by A. C. Fuller
The doorknob rattled harder and he heard Bice's voice in the hall. "You let him lock the door? You imbeciles."
Banging at the door.
Alex's confident voice: "Hello, you've reached the voice mail of Alex Vane of News Scoop, please . . ."
Bice's voice: "Break it down!"
" . . . leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
James heard the beep of the voice mail just as the door crashed in on him. He was knocked back onto the toilet, but clutched the phone with both hands. "A-Alex, find Bhootbhai," he said, just as one of the men slapped the phone out of his hand and the other punched him in the stomach.
Part 2
17
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
At 5:00 a.m., the phone rang in Alex's room. His wake-up call.
He lifted and hung up the phone in one motion, then grabbed his cell phone from the bedside table. He was groggy and a little hungover, but he felt better than he'd thought he would.
He stared at the small screen while stumbling to the bathroom. Just a quick love u from Greta and a reminder from Lance that he was heading to Boston that day. He played the voice mail from James as he started the coffee pot.
"A-Alex, find Bhootbhai." The last word was kind of garbled and sounded to Alex like "Boot Buy," or possibly "Boothby."
He rubbed his eyes and listened to it again.
"A-Alex, find Bhootbhai."
He pressed the phone to his ear and played the message again. A few seconds of silence, some muffled sounds, maybe a footstep and James's voice. "A-Alex. Find Bhootbhai."
Between the words, he could hear James breathing hard, muffled voices followed by the sound of the phone hitting the floor, then silence.
In his boxer shorts and t-shirt, he walked into the hall and knocked on James's door while listening to the message again. No answer.
He pounded hard. "James!" he called into the room.
He waited.
"Jaaaa-aaames!"
After a minute, he went back to his room and sat on the bed. He listened to the message again, then called James's cell phone. Straight to voice mail. He called James's room, no answer.
He called the front desk. James hadn't checked out.
The text. He scrolled through his messages, eventually landing on it and reading its final words over and over.
But if you do, you may not be safe.
But if you do, you may not be safe.
But if you do, you may not be safe.
Two years earlier, his source had been right about everything. He still didn't know how the source knew what he knew. All he knew was that he should have believed him this time around.
But the threat had been made against him, not James. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Even though James had been off carbs for weeks, Alex knew about the crash from not eating any carbs after having been addicted to them. Maybe James's diet had made him pass out or something. He was trying to convince himself there was a reasonable explanation, but the texts kept running through his head in the metallic, distorted voice his source had used to call him in the past.
But if you do, you may not be safe.
But if you do, you may not be safe.
After five minutes, he called the police.
At 7:00 a.m., an officer in a dark blue short-sleeved police uniform arrived with a young, pasty-faced hotel security guard wearing a nametag that said 'Smith.'
The officer was as tall as Alex, square-jawed, with short red hair and freckles that matched. He held out his hand to Alex. "Officer Nors. They told me you're missing a friend."
Alex shook his hand, then sat on the bed. Nors stood by the door while Smith paced by the window. Alex passed his phone from hand to hand as he explained their trip out to Seattle and talked them through the events of the previous day. When he'd finished, he played them James's message on speakerphone.
At the end of the recording, he glanced over at Nors and pointed at the wall. "He was staying in the room next to mine."
The officer stared at him, blank-faced. "What's a Booth Buy?"
"I don't know," Alex said. "I searched it online after I called you and got nothing."
He held up the phone's screen to Smith. "Is the number that the call came from the hotel number?"
Smith leaned in. "That's it alright. All calls from our rooms show up as the same number on caller IDs." He was young, and his droopy eyes made Alex think he was coming off the night shift. "I gotta get going. Can you finish this up, officer?"
Nors nodded.
"If you ask me, your friend probably got lucky last night," Smith continued, moving toward the door. "This conference is like spring break for nerds. He's probably still in her room."
Alex followed him to the door. "That's a possibility, but a small one. Can you open up his room just to make sure he's not in there? He's had health issues and could have passed out."
Smith frowned. "I'm really not supposed to do that."
Alex leaned in close to the security guard's face. "James is not the type of guy to randomly stay in a woman's room. Like, ever. Something is wrong."
Smith moved back into Alex's room and picked up the hotel phone. "Gotta ask."
Alex said, "Can you ask if there's a way to tell which exact room the call was made from?"
The young security guard called the front desk and asked for the manager. After explaining the situation and James's voice mail, then listening for a minute, he hung up. "Manager says we can take a peek inside, since you're on the reservation with him. He can't tell you what room the call came from without going through the records of all the rooms and finding an outgoing call to your number. It would take hours. Or days. And he can't do that unless he's ordered to by the police and they have a good reason. He did say that there weren't any outgoing calls from your friend's room last night, though."
Alex led the way to James's room and hurried in once the security guard opened the door. The room was empty and looked the same as it had when they'd left it the previous afternoon. James's laptop was on the coffee table. The bed was still made and clearly hadn't been slept in. He looked through the bathroom and ran his hand across the counter. No moisture. Toothbrush bristles dry. He checked the closet floor. No dirty clothes.
