Don't Look Now (15 page)

‘Next slow dance, maybe you could show me a few moves,’ the blond woman added.

‘It’s a date,’ Paris said, wondering about the man’s connection to this scene.

‘By the way, my name’s Abigail.’

‘Jack. Jack Partridge.’ What the
hell
was he thinking about? Jack Partridge?

They shook hands briefly and Paris could not help but notice the shift of the woman’s breasts beneath her blouse. He looked back into her eyes.

She had caught him looking. She smiled.

Paris decided to look into this high-fashion thing in earnest. He didn’t need a car or rent money anyway, did he? Before he could say another word, a slow song started. Some oldie by Whitney Houston. There was no avoiding Abigail’s look. She arched one eyebrow.
Well?

Paris decided to give the lady a whirl around the dance-floor. All in the line of duty, of course. He could get a better view of the room from the elevated dance-floor, he told himself.

He glanced over at the bar.

Cyndy was gone.

They had agreed that neither of them would make any moves without giving the other a high sign. And now he didn’t see her.

‘
Shit!
’ Paris rushed into the crowd, jostling elbows and arms, spilling a few drinks in the process. He unsnapped his shoulder holster. He knew he might be overreacting, that Cyndy could take care of herself, and that just because she wasn’t in her seat didn’t necessarily mean a thing. She was a cop, she was armed, she had experience, so there had to be a really good reason.

He knew and he charged ahead anyway.

Halfway to the door one of the larger lounge monkeys – big blond kid, muscular, maybe twenty-four – tried to detain him, something about an apology from Paris for bumping into a girl the kid had known probably all of ten minutes. When Paris opened his coat sufficiently to show him the butt of his weapon, the kid backed off and let him pass.

But the exchange delayed him, eating seconds. It took him a full minute to bull his way to the front. When he arrived he found Cyndy’s seat occupied by an obese man with a pair of margaritas already on call in front of him.

Paris looked left and right, into the angled mirrors above. He turned toward the room and scanned the crowd, the women on the dance-floor. There was no sign of her. The deejay mixed into another slow song as Paris found himself momentarily hemmed in by what had to be three or four of the Cleveland Cavaliers. He fingered the badge attached to his belt, considered using it to clear a path, but managed to push his way to the lobby door without it.

He looked through the etched glass. A few couples scattered around the brightly lit foyer. A bellman crossing with a pair pf rollaways.

No Cyndy.

Paris exited the lounge and crossed the lobby. He waited near the rest rooms for a few minutes, witnessed a parade of rather women entering, exiting. None of them police officers.

He moved down the main corridor, toward the convenience lobbies, the pool, the banquet facilities. He peeked into one of the meeting rooms. Nothing moving.

Paris stood in the doorway, watching and listening, sensing people nearby but not being able to pin them down. Muted conversation floated by, a man and a woman, rapid-fire talk.

Paris stepped into the hall and tilted his head to the sound.

And that’s when he heard Cyndy scream.

* * *

At first, Paris couldn’t tell if it was a shriek of pain or delight, danger or pleasure. It may even have been laughter, but the sound remained in the air, chilling him. He drew his weapon and held it tightly to his side. Flat against the wall, he rounded the corner and found more alcoves for service and housekeeping. The passageway was quiet, empty.

At the end of the hall Paris noticed an oversized swing door bearing a ‘Hotel Employees Only’ plate. Through the small, frosted-glass panel he could see movement. Light, dark, light, dark. More voices, closer now. Paris strode silently to the door, crouched, edged it open.

Cyndy Taggart was up against the wall at the far end of the long service corridor, partially obscured by a tall man in front of her and to her right. The man was lean, but broad-shouldered. He held a black overcoat in his left hand.

Before Paris could react, the man raised his right hand high over Cyndy’s head and the track lighting above him caught a reflection of a … watch? Bracelet? Keys?
Razor?

‘
Police!
’ Paris yelled.

He sprinted the length of the hallway, taking the distance between them in eight or nine long strides, and blindsided the man at full speed. He heard the air rush out of the man’s lungs as they locked arms momentarily and slammed into a vending machine. Somebody’s knee smashed the glass into a hundred sparkling pieces.

