Storm Season (15 page)

Taylor looked at her watch for the millionth time. “It’s nearly 6:00, Cherry. There’s no more time to waste. It’s been too long.”

Cherry was pale, and exhausted. “I agree. I’m worried sick. Let’s get the manager on duty.”

At her wave, the hotel’s manager on duty, a burly man named Fred, approached.

“Ma’am? Bad news. Our mechanic isn’t going to make it. The Sheriff’s office is responding to a huge wreck, buncha cars on the highway crashed, they can’t spare anyone for at least an hour. We’re stuck, I’m afraid.”

“Fred, I’m sorry, but we need in those rooms. The Freedom Conference will pay for the damages we’re about to incur.”

“What?”

Taylor chimed in. “Can you let us into your basement? We’re going to need some tools. A wrench and a screwdriver, for starters. A crowbar if you have it.”

Fred’s brown creased. “Um, ma’am, just what are you planning to do?”

Taylor smiled. “Easy. Bust the locks off the doors.”

“I can’t let you do that. Those locks cost—”

“It doesn’t matter. There could be two lives at stake in there, and we’re not going to wait any longer.”

“I gotta talk to the hotel property manager, they’re in Denver. They own the resort. I can’t let you—”

Taylor got in his face, her voice stern. “Fred, we aren’t going to wait. We will take responsibility. I’m a cop, you place the blame squarely on my head and I’ll cover your back. The tools, now.”

People always backed down when she used that tone. Fred grabbed a flashlight and, without a word, headed toward the back stairs.

“I’ve got this, Cherry. I’ll be back for you in a minute.”

It took five to gather the tools she thought she’d need. Fred wasn’t talking, just shined the big industrial flashlight where Taylor asked. She’d scared him enough that he was keeping his mouth shut; she assumed he probably had a record he hadn’t disclosed, something minor, and didn’t want his bosses getting wind of his issues. She met guys like him in her investigations all the time. DUIs, late on their child support, warrants for traffic violations, gambling debts. Stupid stuff that should just be handled. Instead, they furtively tried to hide their misdeeds.

“Let’s go up. I might need your muscle,” she said, and Fred sullenly shined the light on the stairs for her. When they reached the first floor lobby, he stopped cold.

“You know what? You’re on your own from here. I ain’t going up there. I’m not going to be held responsible for this.”

Of course not.

“A noble speech, Fred. Thanks for doing the right thing.”

She left him gaping after her and found Cherry warming her hands near the fireplace. “I’ve got everything. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and fell in line behind Taylor. The whispers started as they left the room.

As they climbed the stairs, the wind shrieked harder around the building, and its violent passage heightened the echoes of their footfalls in the darkened stairwell. It was even creepier than last night – Taylor sensed the storm was peaking. Hopefully, this would be the worst of it.

The fourth floor was eerily quiet. Once the stairwell door was shut, the wind’s fury was muffled a bit.

The two women walked quickly down the hall. They stopped at Stamper’s room first.

Taylor didn’t move for a moment, just breathed deeply. All the hair stood up on the back of her neck. Something was different. Something was wrong.

“Do you smell that?”

Cherry nodded. She’d been around enough destruction, enough death, to recognize the scent.

“Blood,” she whispered.

Taylor nodded. This wasn’t going to end well, she could just feel it.

She took the crowbar to the door, not caring about the damage she was inflicting. With a great wrenching groan, the lock pulled free of the door. The metal warped and Taylor used the screwdriver to wedge the tongue out of the bolt. It still didn’t free, so she gave it a strong kick, and the door latch popped free.

She drew her weapon, took a flashlight from Cherry and cross-armed the light under her shooting hand, the outside corners of each wrist meeting in a kiss.

The room was dark, the curtains pulled closed. Taylor swung the light around the room until she saw the body. The coppery tang of blood, a scent Taylor was much too familiar with, grew stronger the nearer she got to the bed.

Their worst fears, confirmed.

Cherry gasped aloud when she saw the neat hole in Ellis Stamper’s forehead. The greatest damage was to the back of his skull, which had a massive hole in it where the bullet exited.

“Jesus. He’s been executed.”

