Stranglehold (8 page)

“Yeah,” I said, but I was too troubled by what he'd just told me to pay much attention.

I drove over to the hotel where the three of us—Monica Davies, Greg Larson, and I—were staying. Given the hour, the crowd was sizable. The police had the entrance cordoned off. Two TV crews were interviewing men in the uniform blue sport coats worn by hotel employees. And the ghouls drank it all in. I call them ghouls with complete hypocrisy. I've been a ghoul many times myself. Proximity to death is exciting because it isn't us who are dead. It might scare us and make us sick—people burned to death can haunt you for a long time—but it makes us feel lucky, maybe even for a moment or two, immortal. We're alive and they're not.

I parked my car and took my place with my fellow ghouls.

The entrance to the hotel was wide and well-lit, with long windows stretching across the entire width of the front. Beyond the glass I could see guests standing in small groups, talking about the invasion of the police and emergency workers. This was a better-dressed collection of ghouls than the one I was with. A pair of uniforms burst out of the front
door. The white box-style ambulance that had been parked on the front walk now went into reverse and got as close to the doors as it could.

She came down in a black body bag on a white gurney. Comments crackled through the crowd like summer thunder—flashes of pity, excitement, and even black humor. Not even professional wrestling could beat the death of a young woman. It was devoutly to be hoped that she'd been good-looking and nude when they'd found her.

The crowd on the far side of the rope line had the preferred view of the ambulance. They were mere feet from it. Several of them were pointing things out to one another as the ambulance team raised the gurney up and over. The first thing I noticed about the people over there was that two or three of them were attractive women. I'd never meet any of them, but glimpsing them was fun in a melancholy way. Then, behind the tallest of the women, standing next to the building in the cold autumn night was the red-haired man.

Tan Burberry coat, collar up, long red hair with a curl that touched his forehead. A blunt harsh face that was handsome in a severe way. You saw them in Chicago working for businesses that were secretly owned by the mob. They knew how to talk properly, dress properly, and be polite. They were never executives—their actual titles were as murky as their actual jobs. But guessing what they were used for was all too easy.

And then he was gone, pushing his way back through the crowd.

I did the same thing with my crowd. From what I could see, the quickest way to the other side was to run to the parking lot in back. I didn't get far. As I rounded the corner of the hotel a uniform appeared and held up his hand. He also raised his flashlight and burned the beam into my face.

“Hold on. You have some ID?”

“Look, Officer, there's somebody I need to see on the other side.”

“You a guest in the hotel?”

“Yes.”

He snapped his fingers and held his palm out, a thickset middle-aged
man with dark, suspicious eyes and the mannerisms of a hall monitor.

The best thing to do was get it over as quickly as possible. When I handed him my wallet, the beam fell from my face to my ID. “From Chicago?”

“Yes. Look, I really am in a hurry.”

“Who is it you need to see so bad?”

“Old college friend. Just spotted him in the crowd on the far side.”

“You know a woman was killed here tonight.”

“I know. But I didn't do it and neither did Paul.”

“Paul?”

“My college friend.” I was tempted to say that I was working with Susan Cooper but decided against it. I wanted to keep her name out of it. I could see over his shoulder. Cars were leaving, flashes of headlights turning the cop into silhouette.

He still had my wallet. “Dev Conrad.”

“That's right.”

He beamed his light on my driver's license again. He was either memorizing it or trying to levitate it. He frowned and handed it back. He'd been hoping to plant my ass on death row, but he hadn't been able to come up with a good enough reason. “Get out of here.”

“Thanks.”

He waved me past as a couple came up behind me. I walked when I wanted to run but running would only make me interesting to him again. The rear of the hotel was lined with Dumpsters. A loading dock protruded from the center of the building. Parking space was limited to fifteen yards of macadam.

The two cars closest to me were empty. The silver Pontiac near the alley had a driver. The red-headed man. His headlights came on and he started backing out.

