Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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back our strangers-in-the-night scenario.

His eyes met mine, sheared off. His lips were tight, all feeling held in check.

“You had no idea why Gordon was terrified?”

We had already been over this, so I wasn’t sure why Rossini was angling around again.

I said, “I thought I had a pretty good idea. I was wrong. I thought he was being

harassed, bullied by other kids. I assumed it was student hazing, something like that. I had no

idea that it might tie into this…thing in the papers.”

This multiple homicide thing in the papers, that is.

“You thought he was the victim of hazing? But he was a grad student. He was working

as a teaching assistant. How likely is it that someone like that would be targeted that way?”

Rossini must not have gone to college. “It happens,” I said.

“Oh, for Chrissake, Rossini,” Jake said, bored. “English acted like a good citizen. Why

are you giving him a hard time? Look, we’ve got places to go and perps to talk to.”

This was so far out of line that Rossini almost couldn’t swallow his anger. He stopped

writing. He didn’t tap his pencil, he didn’t move a muscle. I was guessing that he was the

senior officer in this investigation. He could probably have Jake removed from the case if he

chose.

I said, “I admit I didn’t think it through. I just threw money at the problem.”

Rossini snorted as though this were a common mistake that led to countless cult

murders.

He asked me a few clipped questions about my encounter with Kinsey, which I

instinctively downplayed. Rossini resumed jotting his notes.

There was a lull in the questioning. I said, without thinking, “Do you think any of this

has to do with Gabriel Savant’s disappearance?”

They scrutinized me.

Rossini said, “Gabriel who?”

“The mystery writer who disappeared a couple of days ago,” Jake supplied without

inflection.

“Why would there be a connection?”

I had already explained all this over the phone to the cops handling Savant’s missing

person case. They hadn’t been impressed with my story, and I had to admit, hearing myself

now, it did sound like I might be the kind of guy who wore aluminum foil hats in the

privacy of my own home.

“He writes about the occult. When he did a signing here last Friday night, he

announced that his next book would be an expose of a local cult.”

I saw the first glimmer of humor on Rossini’s morose puss.

“And you think the secret cult snatched this Gabriel dude?”

“I don’t think anything.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. “He thought it. I mean, he

seemed fearful that something like that might happen.”

“He expressed to you a fear that he might be kidnapped?”

“Sort of. Nothing that concrete. He said stuff that –” I caught Jake’s chilly eye and

stumbled. “He mentioned a group called Blade Sable.”

“Say what? Black Sable? Sounds like a cartoon character,” Rossini commented. Adding,

“I think we’ll leave your mystery writer to the boys in Missing Persons.”

My face must have made my thoughts clear. He said affably, “You have to understand,

Mr. English. Cults are like big business. What we’re looking at here is more of a mom-and–

pop operation.”

There was a quaint analogy. Murder, Inc.

“You’re not exploring the possibility that these murders are cult-related?”

“We’re taking a look at a couple of scenarios. But you’ve got to remember that there are

more movies about cults than there are genuine real live cults. You can’t hide a whole cult,”

Rossini explained. “Nowadays you can’t really hide anything,” he finished, and glanced

briefly at Jake.

Something in that quick look, in the mildness of his tone, made me uneasy.

He asked more routine questions, while Jake preserved impassive silence, then finally

slapped shut his notebook, stood, and thanked me curtly for my time.

I moved to the door. Jake followed Rossini out without a backward glance.

I didn’t think much about Jake. I didn’t even worry much about whether I had

managed to convince Rossini that I was a harmless goof. My attention zeroed in on the sight

of Velvet hurrying up the aisle toward the front desk.

The self-conscious line of her back, the guilty haste with which she moved, gave me

the distinct impression she had been hovering outside the office.

Had she been listening through the door?

Chapter Twelve

“So they’ve arrested Angus,” Guy remarked at last.

I nodded, selected another home-baked chip from the sandwich basket.

We had agreed to meet for a late lunch at the Corner Bakery Cafe in Westwood. Guy

had an hour and a half before he had to head back to UCLA for his evening course on the

“History of Terror: Mystics, Heretics, and Witches in the Western Tradition.”

We’d ordered at the counter, found an empty table in the corner, wasted about ten

minutes in awkward small talk before Guy got down to it. I didn’t particularly mind. The

cafe smelled of warm baking bread, and the muted Christmas carols playing in the

background were sort of soothing. I was dead tired and glad for a moment’s respite.

