"Sweet dreams, lover boy," she whispered.
She switched off the lights, cautiously opened the door, checked out the corridor. It was empty. She hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the handle of "old 1664," closed the door softly and strode swiftly to the elevators.
Descending to the lobby, she was nearly overcome by nausea. It was hunger, knotting up her stomach. She retrieved her things from the checkroom, walked inconspicuously through the lobby to the street, walked faster until she reached the corner, then broke into a run.
Rain was still falling and there were puddles everywhere. She splashed through several, drenching her shoes and feet. ke cream! She drove to an all-night truckers' diner near the entrance to the tunnel. A few minutes later, sitting at the counter in the midst of pigging out on a huge chocolate sundae topped by a swirl of whipped cream mounted with a cherry, she paused to observe herself in a decorative strip of mirror on the opposing wall.
The sight offended her. She was filled with revulsion for what she was, for what she had done, for what she feared she might one day do.
She knew then that in her next session she would have to tell Dr. Z about the marks. And about a lot of other things, such as Leering Man and "playtime" and the compulsion that came upon her when it rained.
Most of all, she thought, she'd tell him about the secrets of the maze.
Mirror-Reverser.
When Janek emerged from customs at Kennedy Airport, he found Aaron Greenberg waiting at the gate. It was just after midnight, Janek was happy to see him, but he was startled. No one except Kit knew where he'd gone and when he was flying back.
"What is this-VIP treatment?"
"Kit's orders, Frank. She told me to pick you up."
Janek cuffed Aaron on the shoulder. They'd been partners since Timmy Sheehan retired. Aaron was a short, taut, wiry man with weather-beaten skin, sad eyes and a sweet, sometimes heartbreaking smile. He was wearing his usual short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. Tonight the colors were green and black.
"Some guy's been assassinated downtown at the Savoy," Aaron explained.
"Kit slotted it to us."
"I've been in planes and airports for fifteen hours. Don't suppose there's time to go home and change?"
"Probably be better if you didn't."
Janek wasn't surprised to be assigned a case. Kit had told him she was going to put him on something when he'd called her between planes from Mexico City: "I want you busy, Frank. I don't want everyone talking about how I've got you reopening Mendoza." But he'd expected she would want to debrief him on Cuba first.
"When did this come up?"
"Hour and a half ago." Aaron glanced at his watch.
"Crime Scene team's due now."
They walked through the International Arrivals building. There were fewer than fifty people in the lobby, a sharp contrast to the hordes that had thronged the terminal in Mexico. Actually, he thought, it was good to have something that would take his mind off Cuba-the scorn he'd seen in Violetta's eyes, the degradation of the beating, the stink and boredom of the closet cell.
Aaron led him to his car, a beaten-up green Chevrolet parked illegally in front. There was a ticket on the wind shield.
"Port Authority cops!" Aaron snatched it off the glass, then laughed.
They sped along the Van Wyck, empty of traffic. Janek looked up when they passed the safe house in which he'd met Angel Figueras two and a half weeks before. They were going too fast for him to make out anything more than a blacked-out ordinary little house on an ordinary little street. :'She's not fooling anybody. You know that, Frank?"
"Kit?"
Aaron nodded. "Everyone knows where you've been and what you've been doing down there."
"They don't really know."
"Not officially. But there're rumors around." Janek recalled Sarah's "a little bird told me."
"If there're rumors, they probably track back to Baldwin," he said.
"sure. Baldwin and Dakin were big buddies back then."
"Still are."
"So, if you're working on Mendoza, and everyone knows it-why bother with a cover?"
"Ask Kit."
"Yeah… but, see, that's what bothers me. Kit's supposed to be smart.
But she's acting like she thinks putting you on this hotel homicide is going to make people think you're occupied full-time."
"Don't underestimate her."
Aaron laughed. "Impossible!" He paused. "Anyway, you're close to her.
Maybe you can clue her in."
He cut onto Queens Boulevard, followed it to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, then crossed the Williamsburg to lower Manhattan. From the bridge the city looked truly majestic: clusters of buildings lit from within, stark forms of varying heights that seemed to float against the night sky. Moved by the sight, Janek felt seized by the naked power of New York, a place he alternately adored and loathed.
"You have to be strong to live here," he said.
Aaron nodded. "The slightest show of weakness and you're doomed."
Sue Burke met them in the hotel lobby. She was a short, intense young woman, a skilled martial artist, with dark, short hair cut hutch. An up front lesbian, she was impatient, brash, smart and fiercely loyal.
Janek had always held to the view that it takes ten years to make a good detective. Sue was the exception-she'd only been in for three, but, he felt, she was nearly there.
"Victim's name is Philip Dietz," she told them as she guided them to the elevators. "Registered two days ago. Gave an address in San Jose.
This morning there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door. Around noon, with the sign still there, the maid knocked softly, then looked in. This is standard hotel procedure. People go out and forget to remove the sign."
Janek nodded.
"So the maid looks in and sees Dietz lying on his bed. The drapes are drawn. She shuts the door and goes about her business. Meantime, some calls come in. Operator rings the room but Dietz doesn't pick up.
Operator asks the callers if they want to leave messages. Dietz's wife leaves three.
They stepped into the elevator. Sue pushed the button for the sixteenth floor. Janek could tell she liked recounting the story.
"Around nine o'clock tonight, Dietz's wife phones the desk. Says she's worried, says her husband should have called her back. She asks the assistant manager to go upstairs and check. He goes up, enters the room, sees Dietz lying on the bed, a pillow on top of his head. Meantime he notices the room's a mess, like someone's turned it over. The assistant approaches Dietz and tries to wake him up. Dietz is dead.
Looks like he's been shot in the head through the pillow to muffle the sound. Hotel management calls us. They don't call back Mrs. Dietz."
On the sixteenth floor a uniformed cop was standing by the elevators.
Aaron clipped his shield to his lapel. Janek hadn't taken his shield to Cuba, but the cop recognized him and waved him through.
"Have we called her yet?"
Sue shook her head. "Waiting for you, Frank."
"Right… "
" Anyway, like I said, the room's been ransacked. Some stuff gone.
Watch, cash, probably his wedding band-I noticed a ring mark on his finger. But not his credit cards or ID. Still, there're no papers, datebook, address book or other businessman's stuff. And his clothes have been sliced up, like someone's been looking inside the linings. The lining of his suitcase's been slit open, too."
"Doesn't go with taking a guy's watch and money," Aaron said.
Sue nodded. "There's more. Last night Dietz was observed picking up a young, well-dressed redhead in the hotel lounge. They talked a while, had a couple drinks. The waiter remembers them leaving together a little before midnight. That's the last time anyone saw him alive."