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Authors: Sue Grafton

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BOOK: J is for Judgment
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I did a visual survey of the bathroom first, since it was closest to the door. She had covered the counter on either side of the sink with a profusion of toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, cologne, cold cream, moisturizer, skin toner, foundation, blusher, loose powder, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, hairdryer, hairspray, mouth-wash, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, hairbrush, eyelash curler. How did the woman ever manage to leave the room? After doing her “toilette” every morning, it’d be time for bed again. She had washed out two pairs of nylon underpants, which she’d hung over the shower rod. I had pictured her in black lacy bikini briefs, but these were that serviceable, high-waisted style favored by lingerie conservatives. She probably wore bras that looked like corrective appliances after back surgery.

Wendell had been accorded the lid to the toilet tank, where his Dopp kit sat, black leather with a monogram in gold that read
DDH.
That was interesting. All he
carried with him was a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving gear, and contact lens case. He probably borrowed her shampoo and deodorant. I checked my watch again. The time was 7:52. I peered through the fish-eye with caution. So far the coast was clear. My tension had passed, and I suddenly realized I was enjoying myself. I suppressed a quick laugh, doing a little dance step in my tennis shoes. I love this stuff. I was born to snoop. Nothing’s as exhilarating as a night of breaking and entering. I turned back to the task, fairly humming with happiness. If I didn’t work in behalf of law enforcement, I’d be in jail, I’m sure.

4

T
he woman turned out to be the sort who unpacked all her suitcases, probably within minutes of checking into a room. She’d taken the right side of the double dresser, and she’d filled the space neatly: jewelry and underwear in the top drawer, along with her passport. I scribbled down her name, which was Renata Huff, passport number, birth date, place of birth, the passport agency that had issued the document, and the date of expiration. Without searching further among her personal effects, I checked the top drawer on Wendell’s side of the dresser, hitting pay dirt again. His passport indicated that he was using the name Dean DeWitt Huff. I made a note of the data and checked the fish-eye again. The corridor was empty. It was now 8:02, probably time to scram. With every additional minute, there was an accelerating risk, especially since I had no idea what time they’d left. Still, as long as I was there, I thought I’d see if anything else turned up.

I went back and opened the remaining drawers systematically, sliding my hand under and between the neatly stacked articles of clothing. All of Wendell’s clothes and his personal effects were still in his suitcase, which was propped open on a stand. I worked in haste, with as much care as I could muster, not wanting them to discern my presence after the fact. I lifted my head. Had I heard a noise or not? I checked the fish-eye again.

Wendell and the woman had just emerged from the elevator and were heading in my direction. She was visibly upset, voice shrill, her gestures theatrical. He was looking grim, his face stony and his mouth set, slapping a newspaper against his leg as he walked.

One of the things I’ve learned about panic is that it inspires gross errors in judgment. Events take place in a blur in which the instinct for survival—winged flight, in this case—overrules all else. Suddenly you find yourself on the far side of a crisis in worse shape than you were to start. The instant I spotted them, I tucked all my personal items in my pants pocket and slid the security chain off the slide track. I reached for the bathroom light and flipped it out, flipped out the overhead light in the bedroom, and then moved speedily to the sliding glass door to the balcony. Once outside, I glanced back to assure myself that I’d left the room just as I’d found it. Shit! They’d left the bathroom light on.
I’d
flipped it out. As though with X-ray vision, I could picture Wendell approaching on the far side of the door, room key at the ready. In my imagination he was moving faster than I was. I calculated rapidly. It
was too late to correct. Maybe they’d forget or imagine that the bulb had burned out.

I crossed to the edge of the balcony, swung my right leg over, secured my foot between the pales, swung the other leg over. I reached for the railing on the next balcony, crossing the distance just as the light in Wendell’s room came on. I was acutely aware of the adrenaline that had juiced my pulse rate up into training range, but at least I was safe on the adjacent balcony.

Except for the guy standing out there smoking a cigarette.

I don’t know which of us was more surprised.
He
was, no doubt, because I knew what I was doing there and he did not. I had an additional advantage in that fear had accelerated all my senses, giving me an exaggerated awareness of his persona. The truth about this man began to flash through the air at me like the subliminal messages suddenly made visible in a sports training film.

