Slow Burn (19 page)

"Thanks,"
I said when she handed it over.

"Remember,"
she sang to my back, "the little brown plastic strip needs to stay
connected to the card."

I decided
against writing this down.

I could feel
Lance's eyes on me as I pushed the up button and the doors to my immediate left
slid open. I stepped in and pushed 9.

On the ninth
floor I got off, watched as the doors closed behind me and listened as the
elevator hummed off. I pushed the up button. Twenty seconds later, the same
elevator I'd just gotten out of reappeared. Shit. I needed the elevator on the
right.

I waited
several minutes before pushing up again. This rime the doors on the far left
yawned open. No good. It took the better part of ten minutes before I was able
to summon the elevator on the far right, and even then it was full of German
tourists. I rode to the ground floor with them, ja, ja, and then quickly pushed
the close-door button before an elderly couple could get on board. What a guy!

On my way back
up to nine. I checked the red-and-white sticker on the box mounted below the
elevator buttons which read: "TELEPHONE—In the event of emergency, insert
your room key and lift receiver. You will automatically be connected to the
operator." I pulled my handy-dandy new room key from my pocket, inserted
it in the slot, and as directed, opened the little door. Momentarily I pondered
the fact that, apparently, only guests were allowed to have emergencies in
these elevators. George's blue notebook was tucked inside the phone box, just
where he'd left it, the golf pencil still stuck in among the spiraled wire. I
pocketed it and stepped out.

The next order
of business was a shower. I have always had the same reaction to those
infrequent occasions when my work has landed me in the pokey. I invariably have
an incredible urge to shower and generally completely deplete the available hot
water before I am able to stop. Today wasn't a problem. I stood there with the
steaming water rolling down my body for the better part of forty minutes
without detecting even the slightest variation in water temperature. Let’s hear
it for good hotels.

By the time I
stepped out of the glass shower stall, the walls of the bathroom were dripping
like a rain forest, so I grabbed two towels and walked out through the bedroom
into the sitting room with a cloud of steam dogging my trail.

The digital
clock read twelve fifty-eight. I picked up the remote control and pushed power.
The credits from a game show rolled by as I dried myself and began to dress.

I was zipping
up a pair of black gabardine slacks when the logo for Afternoon Northwest
appeared on the screen. The cardboard cutout of Jack and Bunky was still front
and center on the set. This was strange. Afternoon Northwest was usually on
once a week, on Mondays, yet here it was, airing again on Tuesday.

". . . and
now, ladies and gentlemen, your host of Afternoon Northwest . . . Miiiiiss
Loooollla Kiiiiiing."

L-O-L-A Lola
tromped onstage wearing pretty much the same thing as yesterday. Today the
skirt was a deep brown and the cutaway jacket a watered-down yellow. Otherwise
it was the same. She must have found one she liked and taken it to a tailor and
told him to make her forty of them. The crowd hooted and hollered.

She was the
color of old custard and had on her somber face. The one she used to use for
airplane crashes during her brief tenure as a news anchor. "Before we
continue our weeklong special on cruelty to animals, ladies and gentlemen, I
feel it is incumbent upon me to state"—she shook her head for emphasis,
like Nixon used to—"clearly and unequivocally, that neither this show nor
this station endorses the views of yesterday's guest, Miss Clarissa
Hedgpeth."

The crowd gave
her a tentative hand.

"As our
loyal viewers know, we make every effort to bring our audience, both in the
studio and at home"—she looked beseechingly at the camera—"a wide
variety of opinions on a wide variety of issues."

I had to go
with her there. Who, after all, could ever forget programming like
"Homicidal Postal Workers Speak Out," "Espresso Ruined My
Life" or the immortal "Felching for Fun and Profit"?

I lost what she
was saying as I went into the bedroom in search of shoes. When I came back out,
a graphic detailing the addresses and phone numbers of both Clarissa Hedgpeth
and her organization, NUTSS, was on the screen, and Lola was doing the
voice-of-doom narration. "Once again, that's area code 206-328-6540 for
those of you who would like to comment directly to Miss Hedgpeth."

Lola King
looked to her left, got some sort of signal and then plowed ahead. "Today,
ladies and gentlemen, Afternoon Northwest will continue our investigation of
animal rights issues. Our guest this afternoon is Steven Drew .. . president
and founder of the National Vegan Society. Please, a big Northwest hello for
Steeeeven Drewww."

I got the belt
all the way through before I realized I missed a loop in the back. Arrrg.

Steven was
short, with a full head of corrugated hair pulled back into a thick black
ponytail. When he turned to .plant the obligatory peck on Lola's cheek, I could
see that the hairs on the back of his neck grew completely down into his
collar, giving rise to the possibility that our boy Steve was completely haired
over like a gibbon, a malady which I imagined at least subconsciously fueled
his crusade on behalf of our furry friends.

Lola beamed at
the camera. "Can you tell our viewers, here and at home, exactly what a
vegan is, Steve?"

Steve gave a
nervous smile and locked in on the wrong camera.

"I
certainly can, er, Lola," he mumbled. "A vegan—pronounced vee-gun, by
the way—is someone who does not consume animal products. While vegetarians
avoid flesh foods, vegans also reject the exploitation and abuse inherent in
the making of dairy and egg products, as well as clothing from animal
sources."

"Well,
isn't that asking a lot of people, Steve? I mean, how many people are going to
be able to lead a lifestyle like that?"

Steve, who had
by now found the camera with the red light, was nodding his head. "We
understand that, Lola. While leading a purely vegan life may be difficult for
many, we encourage those who strive toward this goal to consider themselves to
be practicing vegans."

Kind of like
Catholicism, I thought as I went to find myself a tie in the bedroom.

