Authors: Ed Gorman

Tags: #Mystery

Sleeping Dogs (19 page)

BOOK: Sleeping Dogs

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I grabbed the briefcase Karl had delivered from under my desk and then filled my own briefcase with two different field reports I planned
to study later tonight. Then I grabbed the police report about the crime scene and gave it a quick look. The door to the dressing room hadn't been jimmied; there was no evidence that anything had been damaged inside. That pretty much confirmed that one of the staffers had put the drug in Warren's drink.

I'd shut the phone off while the students were here. Now I checked for messages. Only one. My friend in the police department said that the medical examiner was still trying to determine if Greaves's death had been a crime or an accident.

I shut off the lights, taking note of how badly my right hand was trembling.

CHAPTER 27

There was a conventioneers' dance in the main ballroom of the hotel. I'd parked my car per instructions from the blackmailer, then come inside and suddenly it was 1943. I was about to say “Nineteen forty-three again.” But there was no
again
for me, of course. I hadn't come along till much later. But I'd developed a real passion for music of that era, especially the female singers, Billie Holiday and Jo Stafford and Lena Horne in particular.

So I stood near the back entrance of the place, ten minutes early, watching for signs of anybody sneaking up on my car, which was parked in the front row. My plan was to make a run for him, grabbing tape and blackmailer alike. I had my Glock, brass knuckles, and a small billy. I was ready for a war. I hated to admit that I was looking forward to it. But I realized that it would free me of my lingering depression. There's something to be said for simply taking action, a kind of purgative that doesn't do our species proud.

I had to step aside several times to let people in and out of the back door. I was in the middle of letting someone out when I saw a dark shape emerge from a six-deep row of cars and begin working its way slowly toward mine. The way it kept looking right to left, the way it hunched down slightly, the way it kept patting its gloved hand against its chestâwas that where the tape was being kept?âmade its purpose clear.

I got ready to move. I pushed the door open and stepped out into the dark night. The mercury vapor lights cast a strange color over all the new sports cars and Benzes and the handful of Rolls-Royces. The figure was very close to my car now.

I kept to the shadows. A narrow sidewalk stretched to the parking lot. Walls were close in on both sides. But there was enough space that I could stand on a strip of grass and watch it.

And then it stood straight up, a grandmotherly sort who clutched her purse to her chest as if she feared an imminent mugging. You get a lot of false leads in this business.

I wasn't paying any attention to the small groups of people who came out to get their cars. They were all dressed very well, all seeming liquor happy and Black Card confident, headed to their cars and the prospect of hitting some of the tonier nightspots in the city.

So I didn't even consider that I was in danger until he brought something heavy down against the back of my skull. Not once but twice. He wanted me out. I was conscious long enough to get a mental still photo of what happened next. I fell sideways, onto the sidewalk. I hit it in such a way that my nose cut against the edge of the walk and sent a splash of blood into the air and right onto a gray trouser leg. My last thought being that there was something familiar about the material and pattern of that trouser legâ

I
was aware of pain just before I opened my eyes. The picture presented was of an acoustically tiled ceiling with a square of electric light filtered through a horizontally patterned piece of plastic.

A woman said: “He's coming around. I'd appreciate some fresh water here.”

She pushed her pleasing face into my view. “I'm Dr. Ryan. I'm a guest here and they asked me to help. Can you remember what happened to you?”

No memory problems. “Somebody knocked me out.” I'd been shaken enough by the attack to want to say more. But I had to be careful and give no hint of what was behind the attack.

“You were found on the north sidewalk that leads to the parking lot.”

“Yes, I was going out to my car.”

“And somebody just hit you?” A male voice. Man in suit. Detective. Unmistakable.

“Probably a mugger.”

“Didn't look that way to me. Your clothes weren't torn. You still had your wallet with several hundred-dollar bills. You've got your watch, which is expensive, and your cell phone. I don't think a mugger would leave you with all those things.”

“Would you help me sit up, Doctor?”

It was a long trip to rest on my bottom. But once there I found that the pain subsided considerably. “How long have I been out?”

Dr. Ryan was a middle-aged woman with very soft blue eyes and a remarkably erotic mouth. She wore a blue cocktail dress cut just low enough to show the top of her freckled cleavage. The detective, who'd yet to give his name, was burly, surly, and suspicious.

“Do I need any stitches?”

The doctor was about to speak. The detective spoke first, over her. “No stitches, no concussion from what the doctor can see. The only blood was from your nose. We estimate that you weren't on that sidewalk unconscious very long, because of the heavy foot traffic. Somebody
saw you and cell-phoned the front desk. You've been here about ten minutes. The doctor doesn't think you need an ambulance. I asked her to let me ask you a few questions. Does that catch us up to date to your satisfaction?”

The last question was sarcastic enough to bring a frown to the doctor's wonderful mouth. “I'm not quite sure why you're treating him this way, Detective Slattery, and I have to say I don't like it. Somebody knocked him out. He doesn't know who and he doesn't know why. That seems reasonable.”

“Well, it sure wasn't any mugger who knocked him out. Otherwise they'd have taken everything he had on him.”

My head was able to glance around the white room without undue pain. This was a real infirmary. I was on a comfortable examination table. The walls were lined with sparkling white glass-fronted cases filled with medicines and medical equipment of all kinds. No wonder I liked this hotel so much.