The man was white.

The man was in his sixties and balding. What hair he had was silver and combed straight back from his face.

He wore glasses with the kind of dark frames that looked like they’d house hearing aids in the stems.

The man smelled of alcohol, fumes pouring from his body in nearly radiant waves.

He had blood pressure high enough to make his flushed face glow, and his pug nose had a ruby cast that gave him the kindly look of a K mart Santa Claus.

He was shorter than I and therefore didn’t seem that threatening. In fact, he had a puzzled air about him that made me want to reach out and pat him on the head.

I realized I’d seen the guy twice in my constant cruising of the hotel in search of Wendell and his lady friend. Both times I’d spotted him in the bar—once alone, his elbow propped up, his cigarette ember weaving as he orchestrated his own lengthy monologue, once in a party of bawdy guys his age, overweight, out of shape, smoking cigars, and telling the kinds of jokes that inspired sudden martini-generated guffaws.

I had a decision to make.

I slowed myself to a leisurely pace. I reached over and lifted his glasses gingerly from his face, folding the stems so I could tuck them into my shirt pocket. “Hey, stud. How are you? You’re lookin’ good tonight.”

His hands came up in a helpless gesture of protest. I unbuttoned my right sleeve, while I gave him a look of lingering assessment.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I smiled, blinking lazily as I unbuttoned my left sleeve. “Surprise, surprise. Where have you been all this time? I been lookin’ for you since six o’clock tonight.”

“Do I know you?”

“Well, I’m sure you will, Jack. We’re going to have us a good old time tonight.”

He shook his head. “I think you’ve made a mistake. My name’s not Jack.”

“I call everybody Jack,” I said as I unbuttoned my blouse. I let the flaps hang open, revealing tantalizing glimpses of my maidenly flesh. Happily, I was wearing the one bra not held together with safety pins. In that light, how could he tell if it was faintly gray from the wash?

“Can I have my glasses? I don’t see very well without them.”

“You don’t? Well, now that’s too bad. What’s the deal here …you nearsighted, farsighted, astigmatism, what?”

“‘Stigmatism,” he said apologetically. “I’m kind of nearsighted, too, and this one eye is lazy.” As if to demonstrate, the gaze in his one eye drifted outward, following the flight path of an unseen bug.

“Well, don’t you worry none. I’ll stay real close so you can see me good. You ready to party?”

“Party?” The one eye drifted back.

“The boys sent me up. Those fellows you hang out with. Said today’s your birthday and everybody pitched in to buy you a present. I’m it. You’re a Cancer, is that right?”

His frown was slow and his smile flickered on and off. He couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening, but he didn’t want to be unkind. He also didn’t want to make a fool of himself, just in case this was a joke. “It’s not my birthday today.”

Lights were being flipped on in the room next door, and I could hear the woman’s voice rise in anger and distress.

“Now it is,” I said. I pulled out my shirttail and peeled my blouse off like a stripper. He hadn’t taken a puff of his cigarette since I arrived. I took the lighted cigarette from his hand and tossed it over the railing, and then I moved closer, squeezing his mouth into a pout like I intended to kiss him. “You got something better to do?”

He laughed uneasily. “I guess not,” he said in a little puff of cigarette breath. Yum yum.

I kissed him right on the puss, using some slurpy lip-and-tongue stuff I’d seen in the movies. It didn’t seem any sexier when other people did it.

I took his hand and drew him into his hotel room, trailing my blouse along the floor like a feather boa. As Wendell came out onto his balcony, I was in the process of closing the sliding glass door behind us. “Why don’t you relax while I clean myself up. Then I can bring a little soap and warm water and we’ll clean you up, too. Would you like that?”

“You mean just lie down like this?”

“You always make whoopee with your shoes on, honeybun? Why don’t you take them old Bermuda shorts off while you’re at it. I have to take care of a little something in the other room, and then I’ll be right out. I want you ready now, you hear? Then I’ll blow out that big old candle of yours.”

