42
Tommy woke up a little after seven AM; the camera was still on in the bedroom, and Harmon and Barrington were just waking up, too. In a moment, they were at it again.
TOMMY WATCHED the performance and was again impressed. Then they phoned down for breakfast and did it again while they waited for room service. Tommy shaved, showered, and dressed and checked the camera again. They were finishing breakfast and talking about getting up. The man went to take a shower, and Ms. Harmon lay naked on the bed.
Tommy heard the newspapers slide under the door, and he picked up the Daily News. There was a picture of a girl in a bikini, but a headline caught his eye. SUSPECT IN BELLINI MURDER IS RELEASED. Bellini? Who Bellini? Tommy turned to the designated inside page and read the brief story.
The chief suspect in the murders of Gino and Veronica Bellini was released from jail yesterday, after a judge ruled that there was insufficient evidence to hold him. It is feared that Boris Ivanov, a Russian in the employ of that country’s UN mission, may have fled the country.
Tommy stopped reading. “Fucking Gino is dead?” he asked himself. He read the remainder of the short piece. Fucking Gino was, indeed, dead. He put down the paper and thought about things. Gino must have sent him the package shortly before he cashed in his chips; Tommy was working for a dead guy. He considered the ethics of his situation.
First of all, the guy in Ms. Harmon’s suite was probably Stone Barrington, the man at whose house she had been staying. Tommy knew nothing about him, had nothing against him, and was not being paid to kill him. Also, with two murders being investigated, his chances of being caught increased.
Second, if he didn’t kill the woman, there would be no investigation at all; he could just go home, forget the whole thing, and spend the money. Fuck Gino. Maybe he would come back to haunt him, but he doubted it.
Then Tommy heard Barrington’s voice. “What’s that?” he asked.
Tommy looked at his iPhone; Barrington was pointing at Tommy, via the living room camera.
“I don’t know,” Harmon replied. “Smoke detector?”
“That’s not a smoke detector,” Barrington said, “and it’s not a CO2 detector, either.” He left the living room, and Tommy switched cameras. Barrington was looking up and pointing again. “There’s another one,” he said. “It’s a camera.”
“Oh, my God,” Harmon said. “Somebody has been watching us?”
“No doubt about it,” Barrington said. He got out his phone and called a number. “Bob, it’s Stone. How quickly can you get over to The Pierre? Good, I’ll be in room 212. Bring your tool kit. I’ll explain when you get here.” He hung up.
“Well,” Harmon said, “that was quite an exhibition we gave for whoever was watching. Is this going to end up on the Internet?”
“I doubt it,” Barrington replied, then he looked up at the camera and spoke to it. “Because then I’d have to find whoever did this and KILL the sonofabitch!”
Tommy’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Sheila.”
“Did you get to the bank yesterday?”
“I did. Everything is just fine—the bills are paid, and so am I. There’s other good news, too. A guy just walked in and wants to get his multi-engine rating, but you’ve got the twin. He’s hot to trot, and we might be able to sell him an airplane, too. When are you coming home?”
“I’m leaving the hotel shortly,” Tommy said. “Put him off until nine AM tomorrow.”
“I think he’ll buy that, and even with the ninety grand I deposited, we could use the money.”
“See you this afternoon.” He hung up and called Gene, his driver; Gene said he’d be out front in fifteen minutes. Tommy finished packing; he didn’t bother calling for a bellman since he just had his one bag and the weapons case. He gave some more thought to killing them both, but then he unscrewed the silencer from the pistol and packed them both in the weapons case. That settled his ethics problem: he didn’t have time to kill either of them.
He left the room with his luggage, went to the elevator and pressed the button. The car arrived and he pressed the lobby button. The door opened and another man started to get into the car, but backed up to let Tommy out. He was carrying a good-sized toolbox. I’ll bet your name is Bob, Tommy said to himself.
He walked toward the front door, and the man got onto the elevator. Gene was waiting at the curb; Tommy gave him his luggage and got into the car.
“A successful trip?” Gene asked as he pulled away from the curb.
“Well, I made some money,” Tommy replied.
“That’s always a good idea,” Gene said.
STONE ANSWERED the door and let in Bob Cantor, who was his genius tech guy. “Good morning, Bob.”
“Morning, Stone.”
Stone introduced Meg, who was sitting on the sofa.
“What have we got?” Bob asked.
Stone pointed up at the molding. “That’s not a smoke detector, is it?”
“Nope, and it’s not a CO2 detector, either. It’s a camera, and a good one.”
“We’ve got another one in here,” Stone said, leading him into the bedroom.
Bob looked up at the camera. “You sure have.” He looked at the thoroughly unmade bed. “Were you here all night?”
“Yes,” Stone said.
“Did you turn off the lights?”
“Not until we were ready to go to sleep.”
“And I guess that wasn’t right away.”
“Good guess. Can you yank those things out?”
Bob dragged a chair over from the dressing table, stood on it, and pulled the camera off the wall. “I’ve used these things myself, although this is a newer model—beautiful color and high definition, you can see every pore.”
“I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” Stone said.
Bob hopped down. “The other one, too?”
“Yes, but just a minute, I’ve got a question.”
“I bet I know what it is,” Bob said. “Can I trace the camera to somebody?”
“That’s the question,” Stone said.
“The answer is no. However, as I was getting on the elevator, a guy was getting off, and two things about him struck me.”
“What was that?”
“I thought it was funny that, in a classy hotel like this, he was carrying his own luggage. Unusual.”
“What else?” Stone asked.
“In addition to a regular suitcase, he was towing a pretty big aluminum case, the kind that might contain guns or tools. Or both. And he was in a hurry, went right out to where a car was waiting for him.”
“Did he introduce himself?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“I was afraid of that. Give me a description.”
“About five-ten, a hundred and seventy, and he looked Asian—coal-black hair and slightly slanted eyes—maybe half-Asian. Very fit-looking, too, martial arts type.”
“That’s all you got?”
“No, I got a look at the luggage tag on the aluminum case. Joe Cross, Islamorada, Florida.”
“You have just identified a dead person,” Stone said.
“How do you know that?” Bob asked.
“Because I saw him shot dead, in Maine, a few days ago.”
“Well,” Bob said, “I guess somebody stole his tool kit.”
They went back into the living room.
“Let me guess,” Meg said. “You can’t tell who put the cameras in, and you can’t trace him.”
“Not exactly,” Stone said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that, with a little luck, we might find the sonofabitch.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Meg said. “Sort of. What do we do with him then?”
“I haven’t gotten that far, yet,” Stone replied. “Meg, I think we should move you back into my house.”
“I’ll start packing,” she replied.
“Bob,” Stone said, “have you got a plastic bag? Might be worth trying to get some prints off those cameras.”
“Sure thing,” Bob said, opening his toolbox. “I can do that for you, and since I know what my prints look like, there won’t be any mix-ups.”