The Book of 21 (15 page)

Taking the first right, Kim stepped into the bathroom and lifted the lid on her wicker hamper. She took off her dress and bra and tossed them into the hamper. She then peeled off the clinging pantyhose, tossed the ball of nylon into the hamper, and heard the faint sound of its impact. With only her red panties remaining, she reached over to the towel bar to get the nightshirt she left there every morning, and donned it. There was only one thing left to do before turning in.

She turned to the bathroom sink, which she hated because it had one faucet for hot water, and one for cold. Because of this arrangement, she could never get water that was just simply warm—except for a few seconds as the water from the faucet on the left heated up on its way to a boil. Staring at the sink, she tried, yet again, to understand why anyone would want to have steaming-hot water come out of the left faucet and ice-cold water come out of the right.

The biggest problem with this arrangement occurred when Kim wanted to wash up; it was nearly impossible to soap up her face and rinse it before the water was scalding. This forced her to keep the basin sparking clean so that she could fill it with a pool of warm water. Even if the basin was clean enough to qualify as surgically sterile, she still hated the idea of rinsing with a pool of water that gradually became laden with previously used soap.

Every time she told the landlord that she would like a new sink, he replied that the sink was perfectly fine, and that his sink was the same as hers. Somehow, she doubted both of those statements. The man was a snake.

She turned the separate hot and cold handles, and listened to the water splashing into the basin. As she leaned against the sink and waited for the basin to fill, she considered replacing it on her own dime. The labor to install it would cost her a bundle. She grew maddened by the thought that, just to get warm water out of a faucet, she would have to use her own money to remodel someone else’s building.

The debate over whether she should stay or move once again entered her mind, but she knew that the apartment was not her real problem. She looked at the faucets and realized they were a lot like her life: all hot, or all cold. Lately, it seemed like only the cold one ran. It seemed especially so on nights like this when she stood alone, staring at the mirror, and watching herself age. She consoled herself with the thought that even if her life might be running cold, at least she was not getting burned.

She soaped up her face and began scraping off her war paint. The act of wearing makeup was so rare for her that her made-up appearance often shocked her. Sometimes she looked more glamorous. Sometimes, she just looked older. As she tried to get the stuff off her face, she knew why she avoided it. She had only applied a thin layer, but it still required a concentrated effort to remove.

She wondered how much of the makeup was reapplied every time she rinsed her face with the water from the sink. The tiny pool was becoming increasing cloudy with soap and cosmetic run-off. Slightly disgusted, she decided on a different tack; from the running faucets, she gathered some cold water in the cup of her hands, warmed it with some steaming water from the other tap, and then splashed it on her face. She had to scrub and rinse several times until she was satisfied that her pores were clear.

As she opened up the medicine cabinet and pulled out a Q-Tip, a chill went through her. It was an odd sensation, as if someone was watching her. Kim knew better; she was just tired and spooked by the stillness of the quiet apartment. She shook it off.

Using the Q-Tip, she dug some wax out of her ears and, in turn, tossed the gooey implement into the trash. She then reached back and tugged on the underwear that had become wedged into the crack of her rear. With that, she was finally done with her nightly ritual.

Kim turned to leave the bathroom, and she saw him. There, in the doorway, stood Marco.

Kim’s eyes popped open and her jaw dropped. She stood there looking at the man, frozen, trying to decide what to do. She kept a baseball bat next to her bed for just such an occasion, but here, in the bathroom, she had nothing. She was boxed-in—trapped and helpless.

Marco smiled, and said, “You did say you’d like to see me again.”

Kim remained motionless, like a deer in the headlights.

“You do look tantalizing,” he sighed, as he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms.

Kim backed up against the far wall and felt her right leg touch something cold. Looking down, she saw the porcelain rim of the toilet. To the right of the toilet sat her plastic orange plunger. She knew that the plunger had too little mass to serve as a weapon. The feeling of terror started to grow in her.

