Death Benefits (13 page)

She was out the door and gone.

12

While Walker was in the shower, letting the hot water wake him up and soothe his sore muscles, he thought about Mary Catherine Casey. He directed his mind to the question of what was in her mind. He knew that the term “charming eccentric” was an oxymoron. Whenever he had met girls who had said and done things for effect, he had instinctively known that they were trouble. Some lobe of their brains had been pinched by forceps during birth, or had been atrophied by a chemical put in women’s food as a substitute for fat or sugar. He had imagined that one night he would wake up in bed and hear the sound of one of these women firing up a power drill to run it into his forehead and let the demons out. Mary Catherine Casey had not made him uneasy: she just seemed to have decided that she liked him and wanted to play with him. Serena made him very uneasy.

He turned off the shower, dried himself off, and walked to the bedroom. There was a man standing there, looking down at his bed. The man turned: Stillman. “I knocked, but apparently you didn’t hear me, so I let myself in. You alone in there?”

“Of course I’m alone in here.”

Stillman glanced at the wildly disarranged bed again, then back at Walker. “Better get a move on if you’re going to make it back to San Francisco before they start storing golf clubs in your cubicle.”

“I’ll take the chance,” said Walker. “I’m not going back.”

“If you’re going with me, you’d still better get a move on. We just have a different flight to catch.”

Walker dressed quickly in a suit like Stillman’s and began to collect his belongings. He noticed the condom wrappers on the floor, hastily torn apart and flung there. As he picked them up, he looked at Stillman, who was staring intently out the window at the parking lot. Finally, Walker latched his suitcase. “Let’s get out of here.”

When he was sitting in the car beside Stillman, he squinted out the window at the glaring world. Los Angeles had always struck his Ohio eyes as shades of tan and light gray, with a few sickly pastels, but this morning it was patches of deep green grass and towering eucalyptus and palms, with scarlet roses and tangles of bougainvillea vines with impossible magenta flowers, and jacaranda trees that snowed purple petals on the ground. The sky was a blue so clear that it had never occurred to him that it was a condition that ever happened: it was a theoretical sky, without the hint of a cloud. “I see the fog lifted,” he said.

“Yep,” said Stillman. “I guess you didn’t have a chance to watch the weather on TV, but they said the clouds were ‘low night and early morning.’ When that high pressure kicks in around here, it’ll dry your eyeballs.”

“Okay, so you know about her.”

“It wasn’t my toughest case,” Stillman admitted. “I’ve never seen her find anybody tolerable before.”

“What about Gochay?”

“They live on different planets,” said Stillman. “No, the field is a wasteland. She leaves nothing alive within pistol range . . .  until now, anyway.” He looked at Walker contemplatively. “I’d be willing to pass on some wisdom if you’re in the mood to listen.”

“Why not?”

“You might think twice before you get too involved with a woman with her technical skills. She can hunt you down like a mad dog without leaving her computer. It would take her a minute or two to destroy your credit, delete your driver’s license, and transfer somebody else’s arrest warrant to your name.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I’d planned to piss her off.”

Stillman smiled wistfully. “We never plan to piss them off. It just happens. In my short and uneventful life, I’ve had a woman go after me with a claw hammer, attempt to dust me with a twenty-two target pistol, and aim parts of her china collection at my cranium from a fourth-story window.”

“The same woman?”

“Of course not. She’d have to be an idiot.”

“So would you.”

“I suppose so, but I have a forgiving nature. Women don’t. At some point you might want to give her a call just to see if you ought to rest easy or make a run for the border. I wouldn’t trifle with Serena’s affections, as they say.”

“Her name’s not Serena.”

“Did she tell you to call her something else?”

“Yes.”

“First and last name?”

“Middle, too.”

“Flowers, then,” said Stillman. “Definitely flowers. Big red roses. They like to be ambiguous, but they don’t like you to be.”

“I’m supposed to take advice from a man that women chase with a claw hammer?”

“One way or another, I get under their skin,” said Stillman. “It doesn’t matter. I trust you’ll know what’s appropriate.”

“Thank you,” said Walker.

“And she’s intriguing. If I weren’t old enough to be her father, I’d have been interested myself.”

“I would never have suspected that Max Stillman would let mere propriety enter into that kind of decision.”

