The Devil's Punchbowl (35 page)

 

“Sir, I’m afraid this is one of the most crowded weekends of the year, and—”

 

Walt cuts the boy off with a withering glare. “Listen, son, let’s skip the formalities and get your supervisor in on this, so we can have an executive decision. Hotels always keep a couple rooms on standby for when they make mistakes, like you’re making now. You just tell your boss to release one of ’em, and everything will be fine.”

 

“Mr. Gilchrist, I don’t think you understand the—”

 

“Supervisor,” Walt cuts in. “Boss man,
jefe
—are you reading me? Call whoever you got to call to make this right.”

 

Walt turns away from the desk and walks toward a long, black grand piano that looks like an idling limousine awaiting a driver. He begins hammering out “Chopsticks,” drawing curious and annoyed glances from the guests in the lobby.

 

“Mr. Gilchrist?” Brad calls. “Sir?”

 

Walt doesn’t stop banging the keys, but he cuts his eyes toward the desk. “I’ll bet you’ve got some good news for me.”

 

“Well, actually, it turns out that we do have an unexpected checkout. If you don’t mind a room that hasn’t been made up yet?”

 

Walt laughs good-naturedly. “Son, before I struck it big, I stayed in places a cockroach would have run from. You just print me out a key. I’m ready to get down to one of them boats and lose some money.”

 

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

 

Walt looks around and sighs expansively. “Seems like a lot going on for this town. This ain’t Pilgrimage month, is it?”

 

“No, sir. It’s the Balloon Festival. The only reason this room is free is because we had a problem this morning with the flight.”

 

Walt’s inner sentry goes on alert. “What kind of problem?

 

“Well, someone took a shot at one of the balloons.”

 

“I’ll be dogged. Kill anybody?”

 

“No, sir. But they did have to crash-land the balloon. And the mayor was in it.”

 

“The mayor?” Walt barks a laugh as he thinks this through. If Penn had been badly hurt, Tom would have called despite instructions not to save in dire emergency. “No kidding? He make it?”

 

“He’s fine. They just had a hard landing.”

 

“He must have pissed somebody off, huh? Wrote the wrong ordinance or something. I’ve known a couple mayors I wouldn’t have minded shooting.”

 

“They think it was squirrel hunters.”

 

“I’ll be dogged,” Walt says again. “Balloons flying tomorrow?”

 

“Yes, sir, Sunday too. But everybody’s nervous, and some of the pilots have left town. It’s a pilot’s room you’re taking tonight.”

 

“Sounds like I owe the lone gunman a favor. Otherwise I wouldn’t have a room in this fine establishment.”

 

The clerk slides a form toward him. “If you’ll just initial here, and here, and sign at the bottom. Please note the fine for smoking in the room.”

 

“Hell, I’ll just pay you now.”

 

Brad frowns. “It’s two hundred and fifty dollars, Mr. Gilchrist.”

 

Walt laughs like a man for whom $250 is a minute’s pay, then signs his name with a flourish. “Just pulling your chain, Brad.”

 

As the clerk tries to pull back the form, Walt leans in close. “Say, what’s the action like around here?”

 

Brad looks confused. “The casinos are all beneath the bluff. Our concierge can help you with anything else, but he’s busy right now.”

 

Walt slides a $100 bill across the desk. “I’m talking about girls, Brad. I know where the gambling is, but that’s only half the party. I’ve been hankering for a colored girl, to tell you the truth. Been a
while, you know? This seems like the right town for that. They got girls on the boats or what?”

 

Obviously offended, the clerk lets his voice take on a haughty tone. “I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

 

“What about cockfighting? I know you got some of that around here. That’s the kind of action I’m talking about. Blood sport.”

 

Brad straightens up and squares his shoulders. “Sir, if you don’t mind, there are people waiting.”

 

Walt snatches back the bill. “You’re in the wrong job, sonny. You say the concierge is busy? You got an elevator man? Somebody around a hotel has to know what’s what.”

 

The clerk’s cheeks are red. “Will you be needing help with your luggage?”

