Whitewash (21 page)

The Washington Grand Hotel

Natalie Richards knew this was a courtesy call. No matter who she worked for they didn’t call her because they had to. She’d owe someone big-time and not just Colin Jernigan.

He met her at the door to the hotel suite—the presidential suite. Damn, the bastard—whoever he was—had a sick sense of humor. No way that was some mere coincidence.

“How’d they know to call you?” she wanted to know, whispering to him even though no one else paid attention.

“I was his I.C.E.”

“His what?”

“In case of emergency,” he said matter-of-factly. When the confusion didn’t leave her face he added, “On his cell phone under I.C.E.—in case of emergency. He had my number programmed in.”

Natalie shook her head. So they’d simply lucked out. She didn’t like that.

“It’s not pretty,” Colin told her, shifting her attention, but standing in front of her, maybe giving her a second chance to change her mind.

“I’ve seen not pretty,” she said. “You don’t think I’ve seen things?” Little hard to change her mind now and not look ungrateful. Someone was risking his neck letting her and Colin be here. “You think I grew up in some lily-assed neighborhood?”

Colin wouldn’t buy her bravado, but she could pretend for the rest of them.

She stomped her way past him, determined to make this look like no big deal. Her reputation of being a hard-ass depended on it. But then she stopped cold in the middle of the room. She hadn’t seen anything quite like this. She made herself look at him and hoped to God almighty she didn’t lose her breakfast.

She’d only met the young man once. Now she couldn’t remember exactly when that was. But she did remember it was a State Department dinner for some visiting dignitary, because she remembered the tux. Been a long time since she’d seen a man that comfortable in a tuxedo. As if he’d been born to wear one. Zach Kensor had introduced himself to her like he was some kind of royalty, all cocky and sure of himself. And the kid certainly looked the part, like a tall, blond and bronze Adonis. He could have easily passed for a Hollywood actor. Maybe that’s why Natalie believed he’d do such a good job running a few errands. No one would have pegged him a simple messenger. Or so she thought.

She kept her hands at her sides, resisting the urge to bring them to her face, to cover her eyes. He looked nothing like a messenger now. Nothing like an Adonis, either.

His wrists were tied to the bedposts with what looked like neckties or silk scarves. Blood had splattered everywhere and on everything—the wall, the headboard, the bedsheets, even the room-service tray left on the nightstand. She could smell it, sweet yet rancid like spoiled fruit. She wasn’t sure if it was the blood or the leftovers. It didn’t matter. She’d never be able to order room service again.

It was his eyes that Natalie Richards knew would forever haunt her, blue marbles staring out of a bloody, swollen, mashed and ripped face.

“Definitely personal,” one of the detectives said in reference to her staring.

“Excuse me?”

“The face.” He pointed with his chin. “Nobody makes mincemeat out of the face unless it’s personal.”

This time Natalie’s stomach lurched and she did have to look away.

“The killer wiped everything down,” the detective continued, now addressing Colin.

“How about the room-service menu?” Colin asked, pointing to the leather-bound booklet on the desk across the room.

“Wiped down,” the detective told him.

“Even inside? He may have left prints on the inside cover when he opened it. Looks like the pages might be laminated, too. Sometimes they forget about the inside when they’re wiping things down in a hurry.”

The detective didn’t answer. Instead he went back to the desk and waved over a crime-lab tech, pointing to the menu.

Natalie glanced up at Colin, surprised at the impatience in his tone. It unnerved her to see that usually calm exterior showing frustration. He shifted his weight and dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Only now did she notice that he was wearing tennis shoes and had on a T-shirt under his suit jacket. A restless energy bounced off his body. Even his eyes darted around the room as if he didn’t want to miss anything.

“It was me,” she said to him. “Not you.” Meaning she was the one who’d decided to use this young man as their messenger even though Colin had been his liaison. When he didn’t respond, she thought she needed to elaborate. “I’m the one who hired him. Not you.”

He nodded, but didn’t give her his eyes, and she knew it didn’t matter what she said. He would still blame himself.

“Wait a minute,” she said, the thought only now occurring to her. “You think his killer was the same person who had room service with him?”

The detective glanced back at them like he expected Colin to answer.

