Misgivings

by Donn Cortez

  Besides, Horatio thought, nothing about Abdus Sat-tar Pathan is obvious.

  So. Go deeper. My place isn’t filled with old microscopes and posters of Quincy, but that doesn’t mean my job hasn’t influenced my thinking—in many ways, it directs how I think. So what gives direction to the thoughts of a magician?

  No. Not direction.

  Misdirection.

  One of the fundamental principles of stage magic. Focus the audience’s attention on the left hand, so it doesn’t notice what the right hand is doing.

  He’d been wrong about Abdus not asking for anything. He’d not only made his demands, they’d already been met. What he’d wanted was Horatio’s attention, his full attention—not because what Pathan was doing was important, but because he wanted to ensure Horatio didn’t notice something else.

  It kept coming back to the original case, the convenience-store assault. Pathan had walked into a store, noticed a nude pictorial of a Middle Eastern woman, and flown into a rage. He’d contacted someone while in the hospital, someone who’d posed as his lawyer and smuggled in whatever was necessary to fake his fingerprints and then disappeared. Someone, presumably, who’d later threatened Talwinder Jhohal into silence.

  Someone Pathan didn’t want Horatio to find.

  Someone who had just become his number one priority . . .

  17

  CHRISTMAS EVE.

  All over Miami, some stores were shutting down early and others were staying open late for last-minute shoppers. Some people hurried home to be with their families, while others, fleeing colder climates in favor of a snow-free holiday, celebrated in restaurants and bars, on cruise ships and beaches. Radio stations pulled out every artist who’d ever recorded a Christmas album or song and filled the airwaves with roasting chestnuts, reggae carols, and novelty tunes featuring homicidal reindeer.

  And Horatio gathered his staff for an important meeting.

  Alexx, Wolfe, Delko, and Calleigh were already seated at the conference table when Natalia entered the room. Horatio was at the head of the table, waiting patiently as she took her seat.

  “Everyone’s here,” Horatio said. “Good. Time to get down to business. Calleigh, would you mind starting?”

  “Not at all, H.” Calleigh picked up the large evidence envelope on the table in front of her and dumped it out on the table.

  A small, neatly wrapped Christmas present.

  “I drew Delko,” Calleigh said with a smile. “And while I couldn’t find a South Beach supermodel that would fit into an evidence envelope, he was still pretty easy—to buy for, I mean.”

  Delko leaned forward and grabbed his gift. He opened it to reveal a baseball card mounted on a Lucite stand.

  “Orestes Destrade,” he said. “How’d you know I don’t have this one?”

  “That would be the I in CSI?” Calleigh said.

  “Thanks,” Delko said, grinning. “Guess that means I go next.”

  He picked up his own evidence envelope, pulled out a small box and handed it to Wolfe. “Merry Christmas.”

  “This should be good.” Wolfe tore off the wrapping to reveal a plastic device around the size and shape of a garden-hose sprayer.

  “Contact-free thermometer,” Delko said. “Uses infrared to record temperature from a few inches away. Good tool when you don’t want to disturb a crime scene.”

  “Yeah?” Wolfe said, examining it critically. “If it’s such a good tool, why don’t you have one?”

  “Hey, someone’s got to be the test case,” Delko said.

  “Just wait,” Calleigh said. “Two weeks from now he’ll be borrowing it from you.”

  “And in three,” Alexx added, “he’ll have ordered the advanced model for himself.”

  “All right, all right,” Delko said, laughing. “Who’s up?”

  “That would be me,” Wolfe said, putting down his new toy. He opened his own evidence envelope, pulled out a small, gift-wrapped box and handed it to Calleigh. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you, Ryan,” Calleigh said. “I can’t wait to see what it is . . . oh.”

  “I hope you like it,” Wolfe said. “I’m not really good with gifts, so I guess I went with something obvious . . .”

  Calleigh held up her gift, a small golden bullet on a chain. “It’s lovely. But—”

  “You do know what those things are used for, right?” Delko asked, his grin getting bigger and bigger.

  “Bullets?” Wolfe asked, confused.

