“Enlighten me, please,” Brooks interrupted.
“Once the TITO insiders switched to a buddy system,” Lotello answered, “it would have become easier for the perp to continue damaging TITO by switching to an outsider TJ participant, a further means to an end. In fact, given the board’s vote last night not to be transparent, switching to an unalerted outsider, whose family could bring a wrongful death claim against TITO, would be even more harmful to TITO than pursuing an additional insider.”
“Quite so,” Brooks acknowledged, resuming control of the discussion. “And once we begin this kind of analysis, we are met with even more conjecture and uncertainty. As I said, how do we know that all of our quote victims are true victims and that one or more of them is not simply acting in complicity with his or her supposed assailant?”
Lotello nodded. “Okay, I think we’re now caught up and together. You’ve convinced me that we know a lot less than I thought we did. So, what now?” Lotello asked.
Brooks smiled but only to himself. Okay, Detective, you are now where I arrived last night, after a little gentle help from Eloise. Now, we begin again. “One step backwards and two steps forward. I submit that knowing what we don’t know is far superior to thinking we know more than we do. At least now we can go back to the beginning, ask the right questions, and see where that gets us.”
BUT FOR THE ENDING, I’ve had the story concept more or less in place for over a year. The perfect crime! I tried the concept out at Pitch Gala a year ago. Nothing. Not a nibble. Not one invitation to submit the manuscript, or even a sample of the manuscript. I pitched it again here this year. Same result. I don’t get it! It’s a great premise. It works for me. They’ll see I’m right. They’ll be sorry they missed out!
BROOKS SUGGESTED THAT HE and Lotello begin with the three insiders. “First, are they alive or are they dead? Second, is that answer the same for all three of them? Third, as to any of them who are alive, where are they and are they being held against their will or are they collaborating with their supposed assailant? Fourth, do Mr. Connor’s missing syringes and vials have any bearing on the answers to any of these first three questions? Fifth, what might the motive be underlying their disappearance? If any of our insiders are cooperating, the motive must be to harm TITO and not the missing insiders, and thus Mr. Enright does not represent an additional motive.”
“I don’t have the answers,” Lotello said, “but I think I can narrow the field somewhat, at least as a matter of logic and experience.”
“I’m all ears,” Brooks responded.
“I have no idea whether they are alive or dead, but to the extent any of them are dead, given that no bodies have turned up so far, it is unlikely that we will find their bodies before TJ ends, if ever,” Lotello said. “If they’re alive, it is likely that they are still on the island, being hidden somewhere or hiding somewhere. No one left the island using their passports and visas. We know that because we checked. This would mean that they would have had to leave using false papers. However, to what end? These are prominent people. It is unimaginable that they would voluntarily desire or agree to permanently assume new identities.”
“You’re the homicide investigator. I have no experience on which to question your statement about any bodies suddenly turning up. I also agree with your logic that they have not left the island. But then where would they be?”
“It’s unlikely that they’re hiding somewhere in the hotel,” Lotello said.
“Why do you say that?” Brooks asked. “You and I are each employing multiple identities and rooms here in the hotel.”
“Yes, but we have hotel management and security helping us. They don’t. It would be harder for them to arrange that,” said Lotello.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” said Brooks. “All they would have had to do is book an extra suite in advance under one or more false names and have false passports to check in to the extra quarters. They might not even need false papers if they found a scoundrel hotel employee to overlook the absence of papers at check in.”
“In theory, perhaps,” Lotello resisted, “but not likely. My best guess is that if they’re alive, and cooperating, they’re somewhere on the island outside the hotel and its grounds. I’ll ask hotel security this morning to run an inventory to eliminate any possibility that any of our three insiders are anywhere in the hotel or on the hotel grounds. I don’t think that should take more than a couple of hours. I will also see if hotel security can unofficially check the island beyond the hotel, although that’s probably not realistic, at least not in any reliable sense of the word.”
“That brings us to Mr. Enright,” Brooks said. “Unless he is cooperating with his assailant, regardless of the motive, his prognosis is not good.”
“I’ll make sure that hotel security is also looking for Enright at the same time as they are for our three TITO celebrities,” Lotello said, “but I agree with you that Enright’s outlook is probably bleak.”
Maybe yes, maybe no, Brooks thought to himself. I still can’t get over the way Enright came up behind me. If I were a betting man, and someone at TJ was in cahoots with the killer, my money’d be on Enright.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Day Four, 7:30 a.m.
BREAKFAST ON MY BALCONY. Reading what will soon become a New York Times number one bestselling novel. My own, of course.
REDRESS
A Novel
By Terrence Hawke
Chapter One
I’m a writer. I write novels. Damn fine ones. Well written. Suspenseful whodunnits that keep people turning the pages and afraid to turn out the lights at nighttime.
People would love my novels. Absolutely love them. If only they had a chance to read them. But they don’t get a chance to read them. That’s because the powerful people who control the literary world won’t give me a chance. To be read. To be heard. They won’t because they know that if people read my novels, I’ll outshine everyone else.
