Crime & Counterpoint (19 page)

The ceremony within the centuries’ old spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral had gone by relatively fast, but the reception taking place at none other than the Plaza Hotel dragged on.

Admittedly, the Grand Ballroom was a spectacular, palatial experience – a place of New York legend. Two opulent chandeliers hung from the twenty-five foot coved ceilings featuring a delicate bas relief. The walls were gilded in sparkling white and gold. Neo-Classical Grecian columns majestically held up the North and East balconies with curved ornamental railings and arched openings. But Zach had long gotten over his fascination with the magic of the space and its scent of rich, mystical history that its recent restoration couldn’t mask. 

He felt trapped, though on the outside, he looked for the most part as if he belonged in this crème de la crème crowd. Since arriving, he’d been earning the unwanted attention of dozens of hungry women. For Carrie’s sake, he’d been courteous thus far, but three hours was pushing it. And at this point, he was willing to take a bullet to get out.

Hundreds of voices droned like a hive full of mad hornets. Champagne glasses clinked, adding a pitchy and grating dimension to the mix. And an assortment of whining children and crying babies amplified his steadily vamping migraine. There were both a live jazz orchestra and a DJ on the stage. Zach didn’t mind the orchestra so much, but the DJ must’ve had a death wish. If he played “YMCA” one more time, Zach had plans to take his Colt and dispatch those damn turntables to hell.

Currently, the orchestra was in the middle of a lush number that reeked of wedding-cliché familiarity. The betuxed bandleader crooned in his Michael Bublé tenor, making Zach cringe.

“
Someday, when I’m awfully low… And the world is cold… I will feel a glow just thinking of you… And the way you look tonight…
”

He tried not to listen to the lyrics, but they were amplified all around him, and he couldn’t escape. The exits were clear on the opposite side of the extensive ballroom, and a turbulent sea of three hundred, teetering-on-the-edge-of-sobriety guests filled the gap. He threw back his shot of whiskey, remembering bitterly what, or rather who, was keeping him here.

The girl.

“
You’re lovely with your smile so warm… And your touch so soft…
”

She was slow-dancing with daddy at present, just one of many other couples. The diamond on her left hand was back. She was officially Carter’s. In this sparkling, soft-lit setting with the flourishing, dreamlike music and love-drunk atmosphere, watching her smile and laugh and look so damn beautiful stung him powerfully.

“
There is nothing for me but to love you… Just the way you look tonight…
”

“Another?” the sympathetic hotel bartender asked.

Zach ripped his gaze from Shelley and set the shot glass back down with a nod. But even alcohol wasn’t working. Plandome Manor must have existed in a different plane, some bizarre and yet wonderful reality where he could actually find it in himself to be happy. Even as a kid, that had been the case.

Taking his whiskey, he threw back the two ounces like it was water. Burned like fire, but when he lowered the shot glass,
she
was still there.

Unconsciously, he touched the knot of his ice blue silk tie as his throat clogged up. Forcing himself to look away, he found Carter coming towards him, his mouth sloped at that ‘I know you’re miserable’ angle. In his hands, he held two beers in frosty glasses which he must have gotten from the other bar set-up on the far side of the ballroom next to the country’s worth of professionally wrapped presents.

“Hey,” Carter said. “Having fun? You know there’s like a hundred women dying to dance with you.”

Zach exhaled slowly and pushed his empty glass towards the ‘tender – more please.

But Carter put one of the beers down in front of him, stopping the whiskey from being poured. “Here, try this. Features dried mission figs, spiced cinnamon, vanilla, and some bright wheat-citrus tang.”

Zach stabbed Carter with a razor glare. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Carter’s grin drooped. “It’s alcohol. Just drink.”

Reluctantly, Zach did, not even bothering to taste it. The song came to a smooth, crackling end. He turned in time to see Henri and Shelley headed for Carter as applause erupted across the hall. He didn’t want to be around when they reached their destination. “I gotta go,” he said.

“Where?”