“There was no forced entry,” Colin told her. “And no signs of a struggle. I’m guessing whoever he met here ended their evening together by taking the room-service knife and carving him up. I don’t think Zach even saw it coming.”

The Washington Grand Hotel

Natalie Richards knew this was a courtesy call. No matter who she worked for they didn’t call her because they had to. She’d owe someone big-time and not just Colin Jernigan.

He met her at the door to the hotel suite—the presidential suite. Damn, the bastard—whoever he was—had a sick sense of humor. No way that was some mere coincidence.

“How’d they know to call you?” she wanted to know, whispering to him even though no one else paid attention.

“I was his I.C.E.”

“His what?”

“In case of emergency,” he said matter-of-factly. When the confusion didn’t leave her face he added, “On his cell phone under I.C.E.—in case of emergency. He had my number programmed in.”

Natalie shook her head. So they’d simply lucked out. She didn’t like that.

“It’s not pretty,” Colin told her, shifting her attention, but standing in front of her, maybe giving her a second chance to change her mind.

“I’ve seen not pretty,” she said. “You don’t think I’ve seen things?” Little hard to change her mind now and not look ungrateful. Someone was risking his neck letting her and Colin be here. “You think I grew up in some lily-assed neighborhood?”

Colin wouldn’t buy her bravado, but she could pretend for the rest of them.

She stomped her way past him, determined to make this look like no big deal. Her reputation of being a hard-ass depended on it. But then she stopped cold in the middle of the room. She hadn’t seen anything quite like this. She made herself look at him and hoped to God almighty she didn’t lose her breakfast.

She’d only met the young man once. Now she couldn’t remember exactly when that was. But she did remember it was a State Department dinner for some visiting dignitary, because she remembered the tux. Been a long time since she’d seen a man that comfortable in a tuxedo. As if he’d been born to wear one. Zach Kensor had introduced himself to her like he was some kind of royalty, all cocky and sure of himself. And the kid certainly looked the part, like a tall, blond and bronze Adonis. He could have easily passed for a Hollywood actor. Maybe that’s why Natalie believed he’d do such a good job running a few errands. No one would have pegged him a simple messenger. Or so she thought.

She kept her hands at her sides, resisting the urge to bring them to her face, to cover her eyes. He looked nothing like a messenger now. Nothing like an Adonis, either.

His wrists were tied to the bedposts with what looked like neckties or silk scarves. Blood had splattered everywhere and on everything—the wall, the headboard, the bedsheets, even the room-service tray left on the nightstand. She could smell it, sweet yet rancid like spoiled fruit. She wasn’t sure if it was the blood or the leftovers. It didn’t matter. She’d never be able to order room service again.

It was his eyes that Natalie Richards knew would forever haunt her, blue marbles staring out of a bloody, swollen, mashed and ripped face.

“Definitely personal,” one of the detectives said in reference to her staring.

“Excuse me?”

“The face.” He pointed with his chin. “Nobody makes mincemeat out of the face unless it’s personal.”

This time Natalie’s stomach lurched and she did have to look away.

“The killer wiped everything down,” the detective continued, now addressing Colin.

“How about the room-service menu?” Colin asked, pointing to the leather-bound booklet on the desk across the room.

“Wiped down,” the detective told him.

“Even inside? He may have left prints on the inside cover when he opened it. Looks like the pages might be laminated, too. Sometimes they forget about the inside when they’re wiping things down in a hurry.”

The detective didn’t answer. Instead he went back to the desk and waved over a crime-lab tech, pointing to the menu.

Natalie glanced up at Colin, surprised at the impatience in his tone. It unnerved her to see that usually calm exterior showing frustration. He shifted his weight and dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Only now did she notice that he was wearing tennis shoes and had on a T-shirt under his suit jacket. A restless energy bounced off his body. Even his eyes darted around the room as if he didn’t want to miss anything.

“It was me,” she said to him. “Not you.” Meaning she was the one who’d decided to use this young man as their messenger even though Colin had been his liaison. When he didn’t respond, she thought she needed to elaborate. “I’m the one who hired him. Not you.”

He nodded, but didn’t give her his eyes, and she knew it didn’t matter what she said. He would still blame himself.

“Wait a minute,” she said, the thought only now occurring to her. “You think his killer was the same person who had room service with him?”