So they conspire to hold me back. To hold me down. All the literary agents. All the publishing houses. All the publicists. All the writing conferences in my genre. So they can keep on enjoying all the spoils. All the riches. All the fame. All for them. None for me.
But I’ll show them. Yes I will. I’m gonna get even. Teach them a lesson for raining on my parade.
Right now. Right this week. They’re all together. At their famous one week writing conference. I’m going to pick them off. One at a time. Those who’ve rejected me. And I’m gonna destroy their precious conference too. That perpetuates their own self-serving schemes and scams. They’ll all play right into my hands. Just like putty. Like putty in my hands. When they read my story. My novel. Not about me. Not my story in that sense. But the story I’ve written. My novel. REDRESS. What a great title.
And when they read REDRESS, they’ll have no choice but to recognize me for the creative genius that I am. That this novel is pure genius. Really could happen. Did happen. Just the way I’ve written it. That’s when I’ll get my just dues. My … redress.
Chapter Two
I’m gonna start with that literary agent. Gina Lomax. The one who just also happens to be a member of the board of directors of the organization that sponsors the conference we’re all attending. The one that just happens to promote and show off Ms. Prissy Literary Agent. Isn’t that just so convenient.
Gina Lomax. The number one world famous literary agent who can’t tell a good manuscript when she sees one. Who couldn’t recognize how great REDRESS is. The one who’s gonna be teaching an all-day course on how to write a successful novel, no less! Well, you know the old saying. Those who can do, do. Those who can’t, teach.
I knocked at the door of her remote casita. Given the hour, I expected it to startle her. I’d know soon enough. “Business Center, Ms. Lomax. Special Delivery package for you.”
“Okay. Just a moment,” Lomax replied.
When she opened the door, there I was in my bright and shiny bellhop uniform. The one with the
gloves. I felt the fool, but it didn’t matter. Lomax hadn’t ever met me. Probably never gave REDRESS more than a cursory look. If that. Because, hey, this author’s just a no-name. For now.
If the knock at the time startled her, it didn’t show. Her focus was on the envelope in my left hand. She never saw the hammer in my right hand. Until it caught her on the left side of her head. She went down like a ton of bricks. Before she could utter a sound.
She was out cold. I bent down and checked her pulse. There wasn’t one. Well that was easy enough. Didn’t even have to use the knife in my pocket to cut her carotid artery. Not even any blood to clean up.
I went out and checked around the path from her casita down to the water. Not a person in sight. Not that I expected anyone at this hour. I carried her out to the dinghy I had dragged up onto the sand. The one that already had two picnic baskets full of rocks and rope on board. I tossed her body in the dinghy, started the outboard engine, and headed out away from the shoreline.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Weighed down by the rock laden picnic baskets tied to the corpse, Lomax was at the bottom of the bay, the dinghy was back at the rental facility, I had disposed of the bellhop uniform and gloves, and I was reading a great novel. REDRESS. Until I floated off to sleep. Dreaming about who would be next. Soon.
GREAT STORY. COULD SIT around reading it all day. Even though I already know how it ends. Ah, but duty calls.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Day Four, 8:00 a.m.
BROOKS SURVEYED THE BALLROOM. As much as his insatiable thirst to learn new things, in this case how he might write a novel, Thriller Jubilee had lost all of its charm and all of its hold on him. How am I supposed to be concentrating on what these speakers will be imparting in just a moment or two when I know there may be a killer sitting right here in this room, right now, making ready to carry out the next step in his insidious plot?
He had surrendered his coveted third row seat to instead take a seat in the last row where he had a better vantage point to spot anything out of the ordinary. He noticed Hart and Lewis standing at the back of the ballroom. He had nothing tangible to report to them after the board’s disappointing vote the evening before, but wasn’t about to surrender his civility. “Good morning folks. I daresay, the two of you are looking quite chipper this morning, all things considered.”
Lewis smiled weakly. Hart was only slightly more responsive. “Good morning, Judge. Lisa and I both urged TITO to advise all of our registrants everything we know this morning, but to no avail. Ours was not the prevailing sentiment. In keeping with tradition, we close ranks; on votes of importance such as this, our votes always become quote unanimous, if only in form. It would hardly do for us to be seen moping. All we can do is carry on, keep a stiff upper lip and our fingers crossed, and hope that we get through today without further incident. What are you and Lotello up to this morning?”
“The detective is afoot,” Brooks answered vaguely. “As for me, I’m here because I feel obliged to do something, to hope that I might observe anything unusual.” Not wanting to prolong the inexplicable strain between the two of them that he was sensing, Brooks wandered off and found a seat. I sure hope Lotello’s morning is proving more productive than mine, at least so far.
YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ME, Brooksie. Neither is that security officer who’s not taking his eyes off of you. He’d better not.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Day Four, 9:30 a.m.
