Don't Make Me Choose Between You and My Shoes (19 page)

Tears flooded Edwina's eyes. “Oh, my God, Debbie Sue. That must be Cher's cell phone. Hang up and call Matt quick. Rogenstein's just leaving the stage and I'm guessing he's headed for his room.”

“Fuck, Ed. Try to detain him.”

Debbie Sue disconnected, pulled Matt's card from her hip pocket and pressed his cell number. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and then she heard, “This is Detective Matthew McDermott. At the signal please—”

She disconnected. Damn, she didn't need to leave a message. She needed to talk to him. And now.

Just then her phone began its familiar Texas tune.
Matt, calling me back
, was her first thought. She flipped open the phone. “This is Debbie Sue.”

“Debbie Sue, this is Celina. Detective Rogenstein just walked past me. I hid behind a ficus tree and watched. He got on the elevator and it's going up. He must be going to his room. Where are you? I thought you were supposed to be onstage with Edwina.”

Debbie Sue didn't answer. She was trying to move the trunk from the room, but common sense told her she would never make it. She had always been a superb athlete and still kept herself in great shape, but she was no match for this friggin', ever-loving trunk.

“Debbie Sue? Debbie Sue, did you hear me?”

Debbie Sue was sweating like a racehorse on its final lap. She thought about the speed of the elevator. Her only option was to lock the door and hide. “Celina, I gotta go. I'm hanging up.”

She looked around the room and confirmed that she was trapped in the worst kind of web, one that offered no place to hide. She was trapped like a bug with the spider approaching.

She dashed to the window, opened the curtains and looked outside. Unlike the room she shared with Edwina and Celina, this room had a window that opened onto a ledge, roughly two feet wide. The upside, if one could be found at this point, was that there were no bars on the windows.

The ledge was her only chance.

R
efusing to look down, Debbie Sue squeezed her body through the open window. As she stepped out onto the narrow ledge, she closed the window behind her with her left foot. She carefully straightened, securing her feet and pressing her sweating palms to the wall. Half a dozen pigeons sat between her and the balcony.

Below, pedestrians looked as if they were moving in slow motion. The din of the traffic came up and hit her like a wave. She felt small and helpless and she had an almost overwhelming urge to simply step off into space. The very thought turned her already shaky stomach shakier. She wasn't suicidal. What was wrong with her?

She hugged the wall, wondering how her life had come to this. Here she was, six stories above a bustling New York
City street, standing on a ledge not more than twenty-six inches deep, while twenty-six feet behind her a murderer approached.

And sixteen hundred miles southwest of her, Buddy Overstreet assumed she was safe.

If she weren't so damned scared and wired from adrenaline, she could laugh. Her final hours just might come down to a matter of numbers, because it looked like hers could be up.

Buddy's words came back to her and she felt tears sting her eyes.
Besides, didn't you say the place will be crawling with cops? At least I'll know you're safe.

“Shoo,” she said to the pigeons. “Shoo. Shoo.”

The dumb birds only stared at her.
Fuck!
She didn't dare try to scare them off by waving her arms at them or kicking at them. One wrong step and she could end up as a pancake on the sidewalk below.

“Easy for you to be indifferent,” she grumbled to the birds, “with me with no shotgun and bird season months away.”

She carefully reached inside her pocket for her cell phone, pushed one number and waited.

“What's happening?” Edwina demanded. “Where are you?”

“Celina called and said Rogenstink was getting on the elevator. I couldn't get the trunk out of the room, so I locked the door.”

“You're locked inside his room? Good Lord, Debbie Sue, he's got a key. I don't suppose you put on the deadbolt, did you?”

“I forgot about it. I'm not used to deadbolts. Anyway, he won't see me. I'm not exactly
in
the room.”

“What the hell does
that
mean?”

“Well…I'm outside the room. On the window ledge. Me and a bunch of dumb pigeons.”

A pause. Debbie Sue knew Edwina well enough to imagine that the lanky brunette was taking everything in, perhaps even looking for a place to sit down. Finally her voice came back. “Well, at least you're safe.”

“I couldn't stay in the room, Ed, with Rogenstink on the way up and me knowing Cher could be in that trunk. And I just thought of something else. I have another plan.”

“Oh, great. Now's a good time for it. What are you going to do now, whiz a spider web from your fingertips and swing from building to building?”

“Just cool it and listen to me. I don't have time to go into detail. Keep calling Matt. I couldn't get him on the phone, so keep trying him and tell him what's going on. Oh, and you might hook up with Celina and go outside and look up at me.”