I asked, “Did you know Kinsey Perone? The girl Angus is accused of murdering?”

“Know her? No.” Avoiding my gaze, he said, “She could have taken a class or attended a

lecture series. Her picture looked familiar, but then, they all look alike after a while.”

I described Kinsey’s accomplice right down to her pink heart-shaped glasses. “She was

in that lecture you gave on the occult in popular film and fiction.”

Reluctantly, Guy said, “It sounds like Betty Sansone.”

Betty? What kind of evil henchgirl is named Betty?

“Why?” Guy questioned, his gaze finally direct on mine.

I told him why. Sort of. I told him that Kinsey and Betty had paid me a visit the day

before. I left out how I spent my evening.

“That doesn’t sound like Betty. She’s smart and focused. I wish I had more like her.”

I let it go. “Guy, would you have a list of the students who were in the Practical Magic

class you taught a year or so ago?”

“No,” he said crisply. “As I explained to that cop investigating Tony Zellig’s death, roll

books are turned in at the end of the semester. I’ve got enough to do keeping my current

class load straight without hanging on to out-of-date seating charts and test scores.”

If by “that cop” he meant Jake, I had news for him. Nothing stopped Jake. He’d go

straight to the college administration to get what he needed.

I could be stubborn too, but I didn’t have Jake’s resources.

“Well, when you said you had talked to the kids who you believed were involved in

harassing Angus, who did you talk to?”

He shifted in his chair, an unconsciously evasive movement. “I spoke to one former

student. He denied any involvement, and I believe him. I gave his name to that asshole cop,

but I’m not comfortable sharing it with you. I feel that would be a breach of ethics.”

By which, I deduced, the student was someone with whom Guy had remained friendly.

I sipped my cappuccino, wondering if Jake had talked to this former student, and what the

result had been. It was a sure bet that he wouldn’t rely on Guy’s endorsement.

A group of students sat at a table close to us. I lowered my voice. “Have you ever heard

of a group called Blade Sable?”

“Blade what?”

“Sable.”

“No. What is it?”

“I don’t know. A secret cult?” I was smiling, and he laughed.

The laugh seemed genuine. Maybe Blade Sable really was a figment of Gabe Savant’s

vivid imagination.

“You realize that Christianity was once a secret cult,” he remarked.

We ate in silence for a few moments, then Guy said, “I don’t believe that Angus is

capable of…that.”

“Of murder? I think everyone is capable, given the right set of circumstances.”

“Of killing, yes. Of murder, no.” Those jade green eyes studied me. “I don’t believe you,

for example, are capable of murder.”

“You haven’t seen me when someone’s check bounces or customers put books on the

wrong shelves.”

His lean brown cheek creased in a smile. “Terrifying to behold, no doubt. But in fact, I

wasn’t thinking of murder. I was thinking about this whole situation. Angus is a follower. It’s

not in character for him to strike out on his own.”

No pun intended? I said, “I agree. Granted, my ego is involved. It’s hard for me to

believe that I could have employed a serial killer for a year and never noticed any of the

symptoms.”

He forked a pile of greens neatly into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“Maybe Wanda’s the mastermind?” I suggested, joking.

Guy made an expression of distaste. “Wanda’s sole interests are getting high and getting

laid. I can’t picture her wasting valuable stoner hours on murder.”

I selected another chip, then tossed it back in the basket. I didn’t know Wanda well,

but I thought his assessment accurate. She seemed to be strong-willed, but all her will was

concentrated on partying. I expected serial killers to have more of a work ethic.

Guy pushed his plate aside and folded his arms on the table. “The police are satisfied

that they’ve got the right person: one madman and his girlfriend involved in the occult,

picking and choosing their victims at random. They’re not going to keep digging.”

“That’s my guess.”

He sighed. “But you’re not satisfied. You honestly believe there’s an evil organization

out there, don’t you?”

“I don’t know how organized they are – if they’re anything like Angus.”

He made an exasperated sound.

I said, still keeping my voice low, “Look, the cult thing is probably a figment of a

writer’s imagination. But we both agree that we don’t believe Angus committed this murder,

which means someone else did. Someone vandalized my shop. Someone killed these other

two UCLA students. And your Betty Sansone may be Student of the Month, but she was

pretty damn close to committing assault yesterday. So maybe it’s not a cult. Maybe it’s a

clique. Call it what you want. Call it a social club, but at least consider the possibility that

there is one – and likely more – person out there with homicidal tendencies and an interest

in the occult.”