The guy was unlacing one sturdy black business shoe, which he pulled off and tossed, peeling off a black nylon sock in haste. He looked like somebody’s nice, short, fat granddaddy. Also like a five-year-old, prepared to cooperate if there was a cookie in the offing. I could hear Renata, in the next room, begin to shriek. Then Wendell’s voice thundered, his words indistinguishable.

I gave my friend a little finger wave. “Be right back,” I sang. I sashayed toward the bathroom, where I set his eyeglasses by the basin, then leaned over and turned on the faucet. Cold water gushed out with a vigorous
splashing that masked all other sounds. I shrugged into my blouse, eased over to the door, and went out into the hall, closing the door behind me with care. My heart was thudding, and I felt the cold air in the corridor wash across my bare skin. I moved swiftly to my room, pulled my key out of my pants pocket and jammed it in the keyhole, turned it, opened the door, and shut it behind me. I slid the burglar chain into place and stood there for a moment, my back to the door, pulse racing while I rebuttoned my blouse as quickly as I could. I felt an involuntary shiver run down my frame from head to toe. I don’t know how hookers do it. Yuck.

I crossed to the balcony and closed my sliding glass door, which I locked with a snap. I pulled the drapes and then I moved back to the door and looked out through the spyhole. The old drunk was now standing halfway out in the hallway. Mr. Magoo-like, he peered right, squinting without his glasses. He was still in his shorts, one sock off and one sock on. He’d begun to eye my door with interest. Suddenly I wondered if the man was as drunk as he’d first appeared. He glanced around casually, making sure he couldn’t be observed, and then he moved over to my fish-eye and tried to peer in. I pulled back instinctively and held my breath. I knew he couldn’t see me. From his side it must have been like looking down the wrong end of a telescope.

He gave a shy little knock. “Miss? You in there?”

He placed his eye against the spyhole again, blocking the little circle of light from the hallway. I swear I could smell his breath through the wood. I saw light in the fish-eye again, and I approached with care, pressing
my eye to the tiny circle so I could peer out at him. He had backed up and was looking down the hall again with uncertainty. He moved to my left, and after a moment I heard his door close with a thunk.

I tiptoed over to the sliding glass and took a position just to the left, my back against the wall as I peered out. Suddenly…slyly …the top portion of the old guy’s head appeared as he craned around the wall between his balcony and mine, trying to get a glimpse into my darkened room. “Ooo-whooo,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s me. Is it time to party yet?”

This guy’s blood was up. It wouldn’t be long before he’d paw the ground and snort.

I held myself motionless and waited him out. After a moment he withdrew. Ten seconds later my telephone rang, a room-to-room call, if you really want my guess. I let it ring endlessly while I felt my way into the bathroom and brushed my teeth in the dark. I fumbled back toward the bed, peeled my clothes off, and laid them on the chair. I didn’t dare leave my room. I couldn’t read because I didn’t want to risk turning on the light. In the meantime, I was so wired I thought my hair might be standing straight up on end. I finally tiptoed to the mini-bar and extracted two small bottles of gin and some orange juice. I sat up in bed and sipped screwdrivers until I felt myself getting sleepy.

When I emerged in the morning, the drunk’s door was shut with a
DO NOT DISTURB
tag hung over the knob. Wendell’s door was standing open and the room was empty. The same cart was parked in the corridor between rooms. I peered in and caught sight of the same
maid patiently damp-mopping the tile floor. She set the mop aside, leaning it against the wall near the bathroom while she picked up the wastebasket and carried it into the hall.

“¿Dónde están?”
I said, hoping that I was saying “Where are they?”

She must have known better than to pepper her response with lots of past participles and pluperfects. I wasn’t going to get it unless she kept the meaning down to a minimum.

What I believe she said was, “Gone …they leave …not here.”


¿Permanente?
Completely
vamos?”


Sí, sí.”
She nodded vigorously and repeated her original statement.

“Mind if I take a look?” I didn’t really wait for her permission. I pushed my way into room 312, where I checked the dresser drawers, the night table, the desk, the mini-bar. Goddamn it. They hadn’t left me
anything.
Meanwhile, the maid was watching me with interest. She shrugged to herself and moved back into the bathroom, where she tucked the wastebasket under the sink again.

BOOK: J is for Judgment
4.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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