It took me four
tries to get a good knot in the tie, so I missed the introduction of the second
guest, which turned out to be something of a handicap since the guy was masked.
He had one of those terrorist scarves wound around the lower part of his face
and a pair of wraparound sunglasses covering his eyes. He was saying, "We
encourage people to take action. To look around their areas for targets.
They're everywhere. Laboratories where animal testing takes place, factory
farms, hunt kennels, meat-packing plants, fur shops, abattoirs."

Lola wanted to
comment, but the guy was rolling. "ALF members in Michigan recently freed
eight thousand mink from the farm of the president of the American Mink
Association, There's a seventy-thousand-dollar reward out for them right now,
as we speak, Lola."

Lola tried
again, "But, Konrad, isn't it . . ."

"I'll tell
you what it is, Lola. It's flattering. When militants blew up those eight
trucks in Sweden ... ifs flattering, is what it is."

As I grabbed my
jacket and looked around for the remote, Steven Drew managed to get a word in
edgewise. "We see it as a matter of individual conscience, Lola. We
believe that individuals can make a difference. Leading a cruelty-free life
is—"  

Konrad Kramer
jabbed a finger in Drew's direction.

"Hey, tofu
boy. Where were you and your hippies when we were monkeywrenching the sea lion
traps at the Ballard Locks? If it weren't for committed ALF commandos, those
poor devils would have been mukluks."

I spied the
remote lying camouflaged on the bedspread and put an end to the dazzling
repartee. I stopped at the gilded mirror on the wall and gave myself one last
inspection. My forehead still had a puffy Neanderthal bulge, but other than
that, I looked pretty good.

The first
elevator to stop was packed, but I got in anyway. The more the merrier. As the
doors closed, I inserted my key for the security floors and pushed sixteen. As
I'd expected, the rabble was struck dumb by my magnificence.

Once again,
Rowcliffe answered almost immediately.

"How do
you do that?" I asked.

"Do what,
sir?"

"Answer
the door instantly, like you've been camped out the whole time waiting for
somebody to knock." "Practice, sir," was his reply.

I waded through
the carpet, following the butler into the bedroom. The current book was Full
House by Stephen Jay Gould. Pink silk jammies and sheets today. No comment.

"Ah, Mr.
Waterman," Sir Geoffrey said. "Apparently, you were indeed in
competent legal hands."

"Yes,
sir."

"Rowcliffe
spoke with your spousal unit, a Ms. . . ." The butler appeared in the
doorway. "Duvall, your lordship."

"Of course
. . . yes. Ms. Duvall assured us that you were being well represented and would
be expeditiously liberated."

"If s an
occupational hazard," I assured him. He looked peeved. "I must say, I
myself found the experience unsettling, to say the very least." "Cops
give you a hard time?"

"They were
as rude to me as they dared," he sniffed.

"Certainly
not as peremptorily as the others were treated, but . . ." "What
others?"

"That
whole dreadful knot of Meyersons and Del Fuegos. They questioned us all until
nearly dawn. Where had we been. Whom had we seen. It was interminable. They
seemed to be convinced that someone in that room was responsible for Mr.
Reese's demise."

"Ifs a
good bet."

"They went
so far as to suggest that I, of all people, also had reason to wish Mason Reese
dead. They even questioned Rowcliffe at great length."

"I'd pay
good money to watch that."

"It was
rather amusing," he conceded.

I didn't even
bother to ask about the details of Rowcliffe's interview. Instead, I asked Sir
Geoffrey, "What did you tell them?"

"Regarding?"

"What I
was doing for you."

"Merely
that you had been retained as security liaison for Le Cuisine
Internationale." "That's it?"

"They were
highly objectionable young fellows."

"You
didn't tell them that we were following people?"

He folded his
arms high across his chest. "Certainly not. I had no way of knowing what
your situation was. God only, knew what you were telling them. I had no choice
but to quibble."

"You'd
make a good crook, Sir Geoffrey."

He made that
noise with his lips again. "They inquired about someone named George. I
told them I had no knowledge of your exact arrangements and had never heard of
the gentleman in question." He showed me a palm. "Which was
technically true, of course. That seemed to satisfy them."

"Not for
long."

"You think
not?"

"They're
going to go through the staff like locusts and when they do, I figure it's a
good bet one of the valets is going to remember George and the rest of the
crew. Or they're going to find out from the desk personnel that I had extra
keys made to my room. They're not stupid. It's going to get sticky before ifs
over."

"Of
course, you're right." He sighed. "It's tempting to think of the
police as a pack of bumbling boobs."

"They're
not," I said. "As a matter of fact, they tend to be quite good at
what they do."

He pursed his
lips and marinated the idea for quite a while, finally breathing out hard from
his nose and saying, "As I see it, we are still holding the trump
cards."

"No doubt
about it, Sir Geoffrey."

"We know
what they'd like to."

"But
pretty soon they're going to know that we know." "And they will
surely ferret out these men of yours." "Yes, they will."

I had no
illusions about it. Nobody on my crew was spy material. They all drank too much
for anything clandestine. These were the kind of people who, while supposedly
hiding out, get hammered and brag to anybody who'll listen that they're hiding
out. It shouldn't take long.

"You said
that both you and Rowcliffe were present when _ the Meyerson and Del Fuego
contingents gave the cops their stories about where they'd been and when."

"Certainly.
The swine kept us all sequestered in a single large room downstairs.. Imagine,
if you can, being retained in the same space with that malignant mob. It was
hideous."

"The good
news is that the papers are carrying it as a hotel murder. The convention
wasn't even mentioned in the morning edition."

This morning's
Post Intelligencer had chronicled the whole sordid history of the great
Meyerson-Del Fuego dispute. For the better part of two full pages, years of
outrageous accusations and heartfelt denials had made for exceptionally lively
reading.