Taylor said nothing, just moved the flashlight around the room, taking in the scene. He was naked on the bed, the sheets twisted. Underlying the blood was the scent of musk. Taylor approached the body, shined her flashlight up and down the length of him. There was a spent condom in the trashcan next to the bed.

“He had company.”

Cherry joined her. “Conference sex. Happens all the time. We should make sure this doesn’t get back to his wife.” She reached for the condom; Taylor stopped her.

“What are you doing? We don’t touch anything. If you persist I’ll escort you from the room. Do you understand?”

Cherry gave Taylor a sad little smile. “I was COS for twenty years. My first responsibility is to my people.”

“Not to the law, to justice? You’re willing to cover this up? Whoever he screwed most likely killed him.”

“This will ruin him. His family, his honor—”

“Cherry, the man’s dead. I daresay he’s already ruined. Let’s worry about soothing hurt feelings if the time comes. There’s DNA on that condom, a piece of the puzzle we can’t pretend doesn’t exist. Get it?”

“Cops. Always afraid to do the right thing.” There was a note of exasperated humor in Cherry’s voice, which was a good thing, but Taylor gave her a baleful eye anyway, and she moved away from the bed.

The flashlight pummeled the darkness once more, and Taylor spied the connecting door to the next room. She thought about the room set up, realized it went to 4900.

“Cherry, look. This goes into Florian’s room. Easier to get through this than tearing the electronic lock off the other door.”

“I agree. But Taylor, be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name.” 

Taylor eased the door open with her shoulder; it wasn’t locked, or fully closed. Unlocked she could understand; if Stamper was Florian’s bodyguard, he would need access to the room. And if the rumors were true, and they were lovers? That logic was sound; the used condom spoke volumes. Could Florian have shot his lover in a fit of rage, then left the hotel?

On the surface, that felt plausible, though not exactly right. Taylor hadn’t gotten the violent vibe from Florian; he seemed more like an earnest schoolteacher than a bully.

She shone the flashlight closer on the lock. There were scratches, like an impatient thief had jimmied it open. So much for that theory.

She took a deep breath and called his name quietly.

“Mr. Florian?”

Silence.

“Shine the light around, Taylor.”

She did, not surprised to find the room empty.

FLORIAN HAS FAINTED, AGAIN. Before he succumbed to the pain, he was talking, but not saying the things I needed to hear. There are answers here, I know it. My father was not a traitor, my family did not have to die. My many years of espionage have taught me well; eventually, everyone breaks. Watching Florian bleed and cry and lie isn’t enough. I will speed up the process.

I go to the bathroom, gather a handful of water from the sink. The stream sputters and runs out as I watch. The room is cold, my hands are clumsy in the dark. Without the power, this is more difficult than I planned. The leads tied to Florian’s chest and testicles will not work without electricity, and the fear of pain will not suffice. There has to be actual stimulus to coerce statements. Which means I’m back to the knife.

I splash the meager handful of water in his face, but it is enough. He sputters and his eyes open. I stand with my arms crossed, waiting for him to again register who I am, and why we are here.

“Angelie,” he moans.

I drop to my knees, cajoling now, friendly.

“Talk to me, Thierry. Tell me what I need to know.”

I wrap his wounds, binding them against the bleeding. It will feel better that way. He head lolls against me, I smell his fear. The infamous Thierry Florian, helpless and scared.

“That is all I have, Angelie. I know nothing else.”

Kneeling back on my heels, I watch him. The letter tells me he is still lying.

“Thierry, they’ll come for you soon. You must tell me the rest. Tell me, and this pain will stop.” I tug on a lead attached between his legs and he gulps a breath. His head bobs side to side, a metronome of hurt.

He whispers, “I would tell you you’re wrong, but you will not believe me. “

“No, I won’t believe anything less than the truth. You’ve been lying to me this entire time. For fifteen years, you’ve looked me in the face, knowing you killed my father. How could you? I thought you were my friend. I thought you were my father’s friend.”

He sighs, a great, dragging breath. “Dear Angelie, I am not lying. Your father panicked. We had a safe house prepared, guards to keep him safe, but someone got to him. Convinced him he was being double-crossed. Angelie, I do not know who this person was.”