“Just out.” Zach knew Carter wanted more of an explanation, but he couldn’t provide one. As he cut through the crowd, he saw the way Shelley smiled at Carter. It killed. Catching Henri’s eye, he read his silent message.

One predator to another.

Zach’s fists balled as pain and fury filled him. Henri Mitchel knew exactly what he was doing in getting him to be Shelley’s undisclosed bodyguard. A man who had no feelings for her wouldn’t risk life and limb. And after all was said and done, it wouldn’t be Zach who got to take her home and make love to her. It would be Carter. Established, steady, Columbia-grad Carter Richards.

With bleak defiance, Zach looked away, a futile attempt to hide his pain. He spotted his grandmother who smiled at him encouragingly. He didn’t even have the spirit left to smile back. At once, her face changed – loving but pitying now. She knew. Oh boy, did she know.

As he headed through one set of glass-inlaid double doors, the noise of the reception faded. Letting the door clatter shut, he took a releasing breath in the relative quietude. In the long, silent foyer faintly thumping with the muffled bass of the music, he felt his demons settle and the ache ease.

He took a deep breath and then slouched his large frame into a chair against the creamy wall. As he sat there, trying to shut down his thoughts, he felt his phone vibrate against his chest.

The caller ID read ‘unknown’, but he answered anyway, sure of whom it was.

“Yes?”

“Room 1121,” the thick accent said. “Take the elevator. Now.”

The Grand Ballroom Foyer had access to two specially-installed gold-plated elevators. Zach caught the doors of the lift on the right just as they were closing, angling his broad shoulders through them. He cast a halfway apologetic smirk to the three Caucasian men in heavy coats inside, all of whom assessed him with genteel hostility at first.

He quickly eyed the panel and saw that eleven was lit. Funny. That’s where he was going too. The gleaming doors locked them all in.

Elevator music was such a trivial banality. The current song was some inane, smooth jazz arrangement of “Christmas Time is Here”.

Mirrors plated the walls, and through them, he saw one of the men whisper to the other. The dark secret carried to the one who stood directly behind Zach.

Zach’s skin tightened. The third man slipped his hand into the coat he wore and left it there. Zach didn’t want to give him the chance to pull whatever he had. The first one had a phone and made a call, speaking quietly in a Slavic tongue. Zach only gleaned one word: ‘detective’.

Not good. He had his off-duty weapon, but he wasn’t about to use it in such tight quarters.

The digital notification over the door displayed a red six. Close enough.

He dug his hands into his pockets and made a show of searching for his wallet. “Damn,” he muttered. “Must’ve left my room key downstairs.” He shook his head in self-deprecation and reached forward to press the lobby button but instead slammed the ‘emergency stop’. The lights flickered, the cage rattled. And he braced himself.

The second man grabbed Zach by the shoulder and shoved his back against the cold wall. The impact caused bullet-hole pain to swell through him. He put up his guard, blocking his face, clenching his gut, steeling himself for each blow. They hit him hard, sparing nothing. He clenched his fists ‘til his knuckles were white, grunting as he held his breath.

Things began to grow hazy. The pain seemed to wash out, replaced by a familiar burning in his lungs as he depleted his oxygen. But he didn’t dare breathe yet.

They drove their fists into him repeatedly, and all the while he kept his face covered.

When they’d plateaued complacency, he breathed suddenly. Noisy air funneled through his flared nostrils, expanding his chest and energizing him. With speed, he brought his knee up hard into one man’s groin and then followed it with a blow to his jaw, which sent his attacker back into the opposite wall. The second man didn’t see Zach’s fist until it was already planted in his pock-marked cheek.

Zach used the handicap, waist-high metal bar as leverage to launch both feet into the man’s chest, kicking him with such force that he hit the same wall as his comrade and cracked the mirror, passing into oblivion.

But the sight of the glass web caused him to blanch, and the blood drained from his face. He saw his reflection in obscene fragments. And inside each, there was a hundred different yet similar memories. Instances of time that he could never erase. Each one hit him with the power that none of these men could wield.