LOTELLO WAS NURSING HIS second cup of coffee. He had been waiting for what seemed like forever for the hotel’s management to complete its audit of every room in the hotel. It had actually taken only two hours—not bad considering the number of rooms in the hotel. They had confirmed that every single room was accounted for. Lasko, Llewellyn, and Simpson were not hiding anywhere in the hotel or on the hotel grounds. Neither was Enright. Security also corroborated what Lotello already knew: there was no reliable way to search the remainder of the island for any of the missing individuals.
He needed a different approach. He thought about the syringes and vials that had conveniently vanished from Connor’s room before he could pursue them. What tipped Connor off? Told him to move his stash? Where’s he hiding it now? The stuff could be anywhere. Anywhere with a refrigerator. That didn’t narrow the field much. All of the hotel rooms here come with mini-bars. Shit! He continued pondering matters until, out of nowhere, one indelible image popped into his mind: Wynonna Grey, looking up at Lotello from her wheelchair. Did her MS cause her to self-medicate? By injection?
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Day Four, 9:45 a.m.
SITTING AT THE CONFERENCE table in his room, Connor had just finished looking at the draft website Lonergan had put together for Grey. “That’s terrific, Eileen,” Connor said. I had no idea you could build something like this on the fly here on Punta Maya. How were you able to do that?”
“No more difficult than if I were back in my office at home,” Lonergan said. “Most of my templates are on my laptop. The underlying architecture is accessible online from virtually anywhere in the world. What do you think, Wynonna?”
Across the table, Grey looked on as Lonergan scrolled through the pages once more. “I think it looks wonderful,” she said. “You’ve captured my personality beautifully. Are others able to see this yet?”
“Not yet. This is still password protected,” Lonergan answered. “Right now, only the three of us can see it. Just our private little sandbox, as web designers refer to a private website in development. But I can remove the password and make it live in a matter of minutes. As soon as you give me the okay, Wynonna.”
“I’m ready,” Grey said. “I know enough to know how important the visibility of this website is going to be in terms of establishing my brand and publicizing my almost finished novel. I can just feel what a great first step the launch of this website is going to be for my career.”
“Exactly,” Lonergan chimed in.
Connor, however, was not ready. “Wait up, ladies, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I don’t think you want your website to go public until your novel is ready to be released, Wynonna. You’re not quite there yet.” More precisely, I’m not there yet. But I will be soon. “For now, let’s just keep this our little secret.”
“Whatever you say, Jonathan,” Grey quickly responded. “You know best.”
LONERGAN WAS OUT OF sorts as she left Connor’s room. “Wonder why,” she mouthed softly to herself, “she didn’t call him ‘Jon.’”
WELL, ISN’T SHE JUST the observant one? Even spoken softly, my eavesdrop app worked like a charm.
LOTELLO HAD DIALED GREY’S room twice. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he didn’t know what else to try. He went to her room and knocked on her door. No answer. Hell, she could still be sleeping or in the shower. She could be in any number of morning conference sessions. Or just having breakfast. He was mad at himself for not questioning her further when they first met. It was the wheelchair. It intimidated me, put me off my game. Damn!
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Day Four, 10:00 a.m.
BROOKS WAS LOSING HIS patience. My God, another hour, another conference. There must be something more useful I can do. What might Mr. Connor have done with those syringes and vials Frank first unearthed in Connor’s hotel suite? Destroyed them? If so, they’re gone, nothing to be done about it. But such material is not likely discretionary, no matter the unknown purpose. Hmm, if I were a syringe and vial, where would I be hiding in wait for my next engagement?
Without warning, Brooks jumped to his feet and barreled out of the conference room, distracting many around him to be visibly distracted by his abrupt departure. Couldn’t be helped. What counts is that my security detail is still with me. “Tell me, my good man,” he asked his security detail, “where are people in the hotel brought who suddenly take ill?”
“To the hotel infirmary.”
“And where would that be?” Brooks asked.
The security
officer answered, pointing the way.
“Follow me, Señor,” Brooks shouted louder than necessary. He sped off down the corridor without waiting for the shadow security assigned to him. Harrumph, the man seems to have no idea how to move when time is of the essence.
Three minutes later, breathing a little on the heavy side, Brooks burst into the infirmary, his security operative bringing up the rear. “Refrigerator,” Brooks shouted to the nurse.
Her eyes followed him subtly, as if he might be somewhat crazed. The involuntary shift of her eyes gave her away. Brooks moved toward the object of his onslaught.
The nurse was quicker. She beat Brooks to the refrigerator and blocked his path.
“Stand down, Madam,” Brooks ordered. “Be quick about it. Not another moment’s delay.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” the nurse insisted. “Only authorized personnel have access to the icebox.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Brooks turned to his security detail. Words were not necessary. His look said it all.
It was enough. The icebox was open. In a matter of minutes, a collection of syringes and vials labeled the property of a person unknown to the nurse was identified. Further investigation would reveal that such supposed person was neither an employee of nor a registered guest at the hotel.
“I need to know the contents of these vials. Pronto!” Brooks demanded.
By now, the nurse knew not to quarrel with this crazy American. “Si, Señor, but it will take some time.”
“Yes, of course, but why, then, are you just standing there?”
Brooks-Lotello Collection Page 88