Dr. Ryan ignored him. “The only problem we hadâand it wasn't that much of a problemâwas getting your nosebleed to stop. You got very little on you but the sidewalk is a mess. There's no sign that you broke it or damaged it in any way. But the best course would be to send you to the ER, where they can X-ray your head and nose as well. That's what I'd do if I were you. You could rest here for a while and then drive yourself to the hospitalâit's right nearbyâor I could call for an ambulance.”

Slattery moved in. “We'll need you to sign a statement.”

“It won't be much of a statement. It's what I told you. I was walking to my car when somebody hit me from behind.”

“And you can't think of any enemy you might have who'd do something like that?”

“I'm a political consultant. We don't usually resort to violence.”

“Political consultant? Who's your man?”

“Nichols.”

“Figures. I'm a Lake man myself.”

I smiled at Dr. Ryan. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

I was irritable from everything that had happened in the last twenty minutes. I said, “You've been riding my ass since I came to. You think there was some personal reason I was attacked. I don't. I can't rule it out, but I also can't think of anybody who'd do it. I've basically given you my statement twice. I was walking out to my car and somebody hit me from behind and knocked me to the sidewalk. That's all I know and that's the sum and substance of my statement. And I don't have anything to add. And I don't plan on changing it one bit. So if you want me to stop down tomorrow morning and sign it, I'll be happy to. How's that?”

Amusement played in the gentle blue eyes of the good doctor. “For now, I want to turn the light off and let our patient here rest up a little. If that's all right with you, Detective Slattery?”

He growled something I didn't understand, nodded to Dr. Ryan, and left.

“Everywhere I go I make new friends.”

A pleasing smile. “You're sensitive to what others think of you, I see. I guess I got a slightly different sense of the detective than you did.”

“He was just embarrassed by how much he admires me.”

“So that's it.” She pointed to the door. “I'll be out there for another half hour. I need to check messages and call a few hospitals. As I said, you can rest here or go to an ER.”

“Or do whatever I like?”

“Or do whatever you like with the understanding that I'd prefer you go to the ER and have a couple of X rays.”

“So it's my responsibility.”

“Yes, it is. It's your responsibility.”

“Then I guess I'll go wash up and probably go upstairs to my room. By the way, shouldn't you be at the dance?”

“I would've escaped even if you hadn't had your problem. This is the awards part and it really gets dull.”

“I won't tell them you said that.”

“Just be careful. Remember that.”

Ten minutes later I was in my room, washing up and changing clothes. The suit I'd been wearing was muddy in a few places and torn in one, under the arm. There were blood spatters on my right pants leg.

And then I remembered the gray pants leg that had been the last image I'd had before slipping into unconsciousness. Now that I was fully awake I recognized why the particular gray color and weave of the trouser leg had looked so familiar. It belonged to the uniform that the bellhops wore here. Red blazers, gray trousers. A bellhop had attacked me.

I
wore a white crewneck sweater and jeans with a leather jacket and hiking boots. I figured I might be having some trouble tonight. I might as well dress for it. The Glock completed my attire for the evening.

The lobby was still crowded. The restaurant had a line of people waiting to get in and both lounges sounded full to overflowing. Either that or they had a handful of the noisiest drunks this side of the Mississippi River.

I started checking for the bellhop. There were four on duty at this hour. I was assuming that the blood would be easy to spot on his trouser leg. But the longer I looked, the more clearly I realized that as I was slipping away I was apt to see things that might not be thereâyes, there'd been a lot of blood given the condition of my noseâbut no, this didn't necessarily mean that he'd gotten any on him. The other possibility was that yes, he'd gotten blood on his trouser leg but he had a spare pair of trousers in his locker and had already changed.

I sat with a paperback in a chair next to the glass elevator that worked nonstop. The most exclusive section of the hotel was the restaurant on the top floor. I'd looked at the prices. Only a lobbyist could afford them.

Who knew that I'd turn out to be the guy in all those TV private-eye shows who sat in the lobby pretending to read while actually scanning the people to find the guilty person? Well, we all had our spot in life.

He showed up about fifteen minutes into my stakeout. He got off one of the regular elevators and walked to the front desk. Even from here I could see spatters of something on his trouser leg. He was young, no more than twenty-five, with a headful of curly blond hair and an insolent smile. He was the guy who could fix you up with ladies, get you smack, even find you a cockfight to attend. You could see him on the cover of
Pimp Monthly
as “Our Man of the Year.”

I didn't know where he was going and I didn't care. I followed him. He didn't become aware of me until he was in a narrow corridor. He suddenly started looking over his shoulder. But he was too late. In three steps I was right behind him, in four I had a handful of his hair, smashed his face into the wall, and gave him a kidney punch that stood him up straight and then folded him in half. His face was bloody from the wall slam. I grabbed his hair again and dragged him outside, where I stood him up straight again so I could give my knee a good target for his crotch. He instinctively tried to double up and grab his wounded area, but I wasn't going to give him any indulgences. I threw him up against the wall and said, “Who hired you?”

His wild, frightened eyes grew even more frightened. He gaped around, trying to find some way of escape. But there wasn't any escape possible.

“I want to know who hired you. If you don't tell me in thirty seconds I start working on your ribs. You understand?”

BOOK: Sleeping Dogs

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