 

“I need a bellboy who can earn that C-note with some useful information, that’s what I need.”

 

“Perhaps someone can help you on one of the boats.”

 

Walt walks away muttering loudly, “I never heard of a deskman in an oil town who don’t know nothin’ ’bout the local trim.” He turns and shouts, “Send a bottle of Maker’s Mark up to my room from the bar. You know what that is, don’t you?”

 

“A full bottle?”

 

“Jesus, Brad, where’d they find you? I want whiskey, and if you’ve got a pretty maid who can bring it up, send her up with it.”

 

There was a time when the way he’d behaved in the last five minutes wouldn’t have shocked any hotel man in the South, and not many around the country.
I guess times do change,
Walt thinks.
But not that much.
The clerk would gripe to somebody about the old asshole he’d had to deal with, then repeat what Walt had asked for, and soon enough, like ripples in the proverbial pond, word would reach the proper ear. It was simply a matter of waiting.

 

Any fisherman could tell you that.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER
25

 

 

“Do you have any food in your backpack?” Caitlin asks. “I think better when I’m eating.”

 

“No food, sorry.”

 

She’s pacing the supply room of the
Natchez Examiner,
studying my handwritten transcription of the text message Chief Logan showed me, the one Tim sent to Linda Church shortly before he died. I’ve told Caitlin all I know of the case so far, but true to character, she has set aside the larger questions to focus on an immediate challenge. She’s something of a savant with puzzles, and nothing if not obsessive in all pursuits.

 

“I don’t think this is a password,” she murmurs to herself. “It’s too long, plus it’s counterintuitive. Have you gone to this URL, www.thief.com?”

 

“Yes. I don’t see how the site could be related to any of this. And there’s no dot-com in the text message. We’re just assuming that one follows.”

 

“Right, right. What
is
in the backpack?”

 

“A gun and a satellite phone.”

 

She looks up, checking to see if I’m joking. When she sees I’m not, her gaze drops back to the message. “I suppose there could be more to the Web address, and Tim knew Linda would know what the rest
of it was. But if that’s the case, we’re not going to find that without Linda. Not easily, anyway.”

 

“Obviously it could be a code of some kind, but it’s not simple enough for me to break it.”

 

“Maybe,” Caitlin concedes. “But the words that follow don’t appear to be random. ‘Kill mommy. Squirt too.’ But they don’t actually say that, do they? Are these letters exactly what you saw in the police station?”

 

“I think so, yes.”

 

“And you don’t believe Tim would have tried to get rid of his wife and kid to run off with this Linda woman?”

 

“No way in hell. He lived for that kid. I’ll be surprised if it turns out he was even having an affair with Linda.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

Caitlin makes another tight circuit of the room, then stops with her forefinger on the paper. “You know what?” she says, her voice suddenly bright with excitement.

 

“What?”

 

“I think this message is just what it looks like!”

 

“Which is what?”

 

“A text message.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Just a second.” She rummages through her purse, then pulls out a small flat pen and a business card. Setting them aside, she taps at the keys of her cell phone for half a minute. Then, after scrawling on the back of the card for a few seconds, she drops the pen back in her purse and shoves the card at me with a look of triumph. “There you go. There’s your message.”

 

I look down and read aloud what she’s written: “
They know. Run.
Is that it?”

 

“That’s it.”

 

“So he was warning her to get off the boat?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“How did you get that?”

 

“The cell phone Tim used to send this message was in predictive text mode. Either he didn’t know that or he forgot, and he typed the message without looking at the screen. Otherwise he would have
seen what was happening to his intended message. Was this sent from his personal phone?”

 

“I don’t…yes. This actually makes sense. He was being chased in his car. He couldn’t take time to try to use his extra phones, or even to look down at his own phone.”

 

“A lot of girls I know can do that,” Caitlin muses. “Not so many guys.”

 

“Tim probably could.”

 

“But he didn’t warn her in time. Did he?”

 

“I don’t think so. I think Linda Church is dead. Or worse.”