For a moment, the edge of Paris’s world went red as the right side of his face, in direct contrast, went white-hot. He recovered from the impact first, righted himself and kicked the man’s feet out from under him. Although he was already breathless, Paris’s upper-body strength prevailed. He wrestled the bigger man to the ground and managed to get one arm behind him in the process.

‘
Jack
!’ Cyndy screamed, for what was probably the third time.

Paris dropped his knee into the middle of the man’s back and leaned forward, gasping for air. He looked down at the man’s profile and immediately recognized the cheekbones, the hair, the earring.

It was Danny Lawrence. Danny lived in the city, but sometimes stayed with his brother in Beachwood. The hotel bars on Chagrin were his natural hunting grounds.

‘Aw fuck me to
tears
,’ Paris said.

He had tackled a fellow police officer in what would certainly become the ‘middle-of-a-hotel lobby’ when this story started to make the rounds in about an hour. And according to the blood that was coming from somewhere, he had probably fucked him up too. This was going to dog Jack Paris for as long as he knew cops.

Maybe longer.

‘
Shit
, man,’ Paris said, regaining his breath. ‘I’m sorry, Danny.’ He rolled off, onto his side, every muscle in his body now starting to howl in response to such rapid and unexpected abuse. To add salt, he barked his elbow on the edge of the soda machine.

‘It’s okay, Jack,’ Danny replied. He stood up and straightened his clothes. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose to his lower lip, then onto his shirt. ‘It’s our fault, man. We weren’t thinking.’

‘I thought you were going to be talking to that blonde for a while, Jack,’ Cyndy said, helping Paris to his feet. ‘I thought I got your attention. I thought you saw me leave.’

‘
Jesus
, Cyndy,’ Paris said, brushing bits of broken glass from his pant-leg. ‘We’re on the
job
.’

Paris turned, remembering where they were. The door to the hallway was wide open and a crowd had begun to gather. He flashed his badge and asked them kindly to disperse, effectively blowing his cover at the Impulse Lounge for the rest of the evening. Probably, he thought, for the rest of the detail.

His face was killing him. Paris figured that he had banged his right cheek on the top edge of the vending machine when he slammed into Danny. But nothing seemed broken. He hoped.

He held the kitchen towel with the ice in it up against his face, pushed the play button on his remote, put his feet on the coffee table. He had left the movie cued up where he always had, right before the scene in which Woody Allen’s character, Alvy Singer, visits Annie’s parents. Whenever Paris saw the cutaway shot of Woody dressed up like a rabbi he all but died laughing.
Annie Hall
was one of the first videos he and Beth had rented as a married couple. They had seen it at least a half-dozen times since. Right now, Paris needed a laugh.

But when he saw the FBI warning flash across the screen, followed by some coming attractions, he realized that the DVD was starting from the beginning.

That was impossible.

Had someone been in his apartment?

Paris jumped to his feet. A quick glance around the room and the fact that he was sitting there watching television told him that his valuables, what few there were, were still on the premises. He bounded over to the bedroom – wedding ring, a pair of cheap watches, his Saint Christopher medal. All intact. What else was there?

Nothing.

He checked the windows, the back door into his apartment. No signs of entry, no nicks around the door locks. He walked back to the living room and stared blankly at the simple black-and-white credits to
Annie Hall
rolling by.

But he hadn’t ejected the DVD, hadn’t gone to the Scene Selections menu. He’d paused the DVD at a particular point, and left it there.

Hadn’t he?

Another glance around his small apartment confirmed that everything was where it was supposed to be. And besides—

Hang on.

Had he seen Manfred on the way in? Of
course
he had. Manny was always at the door. What dog doesn’t run to the door when his master gets home?

He couldn’t remember. He panicked.

‘
Manny!
’

The dog, who had been bunched up on the La-Z-Boy just a few feet from his master’s booming shout, snoozing beneath a pair of deliciously pungent flannel shirts, levitated briefly before crashing back down on to the chair. In a moment, he shook the dream from his head, leapt on to the couch, into Paris’s arms.

‘Oh
man
,’ Paris said, catching the dog. ‘You had me going for a second.’ The dog licked his face with sloppy abandon. ‘Don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.’

Manny stuck his nose inside Paris’s shirt pocket, instantly snapping in two the solitary cigarette his master had allowed himself to bring home.