“The police may have arrested the wrong person, but to leap to the conclusion that

there’s an entire cult out there –” He shook his head.

“Forget about the cult,” I said impatiently, ignoring the interest this elicited at the table

next to us. “Say it is one person. Are you genuinely okay with knowing that this psycho is

still out there? You’re talking about someone who can carve another human into pieces –

and use her blood for writing deranged messages to the great beyond.”

Guy gave me an odd look. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

Had the papers not carried the part about the pentagram being written in the victim’s

blood? I couldn’t remember. I reached for my cappuccino, took a long drink. I set the cup

down deliberately and said, “Who’s this guy you said I should meet?”

He didn’t answer, instead drawing out a pipe. Then he seemed to recollect his

surroundings, putting it away again. He said at last, “Have you ever heard of Oliver

Garibaldi?”

“The Oliver Garibaldi? I ordered a copy of The Devil’s Disciple this morning.”

His eyebrows rose. “Did you?”

I nodded. “He’s pretty much acknowledged as one of the foremost living experts in the

occult, right?”

“Right. In particular, he’s an expert on Satanism.” He studied me thoughtfully. “He

lives part of the year in France and part of the year in California. In Los Angeles, in fact.”

“That’s convenient.”

He grimaced. “Please don’t place any sinister significance in the fact that Oliver lives in

a county of over ten million people.”

“I won’t. It is convenient, though.”

“Nothing happens on the occult scene that Oliver is not aware of. He’d be able to find

out if there’s any truth to this theory of yours about a secret cult – or whether these killings

are the work of one freak on acid. He’s helped the police once or twice in the past.”

I wondered if the police would be consulting him any time soon, and whether that

might let me in for another chat with Detective Rossini. I decided that the police were

content with Angus in the role of Public Enemy No. 1 and wouldn’t bother contacting

Garibaldi.

“When can I meet him?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t discussed it with him yet. He’s out of town till the weekend.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

He looked faintly irritated.

“That was the idea, right?”

He leaned forward, said quietly, “You do realize what you’re asking of me, yes? You do

realize that if this – these murders culminated out of my course of study, I will be held

ultimately responsible. I’ll be ruined.”

“I thought they expected you to be controversial at UCLA?”

“I believe the Board of Regents draws the line at sacrificial murder.”

“I can’t do this on my own.”

He said resentfully, “I know. And that would be better for you. And better for me.”

“Not better for Angus.”

“Fuck. Does it occur to you that you could be wrong? We could both be wrong?

Perhaps Angus did snap. Perhaps he did kill those people. And if he didn’t, well, we have to

assume the police aren’t complete idiots. This is what we pay them for, isn’t it?”

“Guy –”

He made a brusque gesture, an I-Don’t-Want-To-Hear-It gesture.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Guy,” I said. “I think if you didn’t intend to help

me, you wouldn’t have shown today.”

The green eyes met mine. “I showed up today because I believe if you continue to ask

these questions you will put yourself in danger,” he said crisply. “I wanted to make sure you

realize what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Fair enough.”

A jazz rendition of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” filled the not-so-merry silence

between us.

He gave a peculiar laugh. “And…perhaps I wanted to see you again.”

I met his eyes, and my heart did one of those freaky triple beats – probably the

caffeine-laden cappuccino.

“Oh.”

I had sussed he was gay. I had even kind of thought there was maybe a spark of

electricity there. You can tell, although I’m not sure how it is that you can tell; it’s to do with

the release of pheromones or the dilation of the pupils or…well, you can tell, that’s all. Still, I

wondered. You date a cop for nine months. A little skepticism is bound to rub off.

“You intrigue me,” he added dryly.

“Uh, thanks.”

I intrigued him? You don’t hear a lot of that in my line of work. I admit that I was

flattered – though still unconvinced. Which didn’t mean that I didn’t find him attractive. I

did. He was an odd mix. That hard, lithe body; his sensual, rather cynical face…the pipe, the

books, the fact that he wasn’t afraid to be seen with me. Yeah, maybe I recognized that spark

of electricity because it wasn’t one-sided.

His smile held a hint of self-mockery, “I take it from your guarded response that you’re

seeing someone?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

He caught the hesitation. “Well,” he said lightly. “Should the situation change – that is,

assuming you don’t get yourself killed –”

“That would certainly be a change,” I agreed.