Stillman turned to look at him in surprise, then returned to his driving. “Age isn’t a matter of propriety. It’s a whole series of inexorable changes that have already happened before you notice them. The ones you can’t see are bigger than the ones you can. One day you just discover that you can’t watch this movie or read this book or have this conversation anymore. Sometimes you’ve had it too many times already, but at others, it’s not even that. It’s just that nothing in it is anything that you’re interested in anymore.”

“You mean you know too much.”

“Not exactly. There’s nothing wrong with the conversation, and maybe it’s a set of thoughts everybody ought to have pass through his brain at a certain time of his life. Everybody has a right to be young. It’s a crime to be the one who’s there when a young woman is having some kind of exciting revelation and not be in it with her: to be just kind of watching from a distance and knowing everything she’s going to figure out in the next five steps. Because you’re there, she can’t be with somebody who will be surprised with her. It denigrates and devalues the experience she’s having, makes her suspect that she’s naive and foolish, and destroys it for her. She sees there’s no uniqueness in it, and she knows it’s not even her thought or experience, because plenty of people have had it first.” He frowned at Walker. “You can kill somebody that way.”

Stillman brightened. “If they’re at least thirty-five or forty, and there’s anything they still haven’t found out, been taught, felt, or experienced, then it’s high time and Max Stillman’s their man.”

Stillman swung onto the divided drive into the airport. “If you’d like to go to San Francisco, you’ve got a ticket waiting. That’s your terminal coming up. I’ll pop the trunk, you can get your suitcase out, and be on your way. Last chance.”

Walker said, “I told you before, I’m not going to San Francisco. I’m not going to bail out until we find her.”

“Good. Then you can make yourself useful,” said Stillman, with no surprise or hesitation. He swerved suddenly to the white curb. “Go in there while I return this car. Go to the American Airlines desk. They have your name.”

Walker stopped at the counter and the airline woman produced two tickets, one in Stillman’s name and the other in Walker’s. They were for Chicago. He looked at the date of purchase. It was yesterday. Again he tried to retrace Stillman’s movements, and again Stillman had left tracks in all directions. Had he really made a reservation for Walker to fly to San Francisco on United this morning? If he didn’t want Walker to go to Chicago with him, he would not have reserved a ticket to Chicago for him. He had said “Good” when Walker had told him he was not going home. So he had wanted Walker to go to Chicago with him. Maybe at the last minute, Stillman had been planning to offer him some inducement that had not been necessary. And maybe he had sent Serena to provide the inducement.

When Stillman came into the terminal with his little suitcase, Walker fell into step with him. Walker said, “How did she know we were staying at that hotel?”

“That’s what she does for a living. She traces people.”

“Did you call her and ask her to come?”

Stillman raised an eyebrow. “Did you get the impression that if I had, she would have done it?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then what made you think I called her?”

“She told me if I wanted to see her again I had to go with you and find Ellen first.”

Stillman stared ahead as he walked on. “Interesting.”

They waited to get through the metal detectors, then walked to their gate and waited some more. When they were in the plane at last, Walker leaned back and closed his eyes. The noise and vibration of the plane’s engines relaxed his muscles and put him into a dreamless sleep.

He did not wake until the plane jolted his spine and rattled down the runway to a stop. As the plane turned ponderously, and then bumped along toward the terminal, he slowly came to full awareness and looked out at a huge field striped with runways. O’Hare Airport, he reminded himself: Chicago.

“You okay?” asked Stillman.

Walker said, “I guess so.” He came to himself. “What are we doing here?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Walker was getting used to Stillman’s routine now. He stayed at Stillman’s shoulder while they shuffled down the long, narrow aisle, then walked with him along the concourse to the escalators and down to the rental counters. He knew that the process would take fifteen minutes, and when the time had elapsed, they were on the road again.

Walker said, “Are we in a hurry?”

“Not really,” Stillman answered.

“Can we stop at this plaza up here?”

Stillman swung the car into the parking lot and stopped in front of a florist’s shop. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and produced a business card. “Here,” he said. “You’ll need the address.”

Walker accepted the card. He walked into the shop and ordered a dozen long-stemmed roses to be sent to Mary Catherine Casey. When the girl at the counter handed him the form to fill in the address, he looked at the business card. It was Stillman’s, not Gochay’s. He flipped it over and saw that Stillman had used the back as a scratch pad. Walker copied the handwritten address onto the form, then put the card back in his pocket and handed the girl his credit card.