  Calleigh sighed. She unscrewed the tip of the bullet, revealing a small compartment within. “Some of Miami’s more flamboyant criminals like to use them to stash cocaine,” she told Wolfe. “This wouldn’t be in reference to that little accident I had with the cocaine dust in the air, would it?”

  Wolfe swallowed. “No. Definitely not. I’m sorry, I just—I mean, Bullet Girl, right? I would never—” He shook his head. “I hate Christmas.”

  Calleigh smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Ryan; it’s actually very sweet. Despite the nickname, nobody’s ever actually given me a bullet before. I suppose most people think it’s too . . . on the nose.”

  Wolfe winced.

  “Since Ms. Duquesne has already given out her present,” Horatio said, “I think we’ll ask our resident DNA expert to go next. Natalia?”

  Natalia smiled. “Uh, first, I’d just like to thank you guys for including me. Never easy being the new kid, right? Anyway, I drew Alexx—hope you like it.” She handed her envelope over to the doctor.

  Alexx opened it and pulled out a small, leather instrument case.

  “I didn’t wrap it,” Natalia said. “Sorry if I got the protocol wrong—”

  “Oh, honey, this is beautiful,” Alexx said. “One of my colleagues in New York has one just like it. Hand-stitching, calfskin leather, brass zippers—you have to have them custom-made, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah. I asked around and other doctors seem to like them, so I had one made for you. I hope it’s okay.”

  Alexx raised her eyebrows. “I’m not gonna ask how much it cost, but—girl, this is a pretty pricey gift.”

  “I can afford it. And the only parameters you gave me were that the present had to fit in the evidence envelope.”

  “Those are the rules,” Calleigh said.

  “If you get me next year?” Wolfe said. “I won’t object to bundles of hundreds. Really.”

  “Or gold,” Delko said. “Bet you could fit an entire brick—”

  “Gentlemen, that’s enough,” Horatio said. “Alexx, it’s your turn.”

  “Oh, no, Mister Caine,” Alexx said. “It’s your turn.” She picked up her envelope from the table in front of her and tossed it to Horatio.

  Horatio caught it with one hand, then held it up to his ear and shook it gently. “I don’t know. I think I might have this X-rayed first . . .”

  “C’mon, H, don’t keep us in suspense,” Delko said. “Alexx wouldn’t tell any of us what she was getting you, either.”

  Horatio gave him a mock frown. “Oh? I thought this was supposed to be Secret Santa?”

  “Please,” Wolfe said, “please, don’t say Santa.”

  “Very well,” Horatio said, opening the envelope. “And it appears to be . . . well, well. Very nice.”

  It was a double CD set. “Robert Johnson, honey,” Alexx said. “The complete works of. I thought to myself, if anyone can identify with the blues, it’s Horatio.”

  “Who’s Robert Johnson?” Wolfe asked.

  Alexx gave him a look that managed to convey equal amounts of pity and disbelief. “Who’s Robert Johnson? Only the godfather of the blues, that’s all. Hadn’t been for him, rock and roll wouldn’t exist.”

  “Also, he supposedly sold his soul to the devil in return for becoming the greatest bluesman of all time,” Delko added. “If so, he got a raw deal—only recorded twenty-nine songs in his whole life and died when he was twenty-seven. Somebody poisoned his whiskey.”

  “It wasn’t the poison that did
it, though,” Alexx said. “Pneumonia got him a few weeks later, finished the job.”

  “Well, this is festive,” Calleigh said. “Can’t we even exchange gifts without the subject of homicide coming up?”

  “Apparently not,” Horatio said with a smile. “But we’ll all have another chance in a week or so. Natalia, I hope you don’t mind, but my present to you is something I’d like everyone else to share, as well.”

  “Uh, no, of course not. What is it?”

  “A chance for a little rest and relaxation. I know the manager at Toranado’s, and I’ve booked us a table for New Year’s Day. Drinks and dinner . . . on me.”

  “Toranado’s,” Delko said. “Wow, that’s pretty upscale. Thanks, H.”

  “What I want to know,” Calleigh said, “is how he plans on getting all that food and drink into an evidence envelope.”