Marco stood up straight and tucked his hand in his pocket. “I read your little report today, about the ‘really nasty one’ you were working on. It seems it didn’t take you that long to work on the autopsy. You must have rushed, though, because you had to go back and fix your work. I like the new report you filed much better.”

Thoughts shot rapidly into her mind. She had
not
changed it. She wondered if Marco broke into the system, or he knew someone with legitimate system access. She thought back to John’s suggestion to alter the report, and wondered whether John might be the dirty cop. Out of her mouth, came one word—“McDonough.”

“That little idiot?” Marco laughed. “He’s not going to help you; soon, he won’t be able to help himself. I just don’t need you changing the report back now, do I? The one you have filed will do just fine.”

As Marco took his hands out of his pockets, Kim saw they held a bottle and a handkerchief. She watched him unscrew the lid, pour some liquid onto the handkerchief, and reseal the bottle. All the while, she stood still, but her mind was screaming, “You know what’s coming! You have to do something!” Her eyes darted around the room. A faint scent of ether was already seeping into the air.

“Please, I’m here to make your dreams come true,” he said as he tucked the bottle back into his pocket. He took a step toward her, then stopped and gave a sickening smile. “You’re going home to Wisconsin. At least, that’s what the resignation letter on your desk says. What’s the town, Madison, right? It’s a pity that you will never make it there. I can see the stories in the press now. They’ll talk about the sad story of a girl finally turning away from the grisly and depraved life of the big city—deciding to go home to… a simpler life. The sad part is that the poor girl never makes it there, and is tragically raped and murdered on her way back to that little Utopia. It’s
so
tragic. Don’t you think?” He shook his head. “People don’t like to think about such things.”

He came for her.

Kim screamed, recoiled, and let out a guttural howl of terror. She looked for any weapon she could get her hands on, but found nothing. In desperation, she grabbed the plunger and unleashed a swing that landed firmly on the side of Marco’s head. The hollow plastic body of the over-sized orange plunger let out a hollow ‘pop’ and then simply bent.

Marco looked terrified for a second, but then he growled, “You fucking
bitch
!”

He slapped her hard on the side of her face. It felt like the left side of Kim’s head had exploded. Her left ear seemed to go instantly deaf, and she was losing her balance. She dropped to her knees on the hard tile and grabbed the rim of the toilet to steady herself.

Marco kicked her hand away with his left foot. “Get your hand off of the filthy,
stinking
toilet.”

Kim began to sob. She looked up and saw his blurry form through the tears in her eyes. The feeling of being powerless in the face of impending harm weakened her to her core.

Marco stared at the wall behind Kim. He took a deep breath to calm himself and, in an exasperated tone, muttered. “Now I’ll have to wash my fucking face for half a fucking hour.”

With that, he bent down and grabbed Kim by the arm. He hoisted her up, spun her around, wrapped his right arm around her neck, and put the rag over her mouth with his left hand. Tilting his left wrist, he looked at his watch.

Kim thrashed against him, but it did no good. She felt like waves crashing on rock, and knew it would take far too long for her to wear him down; she could already feel herself starting to go numb. As she continued to fight, her thrashing seemed to take more effort and make less impact. It became hard to think. Things became fuzzy. She heard ringing and wondered if it was the phone or just the ether. After a few more seconds, it all went black.

Chapter 18:
Putting on the Ritz

Within a large marble-lined hotel lobby, John listened to Kim’s phone ring as he clenched his jaw and muttered, “Come on, Kim, pick up.”

When her voicemail answered, he knew the call was pointless; either she was still out with the girls or she was already asleep. He shook his head and waited for the beep.

“Kim, it’s John. Call me as soon as you can. It’s important.”

He hung up the phone and dialed Harry.

“Hello,” Harry answered, in a sleepy voice.

“Harry, it’s John.”

“Why the hell are you calling me at this hour?” Harry groaned.

“Because I just got canned, well, suspended… indefinitely.”

There was a pause. Harry’s next question suddenly sounded more awake. “Are you kidding me? Actually, I expected to hear from you, but I thought you were calling about Murphy.”

