a thirty-year-old Glenmorangie. Very classy indeed. It was rarer than diamonds. Whoever bought it knew their stuff.
I cracked the seal, opened the bottle, put my nose to the mouth and inhaled deeply. For a moment I was transported to a cold, wild place that was light years away from Louisiana in August. I could smell the peat and the heather. A cold, hard rain pricked at my face, while dark storm clouds roiled above my head. I put the cork back in and placed the bottle on the dresser.
Taylor was dressed in black jeans and a plain black shirt. Black sneakers and black socks. There was a Glock in the holster around his waist. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was a step in the right direction, albeit a small one.