And suddenly, he wasn’t thirty in an elevator at all…

Whack!

His head whipped to the right.

Pain seeped in to his cognizance, and he came out of the liquid haze to an explosion of lights.

Anger broke out of its well-insulated cage. Eyes lighting up like a ball of fire against a midnight blue sky, he crushed one man’s jaw with an upper cut and then slammed his fist like a sledgehammer into his face. The man slumped to the reflective, glossy floor, nose broken but alive.

Deep crimson poured from his nostrils, dribbling over thin, cruel lips and pooling in his partially-open mouth, turning his teeth the color of raw meat.

The last man standing withdrew a compact pistol and squeezed the trigger. The sound rolled like thunder around them, amplifying and deafening. But Zach’s heightened perception saw the bullet before it even left the gun. He ducked, whipped around, and nearly broke the man’s extended arm.

The bullet ricocheted off the elevator doors. Zach saw the black ice impact the mirrored glass; the wall splintered into another spider web. His striking reflection fractured into sadistic, grotesque pieces.

Lowering his center of gravity, Zach threw his full weight against the stocky man, pinning him to the broken wall and locking the gun arm in his vice grip. Though a south paw, his right hand sent deathly punches into the man’s head – like a one-speed machine. Fast, hard, accurate.

After a moment, Zach couldn’t see anything. He was throwing punches but at whom or for what he didn’t even remember. It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t even business. It was just him pushing, wanting,
needing
to hit.

His teeth clicked, his jaw vibrated. His face had an expressionless rage masquerading the last vestiges of decency which kept him from becoming black. But his conscience had become a buck, staring at the brights of an oncoming vehicle; locked up, frozen, not knowing at what it was looking.

He breathed hard. His upper body remained rigid, legs spread shoulder width apart, fist contacting flesh, bone, muscle, drawing blood. Beating the unconscious man into nothingness.

Finally, it was the gun clattering to the floor that killed the blinding lights.

And he ceased.

Zach came to himself at once, blinking like he’d been asleep with his eyes open. His chest heaved, and his hand felt like smoking lead. He blanched when he saw the unrecognizable face in front of him. Not his own. But that of the man now covered and smeared in red. It was all over him. Running down his face, streaming out of his ears too. Concussion.

Zach’s heart crashed like a mountain falling into the sea. He’d done this. The evidence was all over his right hand, warm and oozing between his fingers.

He swallowed and checked the destroyed man for a pulse. He was alive. They all were, amazingly enough.

Zach’s breathing slowed and his pulse returned to resting, faster than expected. And now, he was worried about who the second man had called.

Zach worked quickly. He used the men’s belts to strap them to the handicap bar. Then, he checked over his appearance in the mirror and saw blood had splattered his white shirt and silk tie.

Hands glistening with scarlet, he carefully took out his phone and called Carter. He didn’t answer. After that, as much as he hated to, he dialed Shelley. Her honeyed voice stabbed him.

“Hello?”

“I need to talk to Carter.”

“This isn’t a good time. He’s speaking with the state Attorney General.”

“Tell him I need help,” he said.

“What did you do now?”

He bit off a retort, staring at the thousand ugly pieces of himself in that broken mirror. “I’ll be waiting on the sixth floor.” He hung up before she could reply.

Though itching to get out, he had to know if these men had a room key on them. He searched each of their pockets, glancing at ID’s, taking pics with his cell; he was sure he’d seen their names on the list of Kazanov’s known associates – they were Brother’s Circle. And then at last, he came up with a plastic card in a sleeve marked 1121.

Quickly, he pried open the elevator doors, calculating that he was only a few feet below the sixth floor. The second set of doors were a little hard to manage and blood oozed out of lacerations in his knuckles as he did so. But after a quick peek down the empty passageway, checking for the butler, he got them open enough to maneuver himself through the opening.

The doors clamped shut as he stepped down. He straightened and stilled his trembling, pulsating hands.