A humorless giggle came from Edwina. “Why? So we can wave good-bye?”

“Ed, is this really the time for sarcasm?”

“I'm sorry. I'm stressed to the max and scared shitless, which is really weird because I think I feel a case of diarrhea coming on. That combination tends to bring out my sarcasm. Why do you want us looking up at you?”

“So that others will too. You know, create a crowd.”

“Aha!
That
I can do! Debbie Sue…”

“Yeah?”

“You're not afraid of heights, are you?”

“Shut up, Ed. If I wasn't before, I sure as hell am now.”

“Please be careful. I can get a crowd together, but if you fall, I can't catch you.” Her voice broke and she began to sniffle.

“Don't worry, Ed, you won't have to. And don't cry. Hell, this isn't much higher than the back of a horse.”

 

“Emergency operator. What is your emergency please?”

“I'm standing six floors up on a ledge at the Anson Hotel in Times Square, just outside room six twenty. There's a bomb inside the room. The room number is six-two-zero. The bomb's in a green trunk. It's set to go off. A bomb. Room six-two-zero. Got that?”

Debbie Sue couldn't think of anything that would bring more attention than an impending suicide or a bomb threat. Or both. She knew there were serious penalties for making false emergency reports, but jumping wasn't that far off her radar at the moment, either.

“Miss, just remain calm,” the operator said in a buttery-smooth voice. “What is your name?”

“It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. I can't go on. It's all over. I don't want anyone to get hurt. You better get someone to clear the hotel and the streets.”

“Miss, my name is Betty. Won't you tell me your name?”

Debbie Sue pressed the disconnect, ending the call. Now she just had to wait and watch while she hoped Rogenstein didn't make an appearance before the fire and rescue units
did. The only thing she knew for sure was that if Frank Rogenstein left this hotel, he would be taking that trunk over her dead body.

Possibly literally.

 

Detective Frank Rogenstein hummed to himself as he unlocked his door, the echo of thunderous applause still ringing inside his head. He was having a superb day. His little impromptu talk, “telling it like it is,” in the session downstairs assured that PIs from all over the nation saw him as a hero. For that matter, he saw himself as a hero. He couldn't think of anything that could bring him down.

Everything was falling into place. Later today, he would leave with his “souvenir” and dispose of it at his leisure. He still wondered if she was really a cop. When he returned to the station, he would check that out. He plopped his suitcase onto the bed and began to neatly fold his clothes and pack them. He didn't give a second thought to the minor interruption of someone knocking at his door. Perhaps it was an autograph hound.

“Detective Rogenstein?” His callers were the two young police officers he had met earlier. McShane, the taller one, said, “Sir, we have to ask you to vacate your room immediately.”

Standing behind the uniforms were several members of the elite bomb disposal unit and two restless dogs on leashes. Dressed in blast protection gear, the bomb squad members looked like robots.

“I was just packing to do that very thing. What's going on, fellas?” Peering out into the hallway he saw police, security officers and hotel employees knocking on doors up and down the corridor and room occupants spilling out of their rooms.

“It's a bomb threat, sir. We're moving everyone to street level until the building is declared safe.”

“Nonsense. It's a prank. I'll be along in a minute. I just need to finish packing.”

“Sorry, sir,” the officer named Fitzpatrick said sternly. “We don't mean to alarm you, but the caller mentioned the bomb's in your room.”

“In
my
room? Couldn't be.”

Fitzpatrick reached for his elbow. “Please come with us and we'll see to your safety.”

Rogenstein was bewildered. Then the lightbulb clicked on in his brain.
Those fucking bitches next door. Those Hicksville whores
. Did they really think they could bring him down? He was Detective Frank Rogenstein. He wasn't some dirt farmer who had stolen a pig. He wasn't a Saturday-night drunk you threw in the tank to sleep it off.

Smiling, he relented and started to reach for the trunk handle. “I'll just take my trunk with me. We'll all go downstairs together.”

A bomb-squad member stepped forward and caught his wrist and a growling German shepherd planted itself in front of him. “Sorry, sir, but that isn't possible. The report says the bomb is in this trunk.” He took a hard look at the trunk.
“Yep, that's it. A green trunk. Please remove your hand from it and step away. I'll have to ask you to follow the other hotel guests out of the building. Now, sir.”

