I took the Post-it note the clerk had given me, stuck it over the spy-hole on the Vivaldi Suite’s door, and rang the bell. I gave it three long blasts. Twenty seconds passed without a response. I was stretching out to try knocking when I heard footsteps approaching from inside the suite. They were heavy, but not hurried. Definitely one person. They lumbered closer, and stopped near to the door.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice said.
“Valet parking,” I said.
“What? Up here? Why?”
“Allow me to explain, sir. My name’s Ferguson. I’m the shift supervisor.”
“I don’t care what your name is. What do you want?”
“I’m afraid there’s been a slight problem. Are you the driver of a dark blue Cadillac?”
“You moron. What have you fools done to my car?”
“We parked it, sir.”
“Have you damaged it?”
“No, sir. Not at all. In fact, the car’s as stunningly immaculate as the day it left the factory, I would imagine.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“It’s one of our valets, sir. Señor Benitez. It seems he hurt his back in some sort of key-dropping incident. Threw out a disk, in all likelihood. Not a good prognosis, I’m afraid. He may be unable to continue in his job. His future earning potential may be severely curtailed.”
“Who cares? Why are you wasting my time with crap about this guy?”
“Because, sir, he doesn’t feel the situation that led to his injury came about entirely by accident.”
“Why’s that my problem?”
“Well, his current recollection is that the driver of the Cadillac dropped the keys on purpose. That would be you, sir. So he’s looking for some kind of compensation from you. And if none is forthcoming, he’s talking about involving the police.”
“What? No way. Nothing happened.”
“Señor Benitez has secured CCTV footage of the whole affair, sir. From both of the cameras under the front canopy. They leave no doubt as to what transpired.”
“What, maybe. But not who. It wasn’t me. And there’s no need for any police.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir. And I thought you might feel that way. That’s why I’m here. To see if we can find some way of discouraging that particular course of action.”
“Bring the guy up here. I’ll discourage him. Permanently.”
“I’m sure you could do that, sir. But I think there might be a simpler way.”
“Like what?”
“Perhaps a more transaction-oriented solution, if you see what I mean, sir? One that would draw less unwelcome attention from the authorities.”
“You’re trying to shake me down? Seriously?”
“Not at all, sir. Just trying to help. That’s how we do things in Chicago.”
The guy didn’t reply.
“Obviously there’s no obligation to accept my proposal, sir,” I said. “But if you do decide to go with the police option, I have one request. On behalf of the hotel manager, actually. Do you think you could allow yourself to be arrested somewhere else? Handcuffs and night-sticks are not consistent with the image we try to propagate here at the Ritz-Carlton.”
Silence.
“Why don’t I give you some time to mull things over?” I said. “But not too much. Señor Benitez will be making the call in ten minutes, if we haven’t heard anything. I’ll be outside, at the valet desk if you need me. Good afternoon, sir.”
“Wait,” he said. “Give me a second.”
I said nothing.
“Are you there?” he said. “Hang on a minute. Let’s talk about this.”
I heard the security chain rattling against the inside of the frame. The guy must have disengaged it. And before it could stop swinging I reached out and took hold of the handle. Lightly at first, so that he wouldn’t realize what I was doing. I let him open the door an inch without resisting. Then I pulled against him, stopping the gap from growing any wider. He grunted and started tugging harder. I matched his efforts, waited till he was heaving like crazy, then suddenly let go. The door gave way instantly and the guy collapsed backward, losing his footing. I followed straight after him into the suite’s entrance corridor, getting a good look at him for the first time since he left the Commissariat. He was one of the guys from the club, all right. But not the one who’d ambushed Young. And he was already trying to sit up. His right hand was reaching under his hoodie as he moved. I couldn’t allow that, so I crashed the ball of my foot into his jaw. He went down again, this time spinning around and ending up sprawled out on his face, not moving.
I looked down the length of the corridor. No one else had appeared. It was a safe bet that the other two from the Cadillac were in the suite somewhere. And possibly more who hadn’t been with them at the club. I couldn’t run the risk of the first guy coming around and popping up behind me—or maybe getting to McIntyre before me, if he was being held there—so I leaned down and put my right knee between his shoulder blades. I slid my left arm under his chin and took hold of his right ear. My right hand gripped his other ear. I glanced up once more to check we were still alone. And twisted. Sharply. The guy’s neck rotated through a full ninety degrees. Then I rolled him over and took the Browning pistol he’d been hiding in his waistband.
The corridor gave way to four rooms. There were two on each side. The first on the left was a bedroom. I checked behind the door, under both king-sized beds, inside all four wardrobes, and in the en suite bathroom. No one was hiding there. The door opposite led to another, identical bedroom. I found no one there, either. Next on the left was a small kitchen. It held plenty of high-gloss white cabinets and stainless appliances, but no people. Or gas canisters. My options were narrowing. It meant any remaining hostiles would be in the same place, so picking them off one at a time as I preferred would be a little harder than usual.
I took a used wineglass from the sink and moved into the corridor. I positioned myself next to the final door—on the hinge side—and lobbed the glass back into the kitchen. It spun twice as it sailed through the air, then hit the granite countertop near the far wall and disintegrated into a million tiny fragments.
“Sidney?” a man’s voice from the room behind me said. “You OK?”
I kept quiet.
“Sidney?” the man said. “That you?”
I groaned, long and loud.
I heard footsteps. They were running. Again, only one set. The door opened beside me and a man burst through. I recognized him from the Commissariat, as well. He’d been in the group I saw walk in, not the one hiding in the women’s bathroom. He headed straight past me, running for the kitchen. For a second that left his back exposed to me. It would have been foolish to try to physically subdue him when he had at least one accomplice only a few feet away, so I did the sensible thing. Raised the 9 mm I’d just inherited, and shot him. Twice. In the back of the head. Then I spun around the door, needing to bring the Browning to bear before anyone on the other side could get wind of what was going on.
The final room was a combined sitting and dining area. The nearer half of the floor was finished in wood veneer. It held a large oval table, and was lit by a grotesque triple-tier crystal chandelier. Formal chairs were spaced out evenly all the way around it. There were eight. All were empty. So were three of the brown leather couches that were scattered asymmetrically in the carpeted half of the room. But the fourth, positioned opposite a huge wall-mounted flat-screen TV, was occupied. By one man. The guy who’d butchered Gary Young. His hand was on the grip of another pistol, which was still only halfway clear of his waistband. And the look on his face told me he knew it was too late to change that.