When he was back in the car he said, “Thanks,” and held the business card out.

“Keep it. It’s worth the printing cost to know I’ve salvaged your disordered personal life.”

Walker looked at the card again. “Who are the associates?”

“What associates?”

“It says, ‘Max Stillman and Associates, Security.’ ”

Stillman started the car and backed out of the parking space. “That’s just so new clients don’t get the erroneous impression that when they hire me, all they get is a middle-aged, balding man with rubber-soled shoes.”

“So it’s a lie.”

Stillman shook his head. “No. Stillman and Company would be a lie. Stillman, Fozzengraf, Pinckney and Wong would be a lie. Stillman and Associates is the truth.”

“Except that the associates are imaginary.”

Stillman turned out of the lot and accelerated onto a freeway ramp. “No, you’re not.”

13

Walker stared at the facade of the big hotel as Stillman drove past it. There were doormen wearing green comic-opera general’s uniforms with gold braid and shiny-brimmed hats. Cars were pulling up and letting off passengers, then being driven away by other men wearing different, short-coated green uniforms that seemed to be patterned after some kind of cavalry. Stillman turned onto a side street and into a parking ramp. “If you’re sure this person is in there, and you know the name she used to register, why not just call the police?” He hoped Stillman had noticed he had not conceded it was Ellen Snyder.

“I have,” said Stillman. “In their infinite wisdom, they have determined that we don’t have enough evidence to give them the right to raid a hotel room and roust the guests.”

“Just using a false credit card would seem to me to be enough,” said Walker. “What’s the problem?”

Stillman shook his head. “It’s how we know it’s a false credit card. They’ve sniffed our story, and smelled the fine hand of someone like Constantine Gochay. This makes them nervous. They can’t be told exactly who he is, because that would force them to pursue the issue of what felonies he’s committed to find out what he knows.”

“Are you kidding?”

“You can’t blame them. All this has zip to do with the public safety of the citizens of Chicago. Ellen Snyder—guilty or innocent—is the problem of an insurance company in San Francisco, and the abuse of computer security systems is the problem of a well-known but distant government in Washington.”

Stillman found a parking space with the car’s nose against the wall in the first level of the garage, and turned off the engine. They got out of the car, but Stillman said, “So now we investigate. Get in the driver’s seat.”

Walker moved around the back of the car to the driver’s side and got in.

“Adjust the mirrors so you can see the doors of the elevator.”

“Okay,” said Walker. “Now what?”

“Now I go upstairs to the lobby. I call the room of Mrs. Daniel Bourgosian. If I get her on the phone, I tell her I’m waiting for her downstairs, ready to help her. If she’s innocent, she’ll come see me. If she’s a thief, she’ll come out that elevator on this level and head for her car, or come out on a lower level and drive right past you to get to the exit.”

“What if she’s being held against her will?”

Stillman shrugged. “Then she won’t be the one to answer the phone. They’ll still have to come down that elevator to get out. They won’t want to have to bullshit their way through the lobby, because I’ve just told them that’s where I’ll be.”

“What if they come? What am I supposed to do about it?”

“See if it’s Ellen Snyder and try not to get shot.” Walker waited for something more specific, but his eye caught the rearview mirror and he could already see Stillman heading for the elevator. Walker reached for the door handle, then stopped.

He didn’t believe that Ellen Snyder would come down in that elevator. In the first place, she was innocent. In the second, nobody could hold a grown woman—a smart grown woman, at that—in a fancy, crowded hotel without her screaming loud enough to pop their eardrums and shatter the wine glasses in the dining room. That left—what? It left nothing. The reason Stillman had posted him here was not so he’d accomplish anything. It was just to keep Walker out of the lobby, where Ellen might see him and recognize him. Stillman was preserving the remote possibility that he would corner her by surprise, then scare her into confessing. Walker sat back and relaxed, then readjusted the mirrors so he didn’t have to crane his neck to keep an eye on the elevator.

It opened ten minutes later. Stillman emerged and returned to the car. “Come on,” he said. “I guess we’ll just have to lower ourselves and do this the easy way.”

They emerged from the elevator in the lobby and Walker waited until Stillman was at the pay telephone beside the gift shop. Then he moved to the front desk. There was a clerk helping a couple check out at the far end of the counter, and a young woman shuffling some papers at the near end. She would be the one. The telephone just behind the counter rang. She picked it up and said, “Front desk.” She listened, then said, “I’ll ring for you.”

