“I agree something’s up,” I say. “But not that. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Bring a strip steak.”
Moments later, she sees me coming and pops out from her spot in the cubby. Normally I’d head straight for Sam’s door, but hotel guests are walking up and down the hall, entering and exiting rooms.
“Has it been this busy all afternoon?”
“Off and on.”
“Feast or famine?”
“Don’t say feast to a starving woman.”
I enter the little cubical where she spent all those hours. It’s basically a small room without a door that contains a standard ice machine, and nothing else. The front of the machine has an opening for your ice bucket. You set it there, press the button, ice falls into the bucket. I notice a drain under the opening where the bucket sits.
I carefully inspect the metal below the opening, then sniff the drain, and look at Callie with curiosity.
She gives me a condescending look and shakes her head as if to say she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and can’t believe it.
“I’ve got to know,” I say.
“Of course you do.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re not getting off that easy. Ask the complete question out loud, so you can hear how immature you sound to me.”
“Fine. How did you pee all this time? You couldn’t have come prepared.”
“I always come prepared.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Open your purse.”
“Our generation calls this a handbag.”
“Whatever.”
She opens her handbag. I glance through it and find no cups, mugs, jars or containers of any kind. I do see her gun. I return the pretty lady’s purse before the guy coming toward us with the ice bucket sees me holding it.
He gets his ice, trying desperately not to stare at Callie. I can tell he’s curious about the two of us standing by the ice cubby without buckets. This is where I’d normally expect some hero wannabe to ask, “Miss? Is this man bothering you?”
But he doesn’t. Just gets his ice and leaves.
“I don’t get it,” I say, waiting for him to enter his room and close the door.
She says, “You’re still dwelling on the pee thing?”
“Of course. How’d you do it?”
“How would you have peed?”
“I’m a guy.”
“Exactly. But you still have to say it.”
“Why?”
“Because this is your conversation topic, not mine.”
I shrug. “I would have whipped it out and peed directly into the drain below the ice dispenser.”
“Of course you would.”
“So?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“A drain’s a drain.”
“Spoken like a guy who probably pees in the shower.”
Ignoring her comment, I say, “So how did you manage it?”
She reaches in her purse and removes a tiny little silver…what’s that sewing thing called? Oh yeah. A thimble! She holds it up, proudly. I stare in disbelief.
“That’s impossible,” I say.
“Not impossible at all. I peed in this till it filled up. Then I drank it.”
“Bullshit. First of all, you could never direct your stream into that ridiculous thimble. Second, -why are you smiling?”
“How long have you known me, Donovan?”
“Twelve million years.”
“That feels about right. Especially today. And you’re an expert on sewing now?”
“Of course not. But I know enough about anatomy to emphatically state you didn’t pee in that thimble.”
“And if I stubbornly persist in saying I did, what does that make me?”
“I don’t know. What, a stubborn idiot?”
“And yet, over the last several hours you’ve told me Sam Case is in that room, and he’s alive, despite all the proof I’ve offered.”
“I know he’s in that room. And I know he’s alive.”
“You know what that room is, Donovan?”
“What’s that?”
“Your thimble.”
I point down the hall. “Room 228 is my thimble.”
“That’s right. And your reasoning doesn’t hold water.”
I wonder how she came up with all that based on me sniffing the drain. I hate it when the people who work for me prove, time and again, how much smarter they are than me.
Callie says, “The coast is clear. So, what now? Want me to call the room?”
“Nope.”
“Knock on the door?”
“Nope.”
“Find the superintendant? I can distract him while you enter.”
“Nope.”
She frowns. “We can’t kick the door down.”
“Follow me,” I say, and lead her to the room. When we get there, I stand behind the wall left of the door, and motion Callie to hug the wall to the right. The wall wouldn’t protect us from assassins, because professional killers would shoot through the walls first. But if Sam or some other civilian inside starts shooting, we’d expect them to shoot through the door.
Civilian shooters are like college quarterbacks at the start of a big game. Their adrenalin kicks in and they always aim high.
Which is why I motion Callie to go low.
She takes a knee, puts her hand in her purse-handbag-and nods, to let me know she’s gripping her gun.
I take a key card from my pocket, reach my arm across the door, slide the card through the lock. It clicks open. I turn the handle and push. The door opens maybe an inch. I take a deep breath, glance at Callie to make sure she’s ready to storm the room.
She’s not.
She’s shaking her head, frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ve got a key?”
“Think about it.”
She does.
Then smiles.
“Sam used your name when checking in. You went to the front desk, showed your ID, told them you left your key in the room. They gave you another key.”
“Exactly. Now it’s your turn.”
“For what?”
“How did you manage to pee all this time?”
Callie rolls her eyes. “Let it go.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’re wearing pants.”
“Our generation calls them jeans.”
“You wouldn’t have pulled your jeans off in the hallway. And even if you did, you couldn’t have hiked your leg up and hit the drain without dribbling down the front of the ice machine.”
“Donovan.”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s see what’s inside the room.”
“Okay.”
35
I PUSH THE door open and duck back behind the wall while Callie gets a view of the room. As the door starts to rebound and close I say, “Good to go?”
“Yes! Bathroom’s on the right.”
“Be careful!”
Before the door swings shut on its own, Callie pushes it again, and hurls herself past the open area that leads to the bathroom. It’s a thing of beauty, watching Callie fly through the air, gun in hand, ready to shoot whoever might be lying in wait. It’s a fraction of a second in real time, but when you do what we do, as long as we’ve done it, time stands still, giving a guy like me time to admire the athletic grace of a truly amazing killing machine like Callie Carpenter. It’s like watching Michael Jordan in his prime. You know you’re seeing something special, a once-in-a-generation talent.
I come in high, just behind her, running directly toward the bathroom, in case someone’s trying to draw a bead on Callie.
But no one’s there.
“Bedroom’s clear,” she says.
“Closet’s clear,” I say.
I wait for her to retrieve her purse from the hallway. She does, and re-enters the room and closes the door. I’m standing in front of the closed bathroom door. A sitting duck if Sam starts shooting.
I motion Callie to stand out of the line of fire.
She does, but says, “He’s being awfully quiet for a live guy.”
I call out, “Sam?”
“Before you go in,” Callie says, “I’d like to put some money on it.”
“You’re that sure he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
I think about it. Everything in my experience tells me Sam’s in the bathroom, lying in the tub, unconscious. Of course, this would mean he’s been unconscious a long, long time.
Highly unlikely.
But Callie said Maybe was cool as a cucumber when she left. Crimes of passion leave you edgy, and haggard. Not to mention if Maybe had blood on her clothing, Callie would’ve noticed.
“A hundred says Sam’s alive,” I say.
“A hundred grand?”
“No. A hundred dollars.”
“Make it five hundred,” she says.
“Fine.”
I turn the bathroom door handle, open the door.