* * * * *

I watched Guy zip off down Westwood Boulevard in his shiny red Miata, while I sat in

my car listening to my voice mail. Jake had left a message on my cell phone.

I studied the familiar number with a strange lack of feeling, hit Play Message. Short

and not particularly sweet. “I’ll call you later.”

Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe, baby.

I turned the key in the ignition. As I pulled out, I noticed a red Corolla, the same color

as Guy’s Miata, pulled behind after me.

The radio buzzed with the latest update on Angus – which didn’t appear to be

anything. There was no news about missing author Gabriel Savant – by which I mean he

wasn’t so much as mentioned. That seemed atypical.

On impulse, I made tracks over to the Biltmore Hotel where Bob Friedlander was

staying.

The Biltmore is pretty much of a historical landmark. Built back in the ’20s, it’s

provided room and board for kings, presidents, and celebrities for decades, but what I find

most intriguing about it is that this is the last place the Black Dahlia was seen alive before

strolling off into the night and the annals of unsolved mystery. They actually serve a cocktail

called the Black Dahlia in the Gallery Bar.

I noticed the red Corolla that had been following me since Westwood had finally

dropped off. Not that I had actually thought it was following me, I mean, too funny if Satan’s

minions are tailing people in devil red vehicles. I parked one block from the hotel at

Pershing Square – not the greatest part of town – walking past the temporary skating rink

where skaters glided and spun – and fell – to Christmas music and then worked my way

through the usual television and film crews stationed outside the Biltmore.

I remembered from an earlier conversation with Friedlander that he and Savant were

staying in the Music Suite. I scrutinized my Day Planner and was pleased to note that I had

actually jotted the room number down along with various notes for the signing.

I stepped into an elevator crowded with a high-spirited group of ladies making their

way back to their rooms following the Holiday Afternoon Tea. Judging from the winks and

smirks I got, they had dosed themselves liberally with eggnog.

I found the room without trouble, knocked several times before the door opened a

crack. Bob Friedlander’s bloodshot eye peered out.

“Yes?”

“Hi, Bob. It’s Adrien English. Gabe signed at my store last Friday night.”

“Right, right.” He curved his lips, but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “What can I do for

you?”

“I stopped by to see if there was any word.”

“No. No word.”

“I’m sorry. Can I help in any way?”

He stared at me strangely for a long moment, then he backed, allowing me into the

room.

I stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, but I made out creamy walls and dark, elegant

furniture. A bowl of orchids sat on a low table covered with papers and books and maps.

There was a decorative fireplace and a grand piano. The white French shutters were closed.

It was hot and stuffy. Gloomy classical music played from another room in the suite.

As Bob stepped back from the door, he withdrew his hand from the sagging pocket of

his oversized bathrobe. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. It wasn’t that Bob was

happy to see me. Sure as hell, that was a gun in his bathrobe pocket.

I dragged my gaze away from the disquieting bulge in Bob’s dressing gown and noticed

that there was a laptop set on the desk. Next to it a printer shot out crisp, typed pages. A

pristine printed stack sat to the side.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Sure.”

There was a bottle of Jack Daniels next to a silver ice bucket. Bob poured two drinks,

drank half of one down, then topped it again. I’ve had nights like that – though not many

afternoons – and I sympathized.

I took the glass he handed me. “Do the police have any leads?”

“The police? The police?” He laughed wildly, threw himself into the chair across from

me.

See, this is why it’s always a good idea to call before dropping in on people – it’s so

awkward when you catch them in the manic phase.

“The police are investigating, right?” I said cautiously. “Don’t they have any theories on

what happened?”

He leaned forward, said bleakly, “Do you think it doesn’t reach to the police

department?”

Beyond the distant roar of downtown traffic, I heard the theme from the Twilight

Zone playing. Or maybe the Mephisto Waltz .

“Do I think what doesn’t reach to the police department?”

He glared at me. Apparently he was afraid to say The Word. “Like you really don’t

know,” he said bitterly, at last.

“I really don’t know.”

“Then I’m sorry for you.” He took another gulp from his glass. “Because you’re

probably next.”

I lowered my glass. “Why would I be next?”

“Why not? They targeted you, didn’t they? The Sign of the Demon?”

“How do you know about that?”

He didn’t answer. I guess good news traveled fast in Bob’s circle.

I tried to inspect him without being too obvious about it. He didn’t look well: his face

puffy, eyes red-rimmed, lips chapped. He needed a shave. In fact, he needed a bath.