Walker watched her consult her computer screen, then punch 3621 and hang up. She came toward him with her professional smile. He said, “I was wondering if there was a good Chinese restaurant within walking distance.”

She whisked a small map from under the counter and held her pen like a magic wand to point to an intersection. “Right here is Won Dim Sum, which is my favorite.” The pen seemed to rise higher into her hand by itself, and she made a quick circle at the spot, then quickly drew a line from the restaurant that extended into a circle around the hotel and handed him the map. Her mouth tightened into a closed-lipped smile to signal that the conversation was over.

“Thanks,” he said, and walked across the lobby and followed Stillman around a corner to another hallway that led to a second set of elevators.

Stillman stepped inside with him. Walker said, “Thirty-six twenty-one,” and Stillman pushed the 3 button.

When the elevator stopped, Stillman walked smartly up the hall. “This kind of thing is best done quickly,” he said. “There’s not a lot that’s likely to happen as time passes that will make things better.”

Walker turned to look behind him to see if there was anyone to hear. “How about silently? Isn’t that best?”

“There are only so many precautions I’m willing to take,” said Stillman. “Stand here.” He pushed Walker into a position by the door with his back to the elevators, so he blocked the view. Then he leaned down to examine the lock. After a moment he produced a pick and a tension wrench from his wallet, fiddled with the lock, and pushed the door open.

Walker took a final look up and down the hallway, then stepped inside after him and closed the door quietly.

Stillman was standing in the middle of the room, turning and turning slowly. He stopped, facing Walker. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Don’t worry,” said Walker. “When I’m with you, I never touch anything. What’s wrong?”

“The bed’s messed up, the bathroom light is on, there are towels on the floor.”

“I guess she’s messy.”

“No suitcase.” He used a handkerchief to open the closet door. “No clothes. She hasn’t checked out or they wouldn’t have rung the room, but she’s gone.”

“Okay,” said Walker. He stepped toward the door.

“Hold it.”

“What?”

“We’ve got a lot of work to do. Look carefully at everything in this room.”

Walker stared at the bed, the bathroom, the coffee table, the armoire that held a television set above and a bar below. “What am I looking for?”

Stillman said, “Any sign that Madeline Bourgosian is Ellen Snyder. Anything at all.” He opened the upper section of the armoire to reveal the television set, then tested the bar cabinet to see if it had been opened. He moved toward the bathroom.

The bar had been the place that Walker had considered most promising, so he looked for something else. The bed. He stared closely at each of the pillows, trying to spot a blond hair, but found nothing. Maybe women didn’t lose the occasional hair while they slept, the way men did. Probably if there were any, Stillman would find them in the bathroom sink in front of the mirror, where she had brushed her hair.

He pulled back the covers of the bed. If he were to leave something accidentally in a hotel room, that was where it would have been. He sometimes sat on the bed while he was dressing, and usually laid things out there when he was packing. The awful, complicated patterns on hotel bedspreads often made small objects hard to see in dim light. He saw nothing, so he ran his hand over it to be sure.

He moved to the telephone on the nightstand and looked from the side at the little notepad the hotel had left, but he could see no imprint from a sheet that had been torn off. He peered into the wastebasket beneath the little desk. He began to walk the room in a spiral pattern, scanning the floor.

“What are you doing?”

He saw that Stillman was staring at him. “I saw you doing this in Ellen’s apartment.”

“There’s not enough room in here. You’ll screw yourself into the floor. Just look.” He returned to the bathroom.

Walker went to his knees and looked under the bed, opened all the drawers he could find, then returned to the telephone. He read all of the possibilities on the card for numbers to dial, but “redial” was not one of them. There must be some way of knowing what calls had been made; certainly the hotel knew.

He was turning toward Stillman to ask when his eye caught a glint from the darkness behind the nightstand. He bent closer. “Max. I found something.”

“Don’t touch it.” Stillman appeared at his side, then knelt down and looked. He raised his head and stared along the top of the nightstand. “Hmmm.” He took a pen from his pocket, carefully reached behind the nightstand, snagged the object, and pulled it out to the open floor. It was a gold woman’s watch. “Is it hers?”

“I don’t know,” said Walker. “She had one sort of like that—an oval center with a round face in it, about that size, I think.”