With a brisk step, he made it past the elevators and snagged a small white towel from a housekeeping cart stationed in front of an open room. Continuing down the corridor, he wiped at the blood and saw that his appendages didn’t look too bad though they throbbed terribly. He dropped the soiled towel in a trash receptacle and punched through the metal stairwell door. He figured he had about two minutes before Carter came looking for him.

Entering the only working elevator, Carter hit number six and tried not to think about what could possibly have gone wrong. He’d been in such a good mood ‘til now.

Rumor had it he was getting that promotion to Deputy Chief of the Investigations Division, Shelley was going to marry him at last, her father had practically invited him to come on board at Mitchel, Weston & Sons as a senior trial lawyer (providing, of course, he tied the knot with Shelley), and he’d just had a drink with the New York Attorney General who’d said he liked his opening statement at the McNamara trial last month.

The Attorney goddamn General!

Thus, when Shelley came over and tucked her hand around his arm, looking deeply into his eyes, he’d expected something else from her luscious lips besides, “Zach’s in trouble.”

Swear to God. It was like having a kid brother who didn’t know how to be good for a solid three hours.

He jammed his hand inside his pocket, seeking out his room key, which he had taken just in case Shelley changed her mind.

Oh well. Maybe he’d use it himself.

Riled, he barely paid attention to a voluptuous woman in red from the party riding the elevator with him.

She’d selected floor 11.

It should have alarmed him how easily he dismissed everything he’d just done. But Zach had trained himself to forget, to reset the breaker so he could function. At least during the day. It was only at night, in his dreams, that the images flooded him like movie reels strung together. He always awoke at some point with sweat slicking his upper body. But he’d grown used to it. Not that
it
ever got easier.

Zach stepped across the threshold of 1121. It was dark inside, and the light from the corridor angled into the room in a swath, outlining his elongated shadow. The drapes were drawn over the windows, and so he flicked on the entryway light, shutting the door quietly.

The room was a luxurious suite, richly decorated in Louis XV-style with 24-carat-gold fixtures and Central Park-themed flooring.

Silently, he treaded the elaborate carpet towards the voluminous bed. It was untouched and bloomed with ornate pillows. Reminded him of Shelley, unfortunately. But he brushed her away and continued his inspection.

There was a silver briefcase on the bed.

He went closer and saw it had a lock which he wouldn’t be able to open without breaking. And that would render it useless – illegally-obtained evidence.

Suddenly, he heard someone inserting a key into the door. His nerves fired.

His eyes darted to the closet in the entry. And he slipped inside the dark space, leaving the door open enough to see into the room.

A woman entered. “Hello?”

Her accent told him she wasn’t a national. He couldn’t place it though. But as she moved into view, he saw her wavy blonde hair and glittering cardinal-red gown and thought he remembered seeing her at the reception. Maybe.

She passed by the bed, sliding her hand across the smooth finish of the briefcase as she headed to the bathroom. The light in there came on, and Zach knew this was his opportunity to get out.

Just then, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. Fumbling with the buttons, he silenced it and then froze, worried she might have heard. But she didn’t emerge.

A brief rap sounded at the door. Automatically, Zach reached for his gun but left it in its arm holster.

The woman came out, and he got a good look at her face – high cheekbones, porcelain forehead, sapphire eyes. A worldly beauty. But he still didn’t have the faintest idea who she was. Again, she glanced at the briefcase.

She went to the door and leaned close. “Who is it?” she called with a distinctive Slavic accent.

A muffled response came through too quietly for Zach to hear. The door opened, and he felt another presence enter the room. A man.

Zach’s hopes rose, thinking this was Kazanov himself or an accomplice. But–

“Alright, Vienna,” said a voice Zach knew all too well. His soul cringed. “You got me up here. What is it?”

“You sound disappointed, David,” Vienna crooned.

Blood rushed into Zach’s ears as he cursed himself for his morbid curiosity.

“My wife’s downstairs. She thinks I’ve gone to the restroom.”

She giggled. “That’s where Ron thinks I am, too.” Grabbing David’s tie, she drew him towards the bed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him voraciously.

