“How, Mr. Heyton?” Rollin asked quickly.
He almost couldn’t hack out the next words. “I put it in a dumpster at a convenience store. I don’t know which one. It was still dark.”
Right now the tick of his phony Rolex sounded like crowbars clanging together.
Rollin and Franco remained silent for several moments, then Heyton nearly shrieked when the door barged open and in walked another cop, bull-shouldered, forearms stout as softball bats.
“We didn’t find anything, sir, except these.”
The cop placed a stack of magazines before Rollin’s gaze.
When it rains, it fucking pours, Heyton thought.
Glossy pages flittered; Rollin thumbed through a few of them. “Natal Attraction, Mr. Heyton? Buns In The Oven?”
Something like a psychic hydraulic press began to crush him. “It’s not against the law to have those,” was all Heyton could say. “But I’m pretty sure it is against the law to search someone’s luggage without their consent.”
The brawny cop flapped the warrant in his face. “Not with one of these.”
“Take this shit away,” Rollin said. “Put it back in Mr. Heyton’s suitcase. He’s right. Possession of this type of pornography is not unlawful, and we shouldn’t make judgments. It’s not our job.”
Heyton was vibrating with adrenalin. “Lieutenant, I swear to God, I didn’t cause that girl’s miscarriage, and for God’s sake, I didn’t—” He gulped something large as a rock—“I didn’t molest the fetus. I admit I’ve got this weird attraction to pregnant women, but I never do anything bad to them, and I’d never think of hurting them, and good God Almighty do you really think that I could do something that sick?”
Rollin began to lose some of his rigidity, to either fatigue or tedium. “Actually, Mr. Heyton, no. I don’t think for a minute that you could do something like that. In my time, I’ve busted plenty of people who are that sick in the head—and sicker. But you’re not it, not even close.”
Heyton wanted to cry…or just keel over.
The lieutenant went on, “You got some kinky thing for pregnant women? That’s pretty fucked up if you ask me, but, hey—that’s just me. And you’re right, that girl probably is off her rocker. But I have to know for sure before I walk out of here. You follow me?”
“Of course.”
“Come on.” Rollin stood up. “Let’s get Mr. Heyton back to his conference with our apologies.”
Heyton walked out rubber-kneed. Oh my dear God, thank you…
They moved down the hall. “Your story didn’t exactly wash like the cleanest laundry,” Rollin said ahead of him, “but neither did hers. Sometimes people just aren’t what they seem.”
Heyton felt an inner groan from the choice of words.
“The dead fetus in the garbage? You’re gonna have to write up a full statement on that, and we’ll have to run it by the district attorney’s office.”
“I understand,” Heyton stammered.
“But they’ll blow it off. You got no priors, you got no record, plus you’re a respected business man. And they won’t bother prosecuting you for solicitation because there’s no evidence the girl’s a hooker. Only thing the D.A.’ll make you do is fly back to St. Petersburg in a month or so for an inquest and hearing.”
Fate kept throwing him gifts now. The fear had been enough, and the guilt. I’m not bullshitting you, God, he prayed. I really have learned my lesson…
“Just let this be a lesson to you.” It was Rollin again. “Don’t pick up hookers—ever. It might seem like a victimless crime to most people but, trust me, it’s not. Guys like you get their throats cut by junkies, pimps, and whores every day of the week. It’s not your world, Mr. Heyton, so stay out of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The main conference hall was packed now, milling with dozens of police chiefs and technical advisors. Heyton noticed with some satisfaction that all of his product brochures had been taken while his competitors still had plenty.
“We’ll be out of your hair in a minute, Mr. Heyton,” Rollin said.
But Heyton was confused. Why’d they even come back in here? he wondered. Rollin approached his place at the table.
“What’s, uh, what’s going on?”
Franco answered. “The lieutenant’s just gotta check one thing, then we’ll be out of here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just a precaution. The girl was right about the roofies in your wallet—”
“No, no, look, I told you, she planted it while I was knocked out—”
Franco smiled. “Relax, Mr. Heyton. We know that. But we just have to be sure.”
More unease spilled into Heyton’s gut. “About what?”
“She also said you took something.”
Heyton blinked. “Huh?”
Rollin was unzipping Heyton’s briefcase, opening it on the table. It was the wider type, one section filled by his laptop, another section for papers, and a side compartment for computer accessories.
“Just my laptop and work folders,” Heyton said, mystified. Franco’s comment pecked at him. What are they looking for? More drugs?
Rollin un-velcro’d the side compartment. That’s where Heyton kept his power cord and trackball.
He squinted.
The cord and trackball were gone, a crumpled plastic bag in their place. Heyton had no idea what it was, and was certain he hadn’t put it there…
Rollin opened the bag—
“What the HELL is that?” someone hollered.
Rollin’s face melded into a rictus. Several other chiefs leaned over and looked in, then turned away pale.
“God in Heaven!” someone else shouted.
Then someone else actually screamed.
After the first flash of shock, Franco had his gun to Heyton’s head. “You sick piece of shit…”
Pandemonium broke out, the room going deafening. Rollin’s jaw seemed unhinged when he turned to re-face Heyton.
“You’re going to pay for this, Mr. Heyton…”
One peek in the bag was all Heyton got—and all he needed—before he was slammed face-first to the wall, man-handled, and cuffed.
Heyton could not comprehend this, even though he’d seen it with his own eyes. Elbow jabs and discreet kidney-punches jolted him, and the cuffs were tightened like jaws. “Get that monster out of here,” he heard Rollin groan over the rising din, and as he was dragged out, his own thoughts finally registered: Oh my God the crazy psycho bitch had twins…
Room 415
When Flood saw the naked woman in the window, he froze. He stood poised as a mannequin in the dark, lit cigarette in hand. Excitement flashed, first in his heart, then his groin. It was the spontaneity, he knew, the total surprise. From this angle (Flood was on the fifth floor, the woman down on the fourth) he couldn’t see her face. Just a blur of shiny, ink-black hair, a flash of white breasts as she turned. Now she stood back to window; his eyes locked on the lines of her shoulders, waist, hips. A perfect snow-white rump. At first he thought she must be wearing a white bikini, until a maintained stare revealed stark tanlines. Another sun bunny, Flood thought. After that first second of reaction, he shrugged, uninterested. Why bother even looking? he told himself. What’s the point?
But he kept looking anyway. Was it boredom? Or hope?
A sheer, salmon-pink curtain billowed out the window. Flood’s eyes remained on the buttocks and its perfect cleft, yet peripheral detail indicated that she was talking to someone. To her right, an unmade bed. Flood rubbed his crotch through boxer shorts—who could see? It would at least be nice to get a look at the rest of her, he complained. God, nature, or the universe could be mockingly cruel. The only reason he’d risen from bed and come to the window at all was to smoke. His secretary had booked him a non-smoking room, so he puffed before his own open window. He’d turned the a/c off; as a Seattlite, warm breezes coming off the water were a luxurious novelty, and so were all the inordinately attractive women he’d seen thus far walking down the streets, sitting in bars, and even shopping in grocery stores in string bikinis. Bikinis here seemed as commonplace as frumpish denim ankle-skirts and flannel blouses were on women in the Northwest. Flood didn’t expect such a personal reaction. He’d traveled to cities all over the country whose women clearly outshone Seattle stock as far as looks were concerned. His boss, in fact, always bewailed sending him on these marketing trips, with comments like, “Sometimes it really sucks being the president of a big company, Jake.” “Why?” “Because I gotta stay here and run the show, and send you guys to all these fancy hotels full of gorgeous babes.”