Stillman prodded the watch to turn it over. “Take a look on the back of the case.”

Walker could see engraving. “E.S.S. 10/2/95.” He felt his heart begin to thump, but it was as though it was pumping energy out of him. “That doesn’t mean it’s hers, or that she left it here.”

Stillman hooked the band with his pen and dropped the watch behind the nightstand again. “It sure ain’t Madeline Bourgosian’s.” Then he went to the coffee table, where there were two magazines the hotel had left. One said,
Chicago—That Wonderful Town,
and the other said,
Guide to Amenities.
He began to leaf through them quickly.

“Why did you put it back? It’s our evidence.”

Stillman didn’t look up. “If the cops find it, it’s evidence. If we break in and find it, I’d say it’s demoted to something less . . . a clue, maybe.”

Stillman moved to the chest of drawers Walker had already opened. “What we want now is another one.”

“What is it this time?”

“Something that tells us where she went from here.”

“What’s the likelihood of that?”

Stillman scowled as he stared around the room, then seemed to notice the second telephone on the desk. “Oh, I’d say the odds are nearing ten to one for.” He opened a desk drawer and took out the telephone directory. He turned to the yellow pages and began leafing through them.

Walker stared over his shoulder in disbelief. “You’re not even through the A’s. Are you going to look at every page?”

“Nope.” He stopped. “There it is. Airlines. Lo and behold. She’s circled American Airlines, and written her flight reservation right on the page. No doubt she copied it over afterward. Flight 302, from New York to Zurich. Thursday the twelfth. That’s tonight. Easy, isn’t it?”

He used his pen to write it down on a business card, then closed the book and put it back. He stood up again and walked to the connecting door to the next room that people opened to turn the rooms into a suite. Then he walked across the floor to the door connecting with the room on the opposite side. “This one,” he said.

“What?” said Walker.

“Don’t you remember? We’ve been operating on the theory that she’s traveling with two men. Maybe she got involved in this because she fell in love. That’s what love is—cajoling a woman into actively participating in something she wouldn’t have thought of doing by herself, right?”

“Ever the romantic,” Walker muttered.

“Well?” Stillman said. “I’ve heard of women falling in love with two men at once, but I never heard of one who actually ran off with both of them. Even if she did, they would take two rooms. They’re not traveling on a budget, you know. Even if their favorite means of expressing this affection were the time-honored Mongolian cluster fuck—”

“Is this necessary?” Walker interrupted.

“Sorry. I let it slip my mind that she was once the object of your infatuation. Even if she were insatiable and they had to go at it in shifts, person number three would need a bed to sleep on and regain his strength while the party of the first part and the party of the second part partied. He was in this room over here.”

Walker’s frustration and annoyance were growing. “How do you know it wasn’t the room on this side?”

“That one hasn’t been opened since the last time the woodwork was painted. There’s a little bit of white enamel between the door and the jamb. It’s not exactly painted shut, but the bellman might need to use one of these.” He produced his pocketknife and opened a blade. He turned a little wing knob to open the door, then put his ear to the door behind it and listened. “Nobody’s home.”

“I thought we knew that already.”

“Not necessarily,” said Stillman. “See, whoever was in that room will have checked out when he left, to keep the world from seeing the connection. I’m hoping the hotel hasn’t rented the room again.” He used the knife to remove the screw holding the latch on the other side of the door, then poked the latch forward through the screwhole, and opened the door.

Walker could see the bed had been professionally made, and everything was in place. He said, “I guess we’re out of luck. They already cleaned it.” He turned to go, but Stillman held him.

“Look around anyway,” he said. “Each chance you get only comes once.” He went to work on the room, searching everywhere, then replacing things exactly. When he reached for the two magazines, Walker was fascinated. How could they be anything but identical to the ones in the first room?

“Now here’s something the maid missed,” Stillman said. “Page ninety-two is ripped out. Bring me hers.”

Walker went back to the first room and returned with
Chicago—That Wonderful Town.
Stillman took it and found the page. “I thought so. The missing page is a map of the Chicago area for visitors—northwest quadrant.”

He held up the page behind the missing one. It was a map with a larger scale that showed only downtown Chicago. He set the page on top of Ellen’s map and held a spot with his finger. “There’s a line,” he said. “It would take you right out here onto this road west of Waukegan.”