However, he took her by the arms and set her away. “You’re not listening. I have to get back.”

But she just smiled and slipped the straps of her gown off her shoulders. “Is that what you tell the other girls who bring you money?”

David’s resolve began to cave.

Her dress drizzled to the leafy carpet, and the Marilyn Monroe figure underneath flaunted itself in front of the eminent investment broker. Zach couldn’t help but look at her. She was a work of art. A death trap.

She pressed close to him. “Make love to me, David,” she crooned in her Slavic inflection.

The way she said ‘David’ chilled Zach to the core. He felt like turning his nine-mil on himself.

In no time, she was on the soft bed, moaning and writhing while David laid into her, his clothes still on.

Agonized, Zach thrashed within himself, burying his face against the wall so he didn’t have to look. He covered his ears and cowered. Just like when he was a kid. His father had tried early on to stop his mother from abusing him. But she hadn’t done it often enough at that point to warrant real concern. After all, Zach wasn’t a saintly child – at least not according to either of them. And so his dad, too busy with making it on Wall Street, ignored the signs except when they were visible. Little Zach didn’t know any better. It was normal to be beaten by your mother. It was normal to get punished that severely when you did something wrong. It was normal to be told everything was his fault. That he was black. But he just couldn’t figure out how to be good. So eventually, he gave up trying.

When at last the obscene display ended, Zach peeked through the closet opening. David was fixing his shirt and tie while naked Marilyn was still stretched out on the bed, looking only partially satisfied. Zach’s stomach twisted into further knots.

They made trivial small talk, post-sex talk which told Zach this had certainly been going on for some months.

“What’s the code?” David asked, turning his attention to the briefcase, which Zach could see from here was all that the man cared about in the first place.

Vienna turned onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow, her breasts touching the elaborate bedspread. “He said it was the same as last time.”

David punched in six digits and then flipped the locks. Sure enough, inside the case were piles of neatly-bundled cash. He picked one stack up, fanned the bills, and then dropped it back in.

“He wants it doubled,” she said, glancing towards the door for some reason.

“Doubled?” David returned, alarm in his voice.

“You’ll get twelve percent.” Enticingly, she moved towards him like a snake. “Don’t worry. It’s all passed inspection. The money will simply go straight to the club, anyway.”

David considered this. “Okay. But after this, tell Kazanov I’m out. I can’t take much more of this.”

She slid off the bed and eased close to him again, a luscious smile on her face. “You do look tired. Why don’t you stay and play a little longer?” Again, she glanced at the door, over his shoulder. David didn’t notice.

“I’ve been gone too long already.” He snapped the briefcase shut, effectively extinguishing her temptress behavior. “And you should get back down, too. Ron’s going to get suspicious.”

“What are you worried about, David?” she said, suddenly cold. “He’s just as innocent as you are.”

He looked at her and raised his hand, almost as if he would slap her.

“Don’t. Ivan won’t like it,” she threatened, no fear in her voice.

David lowered his hand, grabbed up the briefcase, and thudded out, footsteps falling heavily against the carpet.

Zach jerked slightly as the door closed with a louder-than-expected chink.

Vienna’s façade gave way, and she looked desperate and broken, garnering a sliver of his sympathy. Her mouth quivered for an instant before she set her jaw, snatched up her dress, and slipped it back on. Then, she went to the phone on the side table and punched in a local number, only seven digits plus one for outside the hotel.

Zach waited, anticipation rising.

“They didn’t come,” she said. “I don’t know what happened… I tried to detain him… Yes… Alright. I will.” The phone returned to its cradle, and with a quick mirror check, she exited.

Zach didn’t want to wait to make sure she wasn’t coming back. He emerged from the closet, took swift, silent steps to the phone, and redialed the last number. The digits displayed, and he wrote it down on a pad by the phone. He wasn’t sure, but at first glance it looked like the same number the men in the elevator called. A man answered, but it was a voice he didn’t recognize. He hung up without saying a word and then slipped out of the room.

Carter was probably ready to kill him by now. And frankly, he was ready to kill himself.