Other People's Baggage (3 page)

MIDNIGHT ICE: FIVