The Detachment (13 page)

“Help you how?”

“Just by paying me a thousand dollars in cash. Which, I think you’ll agree under the circumstances, is a hell of a bargain.”

In the business he was in, Shorrock would know something about blackmail, and his next question demonstrated experience. “Just for the sake of argument, if it were true that you had some sort of tape, which you don’t, because nothing untoward happened, but if you did, you’d keep a copy and turn your blackmail demands into an annuity. Why would anyone want to play your game?”

“Sir, that is a reasonable concern and I can only assure you that I’ve been playing this game, as you call it, for a long time, and my discretion is the reason I’ve been able to continue without undue fuss. Have you ever heard about anyone being caught out at the Wynn? Of course not, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because every time this happens, I’m paid promptly for delivering the incriminating recording and that’s the end of the matter. But if you want to be the first person to get huffy and take a stand, that’s up to you. Personally, I’d recommend you do what everyone else does, which is fork over the thousand, chalk it up to experience, and live to fight another day.”

There was a pause, during which Shorrock must have been mentally running the odds. His voice was tight, but he managed to say, “Okay, just because I can’t sleep and this amuses me. Even if I wanted to pay you, I don’t have a thousand in cash with me.”

An objection about price, not principle. That, and the fact that he hadn’t hung up, made me confident this was going to work.

“Of course you don’t, sir, that’s not unusual after a night of gambling. Which is why I’m standing right next to an ATM. So here’s the deal. You come down and withdraw the money. I’ll be watching from somewhere on the casino floor. When you have the money, I’ll stroll on by. I’ll give you a thumb drive and you’ll give me the cash. A very discreet exchange and considering the damage it’ll prevent, I’d say it’ll be the best money you’ll ever spend in your life. But if you’re not here in five minutes, I’ll assume you’re not interested—in which case, you can watch the trailer of the video on select Internet sites. And who knows? Maybe on the evening news, too.”

I knew we had him even before he said, “Where are you?”

“Not far from Blush nightclub. There’s an ATM to the club’s right as you’re facing the entrance. That’s the one to use. Oh, and I almost hate to ask this under the circumstances, but could I trouble you to return the camera to me? They’re expensive.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I understand, sir, and I know this is unpleasant, but if you just follow the plan, in five minutes the whole thing will be behind you. And if it makes you feel better, again you’re hardly the first. Vegas, you know what I mean?”

Dox hung up and we moved off to separate slot machines with a view of the ATM. I imagined what Shorrock would be doing now: trying to control his panic, weighing the odds of his thousand dollars buying him what it was supposed to buy, coming up with a story for why the bodyguard outside his room had to stay put and not trail him despite security protocol to the contrary. He only had a few minutes to figure it all out, and again the time pressure would be key to preventing him from coming up with anything we hadn’t foreseen. His most obvious move, aside from compliance, would be to have the bodyguard, or both of them, tail him and move in on Dox when he revealed himself from the casino floor. I didn’t think he’d do it—there wasn’t much upside to a move like that, only a lot of risk—but if he did, we’d stay put and repeat when he returned to his room.

It turned out there was no need to worry: Shorrock came alone. I watched him scanning the casino floor, but there were too many patrons communing with slot machines for him to pick out Dox or me. When he’d passed my position, I got up and made my way to the men’s room. I felt a small adrenaline rush spreading through my trunk and limbs and deliberately breathed slowly and deeply to manage it.

The bathroom was shaped like an L, with sinks along the horizontal axis and urinals and stalls along the vertical. It appeared to be empty. I pulled on the deerskin gloves and quickly checked each stall door to confirm no one was inside. Outside, Dox would be taking Shorrock’s money and explaining that he didn’t have the thumb drive on him—that he’d taped it to the back of the folding diaper-changing table in the farthest stall, the large one designed for handicapped use. The one I now quietly entered, latching the door behind me.

The stall was exceptionally private: high, white marble walls resting on casters just an inch above the tiled floor; close-fitting wood-paneled doors; no cracks or gaps anywhere through which someone might catch a glimpse from without. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, held it for a beat, then slowly released it. I only needed a few seconds alone with him. It was ridiculous I hadn’t found those seconds yet, but I felt like the time was finally at hand.

I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on listening. A moment passed, and I heard a single set of footsteps around the corner of the L. If it was someone else, he might stop at the urinals or the sinks. But the footsteps were moving quickly, deliberately. And they kept coming, past the unoccupied stalls, closer and closer to my position.

Three seconds
, I thought.
It won’t matter if someone walks in after that. Just three seconds.

The footsteps stopped outside the stall door. Someone pulled on the handle. The latch rattled.

“Hey,” a voice called. “Is someone in there?”

Shorrock was an intelligence professional. Even frightened and confused, he might be alerted by an incongruity. I had to keep it natural for as long as I could.

“Yeah, someone’s in here,” I said. “Is this the only stall?”

“Just hurry, okay? It’s an emergency.”

If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have claimed to be handicapped, which would have been calculated to make the current, likely un-handicapped occupant feel guilty and accordingly move more quickly. Apparently, he was under stress sufficient to make that kind of calculation impossible. Which meant he would miss other things, too, or catch on only when it was too late.

I pressed the button on the wall control and the toilet flushed. I wasn’t worried about him recognizing me from one of the restaurants or other venues in which I’d gotten close to him—people don’t usually notice me unless I want them to. But even if he did notice, and wonder, the momentary puzzlement and distraction would work to my advantage.

I unlatched and opened the door, keeping my left hand to my side and slightly behind me and keeping my body close to my other hand as it pushed the door outward and to the right. Gloves would seem weird enough to possibly induce a rapid response, and I didn’t want him to see them until it no longer mattered.