He leaned on the window. The first slivers of sunlight were hitting far out on the water, halfway between Seattle and Bainbridge Island.
Maybe James met another computer guy and they chatted all night and played video games. Maybe he found an investor for News Scoop and spent the night hashing out a deal. Maybe he had met someone—a woman.
Alex tried to believe this last one for a moment, and even forced a slight smile at the idea.
He stepped out of the bathroom and glanced up at Nors. "He never came back last night."
Nors and Smith shrugged, then followed Alex into the hallway.
"I don't know what to tell you," Nors said. "If he is missing, you'll be able to file a missing person report with the SPD after twenty-four hours. We'll coordinate with hotel security."
"Oh c'mon," Smith said. "You stand around here long enough, no doubt you're gonna witness the guy's walk of shame." He strolled down the hall as Alex and Nors returned to Alex's room.
"Where did you guys come in from?" Nors asked, sitting in the chair by the desk.
Alex paced the room. "We're here from New York, but I'm from this area originally. Alex gestured out the window, across the sound. "Bainbridge."
The officer frowned. "Bainbridge?"
"Yeah, what about you?"
"Lived in Seattle my whole life and hardly ever met anyone who's from Bainbridge. Only families who move there when they have kids. Or rich people who buy second homes there."
"Yeah, well."
"Got a kind of snobbish way about them, the island folks, if you ask me."
"Yeah, well."
"No offense to you, or anything."
Nors was right about Bainbridge. It was a small community,
and increasingly, it was a place for second homes for Seattleites or well-off families who wanted to escape the city.
Alex said, "Can you do anything to help me?"
"Well, he's a grown man and he's technically not missing yet. And since there's no evidence of a crime, we need to wait twenty-four—"
"Wait," Alex said, walking over to Nors and pulling out his phone. "Look at this."
He scrolled through his texts until he'd found the latest from his source, then handed his phone to the officer.
"Who's Denver Bice?"
Alex sighed, headed over to the coffee machine, cursed the single-serving coffee pods, and started another one. While it was brewing, he told Nors a condensed version of his history with Bice and the grudges Bice likely had against him and James.
"So, who sent the text?" Nors asked, looking at the phone.
"Don't know. The text was sent from a disposable cell phone." Alex poured the coffee into a new cup and held it out.
"No, thanks," Nors said.
Alex sat on the bed. "I tried reaching Bice before, but they said he wasn't here under that name. If Bice is here at all—and I know this isn't enough to arrest him or even accuse him of anything—can we at least go talk with him?"
The officer eyed Alex suspiciously. "You want me to take you to talk to a former CEO who got fired because of some story you wrote? And you think he might have something to do with your friend?"
"Don't you get that cop-hunch thing, where you know someone is guilty? With him, you'll know."
18
By the time Nors convinced the front desk clerk to give him Bice's room number, it was 9:00 a.m. They took the elevator to the twentieth floor, and made their way down the hall to the presidential suite, room 2014.
Despite that fact that he'd uncovered the murder that cost Bice his job, Alex had never met Denver Bice. He reached up to knock, but Nors caught his hand.
"Please, Mr. Vane. You seem like a precocious guy, and I'm doing you a favor here. They told me at the front desk that Bice had his room set to 'invisible.' Strict instructions not to give out the room number or confirm his presence in the hotel. They would barely give me the room number. My guess is he won't be too happy to see us. Let me do the knocking, and the talking."
Alex lowered his hand. "Okay."
Nors knocked, and within a few seconds, Denver Bice opened the door wearing a dark blue suit and a wide grin. "Mr. Vane. Officer. What a surprise. How can I help you?"
He stepped to the side and waved them into the living room, where Alex and Nors sat down on the leather loveseat James had sat in the night before.
"Are you Denver Bice?" Nors asked.
Bice stared at Alex. "Yes, I am."
"I'm officer Wilhelm Nors of the Seattle Police Department. This, I guess you know, is Alex Vane. He's a guest in the hotel for the Digital Media Conference."
Bice smiled. "As am I."
He was thinner than Alex remembered, but still wore the same black suit and blue tie ensemble he'd worn as CEO of Standard Media. But it was his manner of speaking that was already driving Alex crazy. He was polite and condescending at the same time—the kind of attitude that, in Alex's experience, usually meant that someone had a lot to hide. Part of him wanted to get up and leave, the other part wanted to dive at Bice and choke his thin, tanned neck.
Nors pulled out a notebook. "Do you know a man named James Stacy?" he asked Bice.
"I'm vaguely aware of his existence."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"He runs a Web site, the same one that employs Mr. Vane. Two years ago, they published some false and defamatory reports about me. So, when I say that I am aware of Mr. Stacy's existence, I mean exactly that. He is someone whose existence floats around in my consciousness, but I have never met him and would not say I know him."
"It sounds like you have a grudge against him."
Bice walked to the window. "Not at all." He made a sweeping gesture across the glass. "Do you see this view? Despite Mr. Stacy's attempts to defame me, I am doing just fine. I bear no ill-will toward him. I was a journalist myself once, very briefly. He's just doing his job."