‘By the way, champ,’ Paris said, holding the dog’s head between his hands and staring into Manny’s lively brown eyes. ‘Was somebody here today?’

Manfred yawned.

He dreamed he was in a porno theater. Sweaty purple walls, damp seats, the smell of fortified wine and urine and come and mildewed plaster.

Paris knew that the pain in his face had something to do with his presence on West Twenty-fifth Street. Payment for something, penance for something. His head throbbed. Felt oversized.

There were three or four other afternooners in the theater with him; slicked-back humps in the darkness. Paris found a seat in the back row.

He sat down, drew deeply on his dream-pint of Crown Royal and unzipped his dream-pants.

The movie that was unreeling was standard fare, a couple in the missionary position on a royal-blue bed-spread. The woman was blond and pretty; the man, in profile, Euro-swarthy. Handsome. Paris only saw them for a moment before the camera moved down their bodies, but they looked familiar, as if this was some sort of home movie footage he himself had shot years ago.

The thought made him hard. In the dream, he freed himself.

The camera panned to their glistening bodies, poring over the man’s hips, tanned and muscular, silhouetted against the whiteness of the woman’s thighs, gyrating, grinding. The woman’s breasts rippled from side to side with each thrust; her sighing became more pronounced with each successive parry.

As their lovemaking grew to a frenzy, Paris finally recognized the woman’s hands, the manicured fingernails that dug into the man’s back, the very rhythm of her breathing.

When the man brought the woman to a deep, shuddering orgasm, Paris
knew
, and the knowledge filled him with rage and dark excitement.

The man was Tommy Raposo.

The woman, Paris acknowledged as he reached his own dream-climax, was Beth.

KAREN SCHALLERT’S BUSINESS
cards produced nothing in the way of leads, nor had Wednesday night’s undercover dry run yielded anything useful. Except, of course, the fable of Jack Paris’s now legendary blind-siding of Danny Lawrence. There was already a photocopy circulating the Justice Center that showed a team photo of the Cleveland Browns defensive line with Paris’s head stuck on to one of the linebackers’ bodies.

Funny, funny shit.

Paris picked up the phone, called the Fourth District desk. He asked for Officer Daniel Lawrence.

A minute later: ‘This is Officer Lawrence.’

‘Danny, Jack Paris.’

‘Hey killer.’

‘How’s the face?’

‘It’s okay,’ Danny said. ‘A little sore, maybe. But not too bad, considering that I got blitzed by a strong safety on a dead run last night.’

‘Tell me that fucking team picture of the Browns is over there already.’

‘What do
you
think?’

Paris shook his head. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to apologize again.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’d have done the same thing. Cyndy Taggart’s worth saving, you know?’

‘Got that right.’

‘But you’re going to be a legend around here for a while, I’m afraid.’

‘What can I do to make it up to you?’

‘Buy me a scotch and something someday and we’ll call it over. Maybe I’ll see you at the Caprice later.’

‘You got it.’

‘Listen, I got to hit the street. I’ll talk to you.’

‘Okay, Danny,’ Paris said, and hung up, the pain beneath his bandage beginning to swell with its own remembrance of the previous night’s acrobatics.

By Friday morning the trail had come full circle. With a ton of pressure from city hall, the files on all known sex offenders began to circulate the Unit for the second time in a week, even though there wasn’t a cop in Cleveland who had ever run into a pervert like the one they were looking for.

Paris was willing to bet that there weren’t too many cops anywhere who had.

The
Plain Dealer
, at least, had taken the story of the murders off the front page and put it in the Metro section, but still they persisted in running something about it every day. The phone had not stopped ringing since the Burchfield murder Sunday night and all the major tabloids were beginning to set up shop at the downtown hotels.

A short item had already run on page three of the
Inquisitor
.

The entrance to Cinq, Limited was impressive – light gray marble, plush carpeting, brushed-chrome appointments – and behind the posh retail store-front that graced the upper level at Tower City sat the quiet wealth of a successful international concern. Paris was met by an immaculately groomed woman of fifty or so named Rhonda Salinger. She was tall and slender and had radiant white hair that fell to her shoulders. Paris showed her his detective’s shield and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of local distribution of Cinq, Limited products.