Paul and Karen stayed until Tuesday night and then drove back to Albany. On Wednesday, a condolence card arrived from the office, along with a bouquet of flowers. Although the card was signed by almost everyone, Max didn’t read anyone’s note except Angela’s. It read: With My Deepest Sympathy, Angela
Gra go mor
What the fuck was with that, Greek or something?
Seeing her handwriting made Max suddenly desperate to see her in person. Again, he wanted to call her – just to hear her voice, that accent he loved, and hang up – but he knew that would be stupidest thing he could do. But he was becoming restless. He couldn’t wait to go back to work, to get back into the swing of things.
On Thursday, Berna, Max’s West Indian maid, came and scrubbed the wall and the floor in the downstairs hallway. A repairman came to fill in the bullet holes and now it was impossible to tell that anything had happened. Kamal had come back from India and on Thursday he came by to prepare Max’s macrobiotic meals for the next several days. He hadn’t heard anything about the murders. When Max told him he broke down crying.
Max hadn’t realized how close Kamal and Deirdre had become. Max had hired Kamal a couple of months ago, after he had been referred by the massage therapist at his health club. Kamal had often come to the house while Max was at work.
When Kamal was composed enough to speak he invited Max to come with him sometime to an ashram on the West Side to meditate. Max said he’d think about it, although he couldn’t imagine himself sitting in a lotus position and chanting like some hippie.
“Remember, people don’t die, because they aren’t born,” Kamal said. “Birth and death are merely illusions. All people and objects exist now and forever in the universal unconscious.”
Max stared at him, thinking, What a crock.
Max liked Kamal’s cooking and he thought he was a nice guy, but he decided that if kept forcing this religious crap on him the guy would be history.
On Friday, Max couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer. He took a cab to his gym in the Claridge House on Eighty-seventh and Third. He swam his usual forty laps, then sat in the steam room, reading The Wall Street Journal. After he showered, he weighed himself and was thrilled to see that he’d lost four pounds.
He had a relaxing weekend at home – eating Kamal’s food, taking short walks around the neighborhood. On Saturday – a gorgeous seventy-degree day – he walked to Central Park and sat for most of the afternoon on a bench in the shade, reading networking magazines, trying to keep up on new developments in the industry. There’d been nothing about the murder or the police investigation in the newspapers or on TV. Max remembered how Detective Simmons had promised to “be in touch soon” and now more than a week had gone by since the murder. While Max was glad that the story seemed to be fading, he didn’t like the way Detective Simmons was staying away from him. As he walked home from the park, Max had a funny feeling he was being watched.
Ten
Better not to begin. Once you begin, better to finish it.
Bobby was watching the girl with the blond hair and the big rack check into her room at the reception desk of the Hotel Pennsylvania. The way she kept looking around, twirling her hair with her index finger, Bobby could tell she was uptight about something. She was wearing lowslung jeans and a tight tube top and high heels. Bobby tried to imagine what she looked like naked and, man, he liked the picture that popped into his head. He wished he could whip his camera out right there. She had a slutty look to her, but there was something innocent about her, too, like she was afraid of something. She didn’t look like a hooker, but she definitely looked like a girl who was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.
As she walked past the table with the big arrangement of red flowers, Bobby wheeled across the lobby to the Bell Captain’s desk and said to Victor, “The girl near the elevator. Find out if she’s expecting anybody.”
Victor looked beyond the flow of people and said, “You mean the skinny chick with the knockers and the big hair? I never seen her before in my life.”
“I didn’t ask you if you’ve seen her before. I said find out if she’s expecting anybody.”
Victor went to the reception desk. A minute or two later he came back to Bobby and said, “She’s meeting her husband up there, they’re staying the night.”
“I’m going up,” Bobby said.
“You hear what I said? The girl’s married.”
“Married my gimp ass. She wasn’t wearing a rock – she had some other weird fucking ring on her finger.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s not married.”
“I’m telling you, there’s something going on with her.”
“Look, let’s just wait for a real escort to come along.”
Bobby, looking at Victor in that dorky bellhop uniform, wondering if something had really happened to the guy’s balls, if they fell off in the chemo or something, said, “Just get me the key to that girl’s room.”
“Come on,” Victor said. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Look, if this is gonna work you’re gonna have to trust me. You know I wouldn’t do anything stupid, right?”
“Hey, I’m not calling anybody stupid, but you said we were gonna go after pros.”
“I’m telling you, I have a hunch about this girl. She looked scared, the way she kept playing with her hair. If she’s not a pro, I bet she’s cheating on her old man or the guy’s cheating on his old lady. We could make a mint with one good picture. I know when something’s off and this smells to hog heaven, they’re cheating, on someone.”
“Whatever,” Victor said. “But I’m telling you – I think you’re making a big mistake.”
When Victor came back with a maid’s plastic keycard Bobby said, “So what name did they register under?”
“Brown,” Victor said.
“See? Now tell me that isn’t a bullshit name. I’m telling you, stick with me and you’re gonna go places.”
Bobby got off the elevator on the eighteenth floor. He wheeled himself one direction, took a few towels from a maid’s cart, then went back the other way to room 1812. He could hear Mr. Brown’s moaning from two doors away. Fuck, you could of heard him in Queens. After making sure the coast was clear, he slipped the keycard Victor had given him into the lock and slowly pushed the door open.
Room 1812 was long and narrow, with the bed against the wall at the far end. The light on the night table was on so Bobby had a clear view of the action, which was good because the light from the hallway didn’t make it too far into the room. Bobby went about halfway over the threshold and gently let the door rest against his chair. Then he raised his camera with a towel over it, the lens peeking out underneath.
Mr. and Mrs. Brown were going at it, but all the noise was coming from Mr. Brown – Mrs. Brown wasn’t making a peep. As Bobby snapped a few quick shots, he had a feeling that he knew Mr. Brown from somewhere. Then he remembered seeing him pass by in the lobby earlier in the night. But downstairs the guy had had curly blond hair and now he was nearly bald. He almost muttered, The fuck happened to you?
Mr. Brown must’ve heard the snapping camera or seen Bobby out of the corner of his eye because he looked up and after staring at Bobby for a couple of seconds said, “Hey, what the hell?”
Bobby let the corner of the towel drop over the camera’s lens.
“Jeez, I’m sorry, mister,” he said. “I’m really, really sorry. I just came to bring you your towels-”
“Get the fuck out of here!” Mr. Brown shouted.
Wheeling toward the bathroom, Bobby said, “It’ll only take a minute, mister. I gotta put fresh towels in every room two times a day or they get really mad at me-”