“All right,” I said, “it’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” Shorrock said, shouldering past me. As he did so, I pivoted counterclockwise and popped a palm heel strike into the base of his cranium. Not hard enough to injure his neck or drive him into the marble wall on the other side of the stall, where he could break his nose or lose a tooth. But enough to scramble his circuits for a second at least, which is how long it took me to step inside behind him and latch the door.

He had stumbled from the palm heel but he didn’t fall, and as he started to turn and try to face me, I threw my left arm around his neck, catching his trachea in the crook of my elbow, caught my right bicep, and planted my right hand firmly on the back of his skull.
Hadaka-jime
again, as versatile as it is effective. I tightened everything up, clamping his carotids in the walnut-cracker vice formed by my bicep and forearm, burying my face in his back and turtling it between my shoulders. I felt panic course through his body and he tried to twist away, one way, then the other, neither to any avail. I let him shove me into one of the marble walls and hung on, concentrating on maintaining the correct pressure. Unlike the choke I had put on that giant contractor in Tokyo, which was deliberately deep and cutting, this one was calibrated. It was firm enough to occlude the carotid arteries, but not so deep that it would result in bruising. As any judoka can attest, a proper choke isn’t necessarily painful, and doesn’t even have to interfere with breathing. Strangled on the mat by an expert, you might pass out with almost no distress at all.

I felt him raise a foot to try to stomp my instep, which showed some training, but I easily shifted to avoid the shot. He scrabbled back for my eyes but couldn’t reach them. His twisting and flailing became more frantic. He scratched madly at my hands and arms, but his nails scraped harmlessly against the tape and multiple layers of material. Then, all at once, I felt the tension drain from his torso. His arms dropped limply to his sides and his body sagged against me. I leaned against the wall, breathing evenly, concentrating on the steady pressure. I heard a set of footsteps enter the room, but they stopped at the bend in the L, probably at one of the urinals. It didn’t matter anymore—time was finally on my side. Moments passed, then I heard a toilet flush, the sounds of water running in a sink, paper towels being used and discarded, then footsteps again, this time departing.

When I was sure Shorrock was beyond recovery, I laid him flat on the floor and quickly went through his pockets. All he was carrying was his room key and the camera I’d placed in his room. He must have refused to turn the latter over when Dox told him he’d have to retrieve the thumb drive from the bathroom. Probably he thought he was maintaining some leverage. It didn’t matter. The main thing was, we had it back now, and wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding it in his room and raising suspicions. And having his key was useful, too, in case the times of his coming and going might be stored on it. I didn’t expect that anyone would be investigating, but the less evidence, the better. I took a thousand dollars from one of my pockets and put it in one of Shorrock’s. Probably no one would look into his immediate pre-death ATM withdrawal, but if anyone did, it would look strange if the money weren’t on him.

I examined his fingertips to ensure he hadn’t managed to scrape any skin or hair off me while he was struggling—I hadn’t felt anything, but adrenaline masks pain and it wasn’t impossible that he’d managed to scratch my scalp or pull some hair. I found nothing. I took the sports tape from the blazer pocket and wrapped it sticky side-out around both hands, then methodically patted down the floor under and around Shorrock. The Wynn’s cleaning people must have been pros, because I came up with only a bit of lint and a few strands of pubic and head hair. I had no way of knowing whether any of it came from me, but now it wouldn’t matter. I turned Shorrock over and patted down his back, too, where my face had touched him. A few new hairs, probably his. But again, now a moot point regardless. I unwound the tape carefully over the toilet, balled it up, and pocketed it again. Then I flushed the toilet, eliminating any matter that had fallen into it unseen.

I was almost done. I paused, taking a moment to think, to double check my progress against a mental checklist. Everything was in order. Just one last thing.

I undid Shorrock’s belt, pulled his pants and briefs down to his ankles, and wrestled him into a sitting position on the toilet. Then I stepped back, extending an arm to keep him upright as long as possible. When I withdrew my arm, Shorrock slumped forward and to the right, landing face down on the floor next to the toilet. I knew I hadn’t left a mark on his face or otherwise, but even if I had, the minor damage caused by a fall from the toilet would be adequate explanation. As for the death itself, it would look like some sort of cardiac event—a problem in the plumbing, possibly, or perhaps something electrical. There might be an autopsy: he was prominent enough for that, and there was the anomaly and irony of someone so fitness-obsessed perishing from an apparent heart attack. But when they found nothing, a body devoid of evidence of what had happened or why, wise physicians would stroke their chins and opine about the Brugada syndrome and the long QT syndrome, and potential abnormalities in sodium and potassium channels, and lethal arrhythmias hitting with the destructiveness and unpredictability of rogue waves, all in the same solemn tones that were once the exclusive province of monks invoking the mysteries of the will of God.

I gripped the top of the marble stall divider and listened intently for a moment. Nothing. I pulled myself up, rotated over the edge, and lowered myself to the stall on the other side. I heard someone else come in, so I latched the door and waited, using the extra moment to run through my mental checklist again and ensure I was overlooking nothing. When I heard the latest patron leave, I moved out, pocketing the gloves en route.

I saw Dox sitting at a slot machine outside, watching the entrance, and dipped my head once to let him know it was done. We would call Larison and Treven from the road, giving ourselves a head start, then reconvene later, far from the Wynn. But I wouldn’t tell either of them I’d eschewed the cyanide. Or Horton, for that matter. I prefer people not to know what I can do with my hands. It makes it easier for me to do it to them, if it comes to that.

We’d had some bad luck along the way. A few near misses, or rather, near hits. But it had worked out fine in the end. A perfectly natural-looking death for Shorrock, a clean getaway, an exceptional payday. And maybe, for once, some larger good that would come from all of it. On balance, not a single thing to complain about.

That in itself should have told me something was seriously wrong.