  Horatio put his hands on his hips. “Well, I could point out that the bill for this get-together will fit into the envelope quite nicely—but that wouldn’t really be fair. Instead, I think I’ll just pull rank . . .”

  “Works for me,” Delko said.

  “Don’t argue with the boss,” Wolfe said.

  “When he’s right, he’s right,” Calleigh added.

  “I’ll even let him pay for cab fare,” Alexx said.

  “Hey, I’m still learning the rules,” Natalia said.

  “All right then,” Horatio said. “Now that that’s settled, let’s all get back to work.”

  The Christmas Carnival party at the Byzantia had at least two uninvited guests: Ryan Wolfe and Frank Tripp. Wolfe had tried to convince Tripp to go home to spend the evening with his family, but the cop had insisted on coming along. “Where I come from, you dance with the one that brung you,” he’d said. “If you’re going to this shindig, I am, too.”

  Even though we don’t know what or who we’re looking for, Wolfe thought. Even though the place is already crawling with private security. Even though we don’t know if a crime is actually going to be committed.

  Still, Wolfe hadn’t really tried to argue with the stubborn Texan. He had the definite feeling that something was going to happen—and when it did, he’d appreciate having Frank Tripp covering his back.

  So far, though, all that had happened was a steady parade of wealthy people in expensive outfits, wandering from booth to booth, sipping holiday-themed drinks and munching on canapés.

  Wolfe eyed the Santa occupying the raised throne suspiciously. Keppler had insisted his background check had been clean, but at this point Wolfe would have preferred to ban all Santas on sheer principle. Santa seemed especially jolly tonight, probably because the people lining up to have their picture taken on his lap were mostly women in slinky dresses instead of screaming children.

  Tripp was making a circuit of the room while Wolfe stood by the door, and now he was back. He had a glass of eggnog in one hand.

  “How can you drink that stuff?” Wolfe said.

  “It’s nonalcoholic.”

  “Tell that to your arteries. It’s like flavored cholesterol.”

  Tripp took a long swallow. “Maybe so, but it tastes awful damn good to me. C’mon, Wolfe, loosen up. It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

  “Yeah, and I’m in Christmas Hell,” Wolfe muttered. “I think I’m developing an actual physical allergy to the color red.”

  “Yeah? Then Miss Farnsworth’s outfit must be giving you hives.”

  Anitra had shown up wearing an elegant gown covered in red sequins, with her hair piled up in an elaborate style and a dazzling necklace of emeralds around her throat. She was currently chatting with a well-known rapper, an NFL quarterback, and the lead in a sitcom that had just been canceled.

  “Looks like she’s adjusting pretty well,” Wolfe said. “Wonder where her daughter is, though.”

  “It’s getting pretty late. Probably put her to bed before she came down.”

  “That’s a shame. I mean, this is a little too much holiday cheer for me, but I bet a six-year-old would be in heaven.”

  “She’ll get her heaven tomorrow,” Tripp said. “Kids live for Christmas morning, and parents live for their kids. I’m sure the producers of Sudden Success will have a whole extravaganza set up, complete with cameras.”

  “Great. The commercialization of December twenty-fifth is complete. It’s not enough to sell us toys—now they can market the happiness generated by children getting toys.”

  “Long as the kids are happy, right?”

  “Yeah . . .” Wolfe frowned. “Something Anitra said about her daughter has been bugging me. Can you spare me for a minute? I want to run something down if I can.”

  “Knock yourself out. I’ll stand on guard against an aerial assault by the Frosty squadron.”

  Anitra had joined the line to see Santa. Wolfe paused to watch her plop herself down on his lap and throw her arms around him, laughing.

  “You know,” Tripp said, “I’m starting to think this was a big waste—”

  Abruptly, all the lights went out—

  “—of time,” he finished.

  “Emergency lights aren’t coming on,” Wolfe said. The room had gone completely silent for a second, but a murmur of voices was rapidly rising from the crowd of partygoers. “This is it, Frank. Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen now.”

  Wolfe moved to block the front door and shouted, “Everybody please stay calm! We’ll have the lights on in a moment, but I have to ask that everybody just stay put!”

  He pulled out a small flashlight and turned it on. Tripp was already speaking into a radio, calling for backup.