Rogenstein knew a refusal would bring about his arrest. The bomb squad had no sense of humor and not a human alive could defy their orders in a situation like this and get away with it. His mind was playing a movie in slow motion of a thirty-year career going up in flames. His retirement plan—hell, his very life—could be going with it.

He would have to do what he had done his entire life—make the most of the situation. One advantage to being an opportunist was that to further his own interest, with no regard for principles or consequences, he took advantage of all possibilities. Always.

Now, he did as asked and followed the officers out to the hallway. Watching the door close on Room 620, ironically enough, he knew he could be watching the door closing on the only life he could remember. He felt a sickness like none he had ever experienced.

He boarded the elevator with the other hotel evacuees and watched the numbers descend. When the doors opened on the ground floor, he became a part of the crowd that was making its way to the perimeters the police had set up across the street. When the crush of people went straight, he turned left and disappeared into the crowd that was gathering and looking up. He thought of an old adage he had heard before: Best to walk away and return to fight another day.

 

A subway ride gave Matt the opportunity to dwell on the negatives that had been creeping into his thoughts since receiving the call from Longoria's secretary. He had known from the outset that obtaining a search warrant in this case wasn't going to be easy, but a face-to-face with the judge? Typically if a judge dug his or her heels in, a phone call was all that was necessary.

But then the request for this warrant wasn't typical. This whole venture, accusing a senior, decorated member of NYPD could be a political nightmare. A career killer for sure. Still, if this was what it was going to take to bring a murderer to justice, he had to do it.

He reached the justice building and took the steep front steps by twos. Inside, as he waited for an elevator car, he took in his surroundings.

This magnificent old building housed one of the great loves of his life—the law. The law had stood the test of time and tempers in this country. It wasn't always perfect, it was sometimes downright ugly, but American jurisprudence was the best in the world. It protected citizens from criminal predators and inserted civility into an otherwise uncivil world. He loved it and he wasn't about to run from a fight to make sure that it was used properly and to its fullest, no matter the affiliation, reputation or VIP friends of a suspect.

Before entering the judge's suite, he adjusted his tie, smoothed his jacket and ran a hand over his hair. Judge Longoria was from the old school, and decorum was required in his presence. Matt had never met him, but he had heard
horror stories from those who had made less than favorable impressions on the magistrate.

He turned the knob, the massive oak door swung open and he stepped inside. A professional-appearing woman whom Matt guessed to be in her mid-forties stared at a law book lying open on her left. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, not even stopping as she looked up at him. She smiled. “May I help you?”

Matt was at a loss for words. She hadn't missed a tap and still continued, her fingers moving as if independent from her body. “I'm Detective Matthew McDermott. I'm here to see Judge Longoria.”

“He should be here within the next twenty minutes, Detective.”

“You mean he isn't here?” After receiving an urgent message, Matt was confused.

“No. But I just spoke to him. His session has ended for the morning and he's on his way.”

“Uh, mind if I wait?”

“Not at all. Mind if I keep typing?”

“Uh, no, of course not.” Her fingers still hadn't missed a tap. “If you don't mind me asking, how fast do you type? I've never seen anything like that.”

The woman chuckled as she pushed back from the computer. “I'm sorry, I'm trying to get into the
Guinness World Records
for fastest typing speed. The judge doesn't mind my practicing when he's out. The record is two hundred words a minute, with no errors. I'm up to one hundred and twelve. So you see, I still have a way to go.”

“You mean you're going to get even faster? That's hard to believe. Please continue. I wouldn't want to interfere with your chances of making the record books.”

The woman laughed pleasantly and returned to her task.

Matt took a seat on one of the leather couches and began leafing through magazines. Ten minutes gave way to fifteen. Twenty minutes later the judge hadn't appeared.

When the secretary stopped the marathon typing to take a phone call, Matt quickly got to his feet and approached her. “Did you did say the judge is on his way?”

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry he's late. He must have gotten stopped by someone. But he is coming. His briefcase and car keys are in his office, so he has to come here.”

“What about his flight. Won't he miss his flight?”

“I don't know anything about a flight, sir. He and his wife are entertaining at their home this evening. I was on the phone the better part of the morning with caterers.”

Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Are you the only secretary Judge Longoria has?”

“I like to think of myself as his personal administrative assistant.” She lifted her chin. “His
only
personal administrative assistant.”

A dawning began to rise in Matt. “You didn't call me to come here to meet with the judge about a warrant, did you?”

“No, Detective, but I did send a courier to your station house with the warrant you requested.”

“When? When did you do that?”