“Whoever it was, he told the truth. You double-crossed my father. You left him out in the cold to die.” I toy with the knife at the edge of his groin. A lesser man would beg, plead, promise me anything, just to get the sharp edge away from their skin. Florian merely shakes his head.

“No, no, Angelie. I would never do that to him. He was my friend, yes, but I will be honest. He was too valuable. He was the greatest asset I'd ever trained. But the others, they had no compunction about lying to him to get what they wanted. And he chose to believe their faint words of promise rather than follow my protocols. I wanted you all in the safe house in Annecy, he chose to buy the caravan and stay in the campgrounds. There was no way to protect him, he was too exposed. He exposed you all, and panicked when they came for him.”

“More lies. This letter is dated three days before his death. He says he knew you were working for the Soviets. That you were a double agent. That’s why he didn’t trust you.” I catch my tone, a petulant child. I add a sneer. “You dishonored your vows, Thierry, and their blood is on your hands.”

TAYLOR’S THEORY ABOUT FLORIAN being the shooter changed when she saw the blood by the window.

“Cherry, over here.”

“Oh, no. This goes from bad to worse.”

“It does, but don’t lose hope just yet. There’s not enough blood to assume the worst, not by a long shot. This is just a thimbleful, really.” She stared at the blood drops. “The storm kicked into high gear at midnight. A time of death on Mr. Stamper would go a long way toward telling us whether Florian is still on site or was taken from the hotel.” 

“You’re not making me feel better. I have one man down, and one missing. Where the hell could he be?”

Taylor tucked her weapon back into its holster.

 “I don’t know. Anywhere – this campus is huge. But if he’s still here you’re missing the bigger picture.”

“The bigger picture?”

“It’s entirely possible we’re locked in this hotel with a cold-blooded murderer.”

Cherry sat down hard on Florian’s bed. “Oh, Lieutenant, trust me, I am well aware of this.”

There was something in her tone, in the self-defeated flop on the bed.

Taylor squatted on the floor in front of the woman. “You sound like a woman who needs to get a load off her chest.”

“I’ve screwed up. I didn’t protect him. It’s my fault.”

“What do you mean, you’ve screwed up? Cherry, talk to me. What’s really going on here?”

“You know who Thierry Florian is, I suspect?”

“He’s worked with my fiancé, but I don’t know him. I just met him tonight. All I know is he’s the head of the Macallan Group, and former clandestine services. The French, right, DGSE?”

“Always shy with his accomplishments, Thierry. That’s what makes him such an excellent spy. His father was a leader in the French
Résistance
during World War II. When the French needed information about the Germans, François Florian would put himself in the worst possible situations, get arrested, then find ways to keep himself alive while he gathered information. When he had what he needed, he would escape and bring the information back to the resistance.”

“An impressive man.”

“Yes. Thierry was his youngest child, born well after the end of the war, but the tales his family told were intoxicating. While the rest of his siblings went into safe positions as doctors and lawyers, Thierry followed in his father’s footsteps and joined what was then known as the DGSE – the Directorate-General for External Security.”

“The French version of our CIA?”

“Correct. He had an illustrious career. When he retired, he was the equivalent of our Director of Counterintelligence. But it was an especially covert side job that put him on his current path. Before he left he worked with the Alliance Base – do you know what that is?”

“An international cooperative of intelligence agencies, right? Working against Al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations?”

“Yes.” She smiled, a little sadly. “Thierry has always ruffled feathers in the intelligence community with his theories. He feels cooperative intelligence is vital to deter more terrorist attacks on the Western world. But putting a bunch of spies together – well, friction was inevitable. He saw the ways the organization worked, and the ways it didn’t. He was determined to perfect the mix. Hence, The Macallan Group.”

“Why are you telling me this, Cherry? The man’s CV isn’t necessary for me to want to help.”

“Bear with me a few moments more, Taylor. Thierry has made many enemies, and he is a target. It is entirely possible we have been infiltrated by someone he pissed off back in the day and they’re taking their chance at retribution.”

“You handpicked the conference members, though, didn’t you? Surely you wouldn’t be so careless as to let a known combatant in.”