"Were you aware that he was here at the conference?"
"Yes."
Alex felt a lump forming in his belly, accompanied by an eerie sense that filled the whole room. It was as though a faint, dissonant note was being played, and his whole nervous system was bracing itself against it.
Nors continued, "Have you seen him around the hotel?"
"Not at all." Bice didn't turn from the window. "But he did come to my room last night."
"What?" Alex blurted.
"He called around eleven last night and one of my assistants took the call. He wanted to interview me, but I declined, through my assistant. Mr. Stacy then came to the room." He glanced at Alex. "You know how persistent journalists can be. But I was already in bed, so that same assistant declined again."
Nors said, "He didn't make it back to his room last night."
Bice just stared out the window. "Oh?"
Alex stood abruptly and pointed at Bice's back. "You know something, you—"
Nors grabbed Alex's arm and tugged him back onto the loveseat. "Please, let me handle this."
Still staring out the window, Bice pressed his hand onto the glass. "Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. The buildings are so beautiful. I feel like I can reach out and touch them. But the glass is so cold. It never feels the way I think it will."
Alex caught Nors's eye and whispered, "He's crazy."
Bice spun around and addressed Alex. "I'm sorry to hear your friend is missing. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Did he come in the room?" Nors asked. "It might help us with the timeline."
"I think my assistant said something about letting him use the bathroom and chatting with him for a few minutes. I decline many interview requests, so I try to teach my staff to be as polite as possible. He probably spent twenty minutes trying to convince my assistant to bring me out for an interview. Like I said, persistence."
"But you didn't see him?"
"I was already in bed. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"I'd like to chat with your assistant, just to find out if Mr. Stacy said anything that could be helpful."
"Sure," Bice said. "However, he's not here right now."
Bice wrote a phone number on a pad of hotel notepaper and handed it to Nors, who took it and held out Alex's phone, still open to the text message. "What do you make of this?" he asked Bice.
Bice read the text, then handed the phone back to Nors. "Officer, I'm a fairly important man. In the business world, one tends to make enemies. Those enemies try to gain a tactical advantage by leaking false stories about you, getting journalists and lawyers to hound you. It's part of the game."
Bice stepped over to the table along the wall and pulled the baseball hat out of a drawer. "If I had a dollar for every false piece of information flying around about me . . ." He walked to the chair opposite the love seat, sat down and placed the hat on the table. "Well, I'd be richer than I already am."
"I think we've taken up enough of your time," Nors said.
The officer stood, but Alex remained seated, staring at the cap. The dark blue, the cream-colored embroidery. The NYU logo.
"Officer Nors, he's—"
Nors held a hand up and Alex went silent.
"Why the hat, Mr. Bice?"
Bice took a step toward them. "I plan to go out for a run later today." He locked eyes with Alex. "Fitness is very important to me. And I've heard it's going to be sunny. I wear a hat when I run to keep the sun out of my eyes. Just didn't want to forget it."
Nors stepped toward the door and Alex stood, following reluctantly.
"I hear NYU is a good school," Nors said. "You an alum?"
"No," Bice said. "I'm a Tulane man. But I'm a donor to NYU. I have a strong appreciation of their undergraduate programs."
Alex thrust his hands into his pocke
ts, clenching them into fists. He was half terrified, half enraged. The text about Bice, James disappearing, the hat, the references that seemed to be about him.
"I've got a daughter. Sixteen," Nors said. "I wish she'd stay close to home, but she's thinking of going there. What would you say are their best programs?"
And now Nors was making small talk with him? Alex had no idea what was going on, but he knew he wanted out of there.
"Oh, they're all excellent," Bice said, gesturing toward the door.
Nors stepped into the hallway and Alex followed, studying the carpet. Bice stood in the doorway. Alex could feel Bice staring at him.
"Any standout programs I should steer her toward?" Nors asked.
"Journalism," Bice said. "They produce fine journalists."
Alex tried to speak, but his throat was frozen. His brought his eyes up slowly.
Bice's eyes locked on his right away. "Fine journalists," he repeated. "Not the fat, sweaty computer-types who are trying to take over our business."
He smiled at Alex as he closed the door.
19
Alex sat on his bed, shaky and disoriented. The dissonant note he had sensed in Bice's room had become more insistent and was now vibrating sharply through the room.
Nors had left after reassuring Alex that he'd file the report exactly twenty-four hours after Alex's original call to the police. Once that happened, he could persuade the hotel to let him see security footage from the night before. He might also be able to get the hotel to tell him what room James's call had come from. Until then, there was nothing more he could do.
Alex closed his eyes, then opened them. The carpet was blue, speckled with gray, and he stared at it until the carpet became a hazy blur. He watched the haze ripple and shimmer, and was reminded of leaning on the ferry railing, staring down at the passing waters of Puget Sound. In his mind, the ferry was heading west, across the sound from Seattle to Bainbridge. He was young, strong, healthy, and the same dissonance had been echoing through his body. It was June of 1997 and he was headed to the island to identify his parents' bodies.
