Blood and murder, sex and politics. One fine stew, you must admit.
And Dorsey, with her millions and her marriage proposal. I could almost hear her saying, “Let me take you away from all this.”
The unshaven mug in the mirror stared back at me.
Dorsey obviously had lots on her mind when she opened the door. Yet she took one look at me and her nose wrinkled. “Did you sleep in those clothes?”
“I’ve been working all night.”
“Strip. I’ll send everything to the laundry on an emergency cleaning order. They’ll have them back in an hour or two. Then get in the shower.”
It was an offer too good to pass up. I went into the bathroom and stripped to the skin, piled wallet, cell phone, keys, 38 revolver, and ankle holster on the counter, and dumped my clothes in the hallway. I could hear her on the phone to room service.
The shower was running and the bathroom steamy when I heard the door open. I peeked around the curtain. She was examining my pile of hardware on the counter. “Uh-uh. Leave that stuff alone.”
“Do you always wear a pistol?”
“Only on duty.” I had forgotten to leave it in the van, where I stored it prior to my last tryst with Dorsey.
She took her clothes off. It always amazed me how fast she could strip for action. Then she asked, “Do you have room for one more?”
It was a big shower. After all, this was a big hotel, with big prices.
She tried to get me excited, but I guess I was too tired. I nearly yawned in her face. The downside was that I could tell she was working at it. We turned the shower off and toweled dry, and I grabbed my stuff. Put the watch on the bedside table and the rest under the pillow on the bed and crawled in. She got in beside me, I think, but I was asleep before she got settled.
Knocking on the door awakened me. I heard Dorsey’s voice at the door, then silence. I checked my watch. A little after two in the afternoon, and I felt a lot better.
She came into the bedroom with my clothes on hangers and my underwear and socks in a brown paper bag. “See,” she said brightly, “the system works.”
She was wearing a frilly thing with a matching robe. Her hair was piled up on top of her head.
Dorsey O’Shea, sexy half-billionaire, sat on the bed and kissed me gently on the lips, then licked my lips with her tongue. I caught the scent of something expensive.
The thought occurred to me that I was in the same bed where Dell Royston got laid in four minutes a mere twelve hours ago, which took some of the luster off the moment.
“I love you,” she whispered.
No doubt ol’ Willie Varner was all ears out in the van. It takes talent for a man to get himself in fixes like this, and by God, I have it.
A man with more character might have handled this situation differently, but I figured I would probably never pass this way again. Although she was in this mess to her eyes, I really didn’t believe she meant me any harm. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her across me into bed.
A half hour later as she nibbled on my ear, she murmured, “So have you been thinking?”
“It would never work, you and me.”
She stopped the nibbling, put her face inches from mine, stared into my eyes. “I want to go away. Now. Today. As quickly as we can pack. Anywhere on earth you want to go. I want to go with you, Tommy.”
“You don’t need to be rescued,” I muttered.
“How would you know what I need?” The muscles were drawn taut in her face. She wasn’t pretty now. “Do I have to beg?”
“Don’t. It wouldn’t become you.”
“What’s wrong with me?” She sat up. “Aren’t I good enough for you?”
“Please, don’t do this. You’re a wonderful person — don’t do this to yourself or me.”
She leaped from the bed, went to the dresser, and jerked open the drawer. Took out a bra and put it on. Then panties. She was in a hurry, and she was angry. Not furious or spiteful, but deeply angry. At least I thought so at the time.
I got up and began dressing, too.
She grabbed clothes from the closet and stormed into the bathroom.
I took the time to examine her pillow. I found a couple of long dark hairs, which I put in my wallet.
She was crying when she came from the bathroom wearing a cocktail dress.
“Hey,” I said.
“Oh, Tommy, when I really need you, you say no.”
“It takes more than need to make a marriage. It takes love.”
“We could love each other. My God, when I think of you, I — we could—”
“Did Royston ask you to do this?”
That stopped her tears. She looked at me hard, then said, “Go. Please.”
I pulled on my sports coat, debated if I should try to kiss her, and decided against it. I put my hands on her shoulders, and she tried to pull away. I held her still.
“There are bodies scattered all over,” I said, watching her eyes. “Dell Royston is in this up to his neck. I don’t know how or why, but I’m going to find out. If you have any role at all in whatever has happened or is going to happen, you better make like a rabbit. Go as far away as you can as fast as you can and change your name. Or trust me and tell me what you know.”
I couldn’t read the muscle movements I saw in her face, around her eyes.
“Please go, Tommy,” she said, so I did.
I wondered if I would ever see her again.
Jake Grafton’s cell phone rang while he was fixing a late lunch for himself and Mikhail Goncharov. Callie had gone to the library. Standing in the kitchen amid the sandwich makings, he opened the phone.
“Grafton.”
“It’s the way we figured,” the man’s voice said. “The Brits say they can’t find anything along the lines we talked about. Everyone in the files has a code name, the dates are coded, some of the files are nearly incomprehensible. They really need the archivist to explain what they’re seeing.”
“I see.”
“Jake, the bottom line is they can’t find it. If it’s there to be found.”
“Okay.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. How long do I have?”
“The FBI is chomping at the bit. They have bodies scattered from hell to breakfast, and they’ve been stonewalling Justice. I can’t hold these people off much longer.”
“I understand. I’ll call you back.”
He watched Goncharov eat his ham and Swiss on rye. Watched his face, his hands, his mannerisms. Wondered what he was thinking.
Callie returned as he rinsed the dishes. She came in, said hello to Goncharov in Russian, and handed Jake an envelope. He ripped it open, examined the faxed photograph. The quality wasn’t perfect, but the faces were recognizable.
“Ask Goncharov if he has ever seen this man or knows who he is.”
Callie handed the Russian the page and translated the question.
Jake saw the recognition in his eyes.
Yes!
Words were gushing from the archivist when the telephone rang again. Jake glanced at the number, then opened it.
“Yes, Tommy.”
It was nearly five o’clock when I got back to the van. Willie gave me a long look but said nothing. That I found hard to take.
“What’s eating you?” I asked. He had the convention on the monitor, video without sound. Some politician I didn’t recognize was pounding the podium.
“You.”
“Right.”
“I thought I knew what was goin’ down, but then you have that little conversation with Dorsey this afternoon and the thought crosses my dishonest mind that I don’t know shit.”