  “Don’t let anybody leave,” Wolfe said. “I’m going to see if I can find out what’s going on.” He slipped out the ballroom doors.

  The hall outside was almost as dark, but emergency exit lights cast a dim glow over doorways. Two Celebrus security men flanked the door; Wolfe pulled his badge and told them the same thing he’d told Tripp.

  It didn’t take him long to get to the lobby—the emergency lights were on there and in the stairwells. The Alexander Ballroom seemed to be the only place they hadn’t come on.

  The hotel manager, Fergusson, was at the front desk, talking in a low voice to the staff. No one was panicking, and the few guests in the lobby seemed more amused than frightened.

  “Officer Wolfe,” Fergusson said, recognizing him. “Can I have a word?”

  He pulled Wolfe aside and said in a quiet voice, “There was this muffled sound just before the power went out. Like an explosion underneath the hotel.”

  “You have an engineer on duty?”

  “No, he’s gone home. But I have master keys to every area.”

  “Take me to the electrical room,” Wolfe said.

  They used the stairs, going down several dimly lit flights and through a metal door that led to a service corridor. This wasn’t just backstage at the theater, Wolfe thought. This was down in the dusty, secret places below the footlights, the kind of catacombs the Phantom of the Opera liked to hang out in. These were the guts of the hotel, the internal workings of gas and water and electricity that kept its heart beating, its senses alert, its body warm.

  And now, it had an invader.

  The door into the electrical room had been forced open with a crowbar that lay inside. Acrid smoke hung in the air, making both of them cough, and what had once been a bank of equipment was now a charred, twisted ruin.

  “No alarms on the door?” Wolfe asked.

  Fergusson shook his head. “Not this far down. You need a passkey to get into this part of the basement.”

  “Well, someone managed to get in and do this. This was no industrial accident—that’s blast damage from an explosive device.”

  The lights flickered, then came back on. “Backup generator,” Fergusson said. “It’s located in another room. I sent someone to turn it on as soon as the power went out.”

  “This is a crime scene, now. And if I’m right, it’s not the only one in the hotel.”


  “Is this—is this a terrorist attack?” For the first time, Fergusson’s voice sounded nervous.

  “I don’t think so,” Wolfe said. “But as to what it is—I’m just as much in the dark as you are . . .”

  Horatio spent his Christmas Eve looking through photos. Not family pictures—shots of the crime scene at Abdus Sattar Pathan’s house. He was looking for ghosts.

  He studied the picture of Pathan’s bedroom for some time, looking for what wasn’t there. There was a small personal stereo, but no CDs, no tapes, no records. He used a magnifer to zoom in on the face of the stereo and identified which station it was tuned to—an all-talk format.

  The bathroom was next. He remembered the toothpicks, but now he noticed the absence of either toothpaste or a toothbrush.

  They’d inventoried all the items in the workshop and taken pictures of the props. Horatio went through them until he found what he was looking for: a deck of cards. The pack was closed, though, which was less than helpful. He thought for a moment, then looked up a number and made a call.

  “Hello, Mister Fresling? This is Lieutenant Caine. I’m sorry to bother you at home on Christmas Eve, but I have a quick question about the Brilliant Batin’s act. Did he use a standard deck of playing cards for any of his tricks?”

  Horatio listened to the answer.

  “Really. Had them specially made by your shop. And what was the pattern used? I see . . . thank you very much, Mister Fresling. Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  Horatio hung up. He knew something important now . . . but he still didn’t know what it meant.

  “We got one ticked-off group of people in that room,” Tripp said. He stood with his arms folded across his broad chest, standing outside the closed ballroom doors as if he were personally going to tackle anyone trying to leave. “One group of ticked-off, rich, and famous people—and not one of ’em wants to be locked in a ballroom on Christmas Eve.”

  “Just give me a second, Frank—I want to confirm something.”

  Wolfe slipped into the ballroom, where the guests had gone back to milling around and enjoying themselves as if nothing had happened. Most of them, anyway; a small group was clustered near the door, talking to Chuck Keppler. He was trying to explain to them why they couldn’t leave, and not doing a very good job.