I asked, “Did the disk ever show up?”

He shook his head. “They have it. They have Gabe. But they don’t have me. And

they’re not going to get me. They may get you , but they’re not getting me.”

I sighed, wishing he’d stop with the they’re gonna get you riff. “You shared all this

with the police?”

“The police think this is all a publicity stunt.”

“Why would they think that?”

He glared at me. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Oh, I explained it, as much as I know.

But I don’t know much, do I? No. Because Gabe had to keep it all to himself; this was his

project, his baby, so I don’t know anything. There isn’t any reason for them to come after

me. Unless Gabe lied to save his own skin.”

I ignored most of that. “But why would the police think that this is a publicity stunt?”

“Because someone” – he leaned so far forward that he nearly tipped out of his chair –

“some anonymous person called the cops and told them that Gabe had a habit of

taking…stress breaks.”

Stress breaks? Did that mean a drinking binge or booking time at a private hospital?

“He does?”

He gave me another of those red-rimmed glares.

“So…the police think that Gabe disappeared voluntarily?”

He jerked a nod. “So they say,” he said thickly, at last.

“Is that a possibility?”

He said dully, “No. Not this time.”

But other times. That did kind of change matters, at least from the police perspective.

“How long do these stress breaks usually last?”

He got up as though he couldn’t bear to sit still any longer. The metal object in his

drooping bathrobe pocket knocked loudly against the end table, and I flinched. I hoped the

thing didn’t go off while I was in the room.

Refreshing his drink, he answered, “A few days. A week once. But that time was

different. He got married that time.”

I counted backward. Gabe had been gone six days so far.

“So he’s married?”

Bob made a wet sound between a snort and a raspberry – not very attractive. “No. It

lasted eight months.”

“Might he have met someone? Or is there already someone in his life? Girlfriend,

maybe?”

“Several. He’s the proverbial chick magnet.”

Okay, so he wasn’t gay. And he and Bob were definitely not involved. If anything, Bob

was jealous of Gabe’s success with women.

“Does he have any kids?”

“God, no.” He looked at me like I’d suggested something truly aberrant.

“Does he have any enemies?”

He gaped at me. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. You seem sure that he didn’t take off on his own volition. Maybe he

was…kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped!”

“Well, he’s fairly wealthy, I assume?”

A funny look crossed Bob’s face. He slowly put the glass to his mouth and drank, his

eyes unfocused.

“His publisher would pay to get him back, I’m guessing.”

“He wasn’t kidnapped!”

“No? No ransom note? No demands?”

I didn’t think for a moment that Gabe had been kidnapped. If he had been, law

enforcement would have been all over the case. I wanted to hear what Bob had to say on the

subject.

“These people don’t want ransom!”

“You said the night of the signing that Gabe was under a lot of pressure. If he did take

off on his own, where would he go? Would he go home?”

“New England in the winter?” He gave a short laugh. “Not likely. He prefers the

sunnier climes.” He laughed unsteadily and raised his glass again. “Some like it hot, that’s

what they say, right?”

“Did he change his will after he was divorced?”

“No. Yes.” He slopped his drink. “I don’t remember.” He stared at me. “What kind of a

question is that? In fact, why are you asking all these questions?”

I said apologetically, “I guess it’s the mystery writer in me.”

He continued to stare at me in glassy-eyed offense.

I decided to push my luck. “You and Gabe must be pretty close after all these years?”

“Yeah, we’re close. We’re like brothers.” He held up two intertwined fingers, which is

not actually how I think of brothers. “We’ve been together since…for…you know? And I do

not like your insinuations.”

The interview was going down the drain fast. I needed to make it quick, before the last

of Bob’s coherency dissolved like the ice in the booze. I said, placating, “I’m not insinuating

anything, Bob. I just wonder if there was another explanation for Gabe’s disappearance.”

“I’ve told you what happened to him. I told the police. No one wants to believe me.”

He shuffled back to his chair, sat down, letting his head fall back against the cushions.

“How did you find out someone painted an inverted pentagram on my doorstep?”

“Gabe saw it. He saw that you had tried to wash it out, but he knew from the shape.”

Eyes closed, he drew a circle in the air, then wiggled his finger in an air-doodle.

Now that was interesting. That meant that Savant hadn’t disappeared straight after

leaving my shop. He had hooked up with Bob at least one final time. Yet, if I had understood

the newspaper account correctly, according to Bob, he hadn’t seen or spoken to Gabe after he

had gone out that morning.