The detective glanced back at them like he expected Colin to answer.

“There was no forced entry,” Colin told her. “And no signs of a struggle. I’m guessing whoever he met here ended their evening together by taking the room-service knife and carving him up. I don’t think Zach even saw it coming.”

Abda was supposed to pick up the fare he had dropped off just after midnight at the Washington Grand Hotel. He had told Abda to be at the front door at three-thirty but the young man was already thirty minutes late. What could Abda do when another man came out waving for him?

At that time of the morning there were no other cabs waiting. He probably could have told the other man he was off duty, but then why would he be there at four in the morning? And if he had told him he was waiting for a fare who had already booked him, the man would have continued waiting and seen his fare leave the hotel. Abda knew that also would not be good. So he chose to take this man to his destination and hurry back. It was better, Abda had decided, to make his fare wait than to expose him.

Now as he approached the Washington Grand Hotel he could see the front blocked off by police cruisers with flashing lights. An ambulance took up the valet drive-up space. There was nothing Abda could do but park in the next block and walk back to get his fare. He couldn’t keep driving around until the man saw him. It would be impossible. A small group had started to gather, pushed back with yellow crime-scene tape and police officers with ear-piercing whistles and little patience.

If only the other man had waited to hail a cab. If only Abda’s fare had not been late then Abda could be off getting some much-needed sleep instead of trying to politely shove and make his way through this early-morning odd menagerie of street people and churchgoers. Didn’t they have better things to do?

Abda recognized one of the doormen, a Pakistani named Okmar, who had been kind to him several times when Abda had waited to pick up this same fare at odd hours of the morning. He was beginning to think this exchange of favors was getting a bit out of hand with these absurd petty errands.

Abda squeezed past a smelly old woman in a long skirt and a dirty white T-shirt with yellow stains. The woman shot him a look and pulled her bulging black garbage bag closer to her as if worried he might try to grab it. Abda walked on, keeping his anger inside. He grew tired of simpleminded, filthy street bums treating him like a criminal because of his obvious Middle Eastern heritage. Instead, Abda waved at his doorman friend when he looked his way.

Okmar only nodded at him, but came over to the edge of where the crime-scene tape began.

“Did someone fall ill?” Abda asked though he knew very well that it would need to be someone important to get this kind of attention. But in Washington, D.C., it wouldn’t be unusual.

Okmar leaned closer to Abda and in a low voice just above a whisper he said, “Someone got himself murdered.”

Abda was taken aback. His eyes darted around the small group and then he looked to see if he recognized his fare inside the lobby through the windows. All the police activity may have simply made him take another exit.

“Any idea who the poor bastard was?” Abda asked Okmar, only because he looked anxious to tell someone.

“A young man. Rumor is he worked for a senator.”

Abda nodded, feigning surprise though he wondered why anyone would be surprised. It was impossible to go anywhere without meeting someone who worked for a senator or congressman.

“Do you know how he was murdered?” Abda asked, only slightly curious. But Okmar’s eyes widened and he glanced around.

“They haven’t said. But I heard one of them say something about it being…what is the word?” Okmar said, struggling to remember then brightening when he did. He whispered, “
Kinky.
That was what he said.” And he looked at Abda to see that he understood, so Abda raised his eyebrows to show he knew indeed.

They heard a whistle blow and Okmar jumped to attention, returning to his post as the hotel doors opened and they brought out the stretcher. Abda noticed there was no black body bag, only a sheet wrapped tightly from head to foot. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe he had watched too much American TV.

He had a perfect view of the back of the ambulance, so he stayed and watched, his fare probably long gone as soon as he saw the commotion. Just as the stretcher jerked and slid into the ambulance the dead man’s wrist slipped out from under the sheet. There was a gasp from the voyeurs, the vultures pressing over the crime-scene tape to get a better look. Abda started to turn away when he saw the flash of something metallic hanging from the dead man’s wrist. He recognized the gold bracelet.

He may have been mistaken. It was absolutely possible. But this would explain why his fare who had never dared to be late before had been late this morning. Abda had a feeling—what the Americans called a gut instinct—that there would be no more favors for a while.

No, Abda knew it was time for them to move on to Florida.