 

“What’s worse?” I actually see the memory of my describing Tim’s tortured body come back to Caitlin. “Oh. Never mind.”

 

I turn over the card she gave me.
Zeitgeist Films HD.
“Ah. Your friend.” She gives me a look like
Give me a break,
but I don’t. “What’s the deal with that guy? What did you tell him?”

 

“He had interviews to do in New Orleans. I didn’t.”

 

“Does he expect you down there?”

 

“Not so much. Look, he was starting to get on my nerves, if you want to know the truth.”

 

“And this little adventure gives you a good excuse to blow him off.”

 

“You don’t want me to blow him off?”

 

“I just need to know I can count on you being here for three or four days. Without interference.”

 

“The answer is yes. And don’t forget, I’m already paying my way. I just broke your code for you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Should we tell anyone else?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then can we get out of here and get some food?”

 

“Not if you want to keep talking about the case.”

 

She gives me a crafty smile, says, “Give me forty seconds,” then leaves the supply room. She returns in less time than that, a set of keys with a Chrysler ring in her hand.

 

“This van is a mess, but there’s no way it’s bugged. No one would even get into it without a hazmat suit. Come on. We can talk in there.”

 

Walking out to the van, I scan the parking lot and the street. I don’t see anyone watching, but that doesn’t mean anything.

 

As predicted, the van is a wreck, but I do feel more secure in it. The best way to beat surveillance—or even terrorists—is to abandon all patterns, to make random decisions. This is a good one.

 

Caitlin drives us over to Franklin Street, where a recent arrival has opened a Greek fast-food joint in an old fried-chicken restaurant. He still serves fried chicken and catfish, but now the black section of town—where this restaurant is—is getting a taste of pita and souvlaki. So far, the place is still open, and it has a drive-through window.

 

“So what about your high school girl?” Caitlin asks, after ordering gyro plates to go for both of us. “You two still talk?”

 

“Give me a break. You know nothing happened.”

 

Her eyebrows arch for a split second. “So you say. Still at Harvard?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I thought she might flunk out, pining away for you and all.”

 

I shake my head and look away, pressing back thoughts of Mia Burke and what she might be doing tonight. She has e-mailed me several times, and I have responded twice. But I have kept her at a remove.

 

“So, what are you
doing
about Tim’s death?” Caitlin asks. “I still haven’t heard a plan of action.”

 

“Daniel Kelly’s on his way here from Afghanistan. He should be here early tomorrow morning. Like six a.m.”

 

“That’s a good first step. Rambo with a blond ponytail.”

 

“Sometimes that’s what you need.”

 

“Oh, I know. I was kidding. What about the local cops? You don’t think you can trust Chief Logan?”

 

“I think it’s more a matter of him not knowing who he can trust.”

 

“Will he work Tim’s murder, at least?”

 

“I don’t think it matters much, unless he finds a smoking gun. Which he won’t. Even if he did, Shad Johnson could still make it difficult to prosecute the people involved.”

 

“And of course the FBI hates your guts.”

 

“There are still a couple of people there I think I could talk to. I’ve thought about calling Peter Lutjens, just to have him troll through the computers for what can turn up on Jonathan Sands.” Lutjens is
an agent who works in the Puzzle Palace—FBI headquarters—and has access to almost everything in their digital data banks.

 

“You nearly got him fired last time,” Caitlin reminds me.

 

“Not ‘nearly.’ He was fired.”

 

“They reinstated him.”

 

“The point is, Peter might be able to help, but I’m reluctant to put him in the same position again. I also worry that any query on Sands might trigger some kind of automatic response.”

 

“Okay, there’s my problem with this. How could a guy working in a casino in Natchez, Mississippi, be that important?”

 

“If we knew that, our problems would be over.”

 

The window attendant hands Caitlin a white bag, and she pays with a credit card. As we pull away, she plucks a triangle of pita bread from the bag and eats it in a bite. “Food of the gods,” she says. “What about the Chinese angle? In the post-9/11 world, surely foreign investors in American casinos must be investigated by the CIA, even if the gaming commission gives them a pass because they have a nominally small share.”