I didn’t say anything, sipped my drink.

Bob went very still. “Oh, I see,” he whispered. He opened his eyes.

“What do you see?” He seemed to have focused on a point over my left shoulder. I

glanced uneasily over my shoulder, half-expecting to see an ectoplasmic manifestation.

“I think you better leave,” he said, sitting up, reaching for the phone. “Before I call

hotel security.”

“Uh…okay.” I preferred hotel security to being shot, and I was relieved that he hadn’t

remembered that option.

I put my glass down. I let myself out while Bob still struggled to get out of his chair.

On the elevator ride down, I kept thinking over what he’d said. Gabe had to keep it all

to himself, this was his project, his baby … But weren’t they all?

I stepped out of the elevator in the lobby in time to see Betty Sansone and a Harry

Potter look-alike, both garbed in those long, black, leather duster-style coats, stepping into

another one. Young guns from the fifth dimension.

Straightaway, I tried to crowd back on the elevator, but was too late. The doors shut. I

moved to the next one and punched the button, waiting impatiently. Passing guests gave me

reproving glances.

At last the elevator opened. I stepped in, pressed the button for Bob Friedlander’s floor.

Before the doors shut, an elderly couple boarded. The man was bowed beneath the weight of

shopping bags stuffed with white and silver wrapped Christmas presents. The woman carried

an apricot toy poodle. Which is to say, it was a live poodle, but one of those pocket-sized,

yappy ones. It wasn’t yapping at the moment, but its lip had caught on its tiny incisor in a

sneer, as though it knew what I was thinking.

“Six,” the elderly man rapped out.

“Sorry?”

“Six,” he said impatiently. “Six. Six. Six.”

I pressed the button for the sixth floor.

We started our slow ascent, the three of them surveying me in open curiosity. I

realized I was tapping my hand against the wall and stopped.

“Aren’t you Lisa English’s son?” the woman said.

Oh, God.

“No.”

I glanced at them, then away. I guess it’s true about married people starting to look

alike after a while. Or maybe they were brother and sister. They were both deeply tanned

and correspondingly creased, and they had sparse hair dyed that awful fake red-blond color

that certain seniors go for. They reminded me of shrunken heads – but with all the limbs

still attached.

The woman whipped out a blue rhinestone – I assume they were rhinestones –

lorgnette from her Louis Vuitton bag. She viewed me closely. Smiled. “You are! He is, isn’t

he, Ralph?”

“Feh,” said the old guy. I hoped that’s what he said.

“She’s such a lovely person!”

“Mmm-hmm.” I couldn’t help it. I pressed the button again, leaned into it, as though

this would speed the elevator.

“She’s the true force behind the success of our annual Paws and Claws Ball.”

Lisa had always been an active supporter of the SPCA, despite the fact that I was never

allowed to have a dog or a cat as a kid (she was a staunch advocate of tropical fish, as I recall).

“Her fundraising efforts on behalf of the Opera Guild are nothing short of miraculous.

And now she’s getting married, I understand. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Lovely.”

“So romantic.”

“You bet.”

“December weddings are so special.”

She smiled fondly into the watery eyes of the poodle. It licked its chops.

The elevator lurched to a stop on the sixth floor. The doors slid languidly open.

“Do tell your dear mother hello!”

“Will do.”

She continued to smile at me as they shuffled off. I hit the Close Doors button. Hard.

The elevator shot up the last floors. The doors opened onto a silent and empty hallway.

No sign of the extras from The Matrix. I strode down to Friedlander’s suite. I heard the

phone ringing from inside.

He answered on the first knock. His glasses were askew, his hair sticking up in un–

groomed tufts. He straightened the specs, examined me in disbelief.

“You! What do you want?”

“I thought you should be aware that there are two kids who might be involved in

Gabe’s disappearance in the hotel. They were headed upstairs.” I wasn’t sure myself what

threat Sansone and company posed. I figured they’d probably like to get into Gabe’s room,

although they could hardly search the place if Bob was present.

He goggled at me. “Are you insane? Kids? You think this is about juvenile delinquents?

Mind your own business, or I will call the police.” He slammed shut the heavy door.

Chapter Thirteen

When I got back to the store, Velvet had already closed and gone home. I checked to

make sure she’d battened down the hatches, but it looked secure. The day’s receipts and cash