I yelled for him to stop and darted toward him. He laid down a long strip of rubber getting the car into the alley. For three or four seconds I
had a good look at him. The brutal appearance was lessened by his cold smile. He was under the impression this was some kind of game. Then he was gone in a fishtailing, tire-screaming exit that went on all the long way to the end of the alley. I couldn't even get close enough to identify the license plate.

When I turned back to the hotel, my good friend the cop was standing there. He looked happy. “Guess Paul didn't want to see you, huh?”

“Yeah. Guess not.”

“How about letting me see that wallet again?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I said so is why.” He shook his head and addressed an unseen person. “He asks why.”

I gave him my wallet. He flipped it open, then used the communicator on his shoulder. “Tell Detective Kapoor there's somebody here she should probably talk to.”

“What the hell're you doing?”

He held up a finger to quiet me. “Right. I'll bring him to the back door now.”

After he finished talking, I said, “This is a waste of time.”

“Maybe to you, but this whole little deal is strange.”

“What ‘whole little deal'?”

“You're in a big hurry to get back here, and then this supposed friend of yours races away. Somebody was killed here tonight, and that makes this whole little deal suspicious. At least to me.” He returned my wallet. “I'm covering my ass, man. You go in and talk to the detective and she asks you a few questions and you're out of here.” Then: “This isn't Chicago. People're used to murders there. We aren't. Anybody look a little weird at all, they got to be questioned. Hell, I should've sent you to the detective when you came running around the corner.”

No point in arguing. He was just doing his job, and by admitting that he was covering his ass he dropped the tough-guy stuff and became
a human being. Still and all, I doubted if I'd invite him to my next birthday party.

The back door was under a long narrow canopy. He had to knock twice. While we were waiting, he said, “My name's Bob Sullivan, by the way.” He was amused again. “In case you want to file any complaints. Badge number 205.” He was a tough guy again.

Another uniform answered the door and led us through the kitchen and then the dining room and then out to the lobby. This late, everything had been shut down for a few hours anyway.

Three detectives had divided up the lobby. Each had a short line of people to interview. Most of the interviewees were hotel employees, but there was a handful of guests, too. Sullivan steered me to the shortest line. I assumed the detective I would be seeing was the slim woman in the dark-blue suit. She was talking to a bellhop. She was attractive in a dark silken way. Indian, I guessed.

“You want some coffee? They've got a big pot of it going over there.” Sullivan nodded to a table that had been set up with snacks and coffee.

“Thanks.”

Despite the line being short, I was on my second cup of coffee by the time the detective was ready for me. She indicated a chair that had been brought in from the dining room. I sat down. There was a matching chair for her, but I'd yet to see her sit down. She offered me a long, slim hand and another smile. “I'm sure you want to get to your room as soon as possible, Mr. Conrad, so I'll make this as quick as I can.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

“My name is Detective Priya Kapoor. I'll bet you've never heard of a cop with that name before.” Unaccented English. “I was born and raised in Chicago. I'm a White Sox fan.”

I wondered how many hundreds of times she'd said this in her time on the force. “No, I never have.” She wasn't beautiful but she was erotic,
the dark velvet eyes and the wide tender mouth inspiring flare-ups of lust in my drained body. It had been a while.

“First of all, Mr. Conrad, I take it you're in town on business.”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind telling me what that business is?”

“I work with Congresswoman Cooper on her campaign.” Usually an occupation wouldn't tell her anything. But Monica Davies had been in politics and so was I. “I'm a political consultant.”

“That's very nice. I voted for her.” The cruise director voice again. I'm just a friendly lady going through the motions, Mr. Conrad, said the voice. But the erotic eyes had become the dubious eyes. “That's very interesting.”

“Oh? How so?”

She sat down on the dining-room chair opposite me. The first time I'd seen her park her fine small bottom anywhere. “Mr. Conrad, it's late, as I said. So let me ask you, do you really want to put me—and yourself—through the charade of pretending that you didn't know Monica Davies?”

“I met her a few times, yes.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. You've saved both of us at least ten minutes. May I ask where you were tonight?”

“If you're asking for an alibi, I have a good one.”

“Fine. Good alibis make my job a lot easier. Believe it or not, I enjoy eliminating people as persons of interest. That way I can concentrate on the guilty party.”

“There was a fund-raiser for Congresswoman Cooper at the Royale Hotel tonight. I was there all evening. I didn't leave until about thirty or forty minutes ago.”

“And I'm hoping that a good number of people saw you.”

“A large number of people. And all night long.”

Somewhere in the pocket of her jacket her cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”

I tried to make sense of her and the phone conversation, but I couldn't. The county morgue was mentioned. The rest of it was lost on me.

After putting her phone away again, she said, “Do you know Greg Larson, Ms. Davies's partner?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of him?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“Why not?”

“Because we hate each other. Anything I'd say about him would be prejudiced.”

“Why do you hate him?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me, Mr. Conrad.”

My fingers started drumming on the table. As if I didn't control them.

“Mr. Conrad?”

“I'm in a business that can get dirty. I've been dirty myself and I'll be dirty again. But it's a matter of degrees. Most people on either side have lines they won't cross. Larson crosses them all the time.”

“You're quite angry, Mr. Conrad. I can see it on your face.”

“You asked how I felt about Larson. I told you.”

“Have you seen Mr. Larson?”

“Yes. He came to the fund-raiser tonight.”

“Isn't that strange? Him coming to a fund-raiser for his opponent?”

I made it a joke. “He came to torment me.”

“And did he succeed?”

“He sure did. I don't like being in the same room with him.”

“Did you feel the same way about Monica Davies?”

“Pretty much. They both did the same kind of work.”

“One more question, Mr. Conrad. The patrolman told me that you had some kind of altercation with somebody in a car behind the hotel a few minutes ago.”

“It wasn't an altercation. I just wanted to say hello to an old friend.”

“Apparently he didn't want to say hello to you. The officer told me that you were shouting at him and chasing after his car.”

“He obviously didn't recognize who I was. He might not even have heard me. In college he always played the radio very loud.”

Her sly smile was a review of my story. It closed opening night. “I'd never take up fiction if I were you, Mr. Conrad.”

She stood up. “I see I have two more people I need to talk to, and I'm sure you're ready for some sleep.” She offered her long, sleek hand. As I stood up I took it. She was strong. “I'm sorry I had to trouble you with all this.”

“Doing your job.”

She gave me her best broadest, emptiest smile. “Now, that's not what you're
really
thinking, is it?”

“No,” I said as I started to turn away. “No, I guess it's not.” I was too tired for any more of her droll inquisition.

“Give the female patrol officer all your contact information, if you would. I hope you have a good night's sleep.”

I muttered through room number, phone number, home address, home telephone number, and headquarters phone number with the officer taking down all the information. Then I turned, yawning, toward the elevator.

I got into headquarters just after seven the next morning. I'd spent forty-five minutes on the StairMaster in the hotel gym, then had an egg and a piece of toast and three cups of coffee in the café. I was the only one in the office for a time. I didn't want to think about Monica Davies and why Bobby had had her card and how Susan Cooper might be involved in all this. I forced myself to go through the internals that had been faxed late last night.

The difference between public polling and internal polling is sometimes complicated but generally comes down to the fact that internal polling is done in more depth. Public polling is about the horse race; internal polling goes after demographics—age, occupation, general political beliefs—and delves into issue details. Another factor is where respondents come from. Public polling tends to use random numbers from the phone books. Internal polling uses registered voters. What made me happy this morning was the sudden shift we were seeing in rural voters supporting Susan. We'd been lagging behind. But now we'd jumped
up by four percent and that was encouraging. Same with blue-collar males. Duffy was still ahead with this group, but in the past week we'd added three percent blue-collar males. The trend was up, and we were sitting on a story tying Duffy to some union-busting operations done by two companies he owned part of. We had decided to hold these until the next debate. This would help us get more blue-collar votes.