“Tell me something, Harry. How many nights a year does your lieutenant’s death suddenly get followed by a change in your personnel file.” John swallowed hard, and wondered a little if the whole thing was real. “Look, watch your back. OK?”

“Yeah… John, do you need anything?”

“Yeah, Harry, I do. I need to find something, anything, in that heap of dust and fiber you hauled in today. I need a lead.”

John waited for a reply. It seemed that Harry was deciding what he should do. It was one thing to lose a colleague, but another to lose one because you put him in harm’s way. John did not want that hanging over his head. In the silence, he listened to the tick of his wristwatch and waited for Harry to make his own decision.

Harry finally uttered the magic words, “I’ll head down to the CSA, John.”

“Harry, be careful,” John warned. “I told the new lieutenant you had a bunch of junk, but hadn’t had any time to look at it. Don’t wind up dead, like Murphy.”

“Yeah, I’ll do my best.”

“By the way, I’m not staying at home tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“OK.”

John’s tone turned suddenly less directive. “Harry… just be
careful
until then, OK?”

After a few seconds, Harry concluded the call with the words, “John, shut the hell up.”

John heard a click, and the call ended.

He put his cell phone away and allowed himself a few seconds to appreciate the lobby of the Ritz-Stefan Hotel. The place was immaculate. Far overhead, a domed ceiling sat above the circular lobby lounge. In the lounge, several well-dressed men and women sat on plush furniture and conversed over opulent tables. Large marble pillars fringed the lobby, and behind them, wide staircases wound into space. He absorbed the elegant surroundings and felt calmer. While he knew appearances were deceiving, he at least
felt
safer in a world-class hotel like this, than he would in the local roach motel.

As John walked to the front desk, his footfall on the marble floor sent a light echo into the vastness of the lobby. A skinny young man at the front desk greeted him with a smile. He wore a black suit with a solid gray tie and moved with a somewhat effeminate body language. There was no demeaning nametag slapped to the young man’s chest, so John would need to wait for him to introduce himself.

“Welcome to the Ritz-Stefan,” the man lilted. “Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk, smiled broadly, and tilted his head.

John looked down at the cushy chairs. They were a convenience offered so the guests would not have to stand while they completed the check-in process. He slipped into one of the seats, dropped his bag on the floor, and nodded to the young man.

The man sat down across from John, and said, “I’m assuming you need a room, but correct me if I’m wrong.”

“You nailed it.” John smiled. “I need a room. Something mid-range will do fine. By the way, I’m in town on business, and I had to leave home in a hurry. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to bring a portable computer with me. Is it possible to rent a computer for the night to check email and type up a few things?”

“I can help you with that,” the man replied as he typed at the terminal. “We call our ‘mid-range’ rooms ‘deluxe,’ just so you know.” The man leaned toward John as if he were disclosing a secret. “Everything is in the presentation, you know.” He straightened himself and checked the terminal. “We have several rooms open, priced at two-nineteen a night; the computer will be fifty-nine dollars.”

“That seems more than acceptable. Thank you,” John replied. Imperceptibly, he sighed in relief. He had expected a much higher price tag based on the lobby décor.

“Certainly, I’ll just need your ID and credit card, mister…”

“McDonough,” John said, as he dug out his wallet and handed over the necessary pieces of plastic. “John McDonough.” After uttering his name that way in these lavish surroundings, John thought that this must be what it was like to be a spy. Without a license to kill, however, the fantasy fell flat.

“Just give me one second, Mr. McDonough, and we’ll get you up to your room right away.”

While the young man typed, a bellhop silently appeared at John’s side, as if he came at the beckon of an unseen handler. The bellhop bowed slightly and asked, “May I help you with your bags sir?”

“Thank you,” said John, impressed, “but that’s not necessary.”

The bellhop responded with another quick bow, and then moved away.

The young man behind the desk slid a room key toward John and said, “You will be staying in room three-fourteen. My name is Sam. If you need anything, just call the front desk and let me know. You’ll want to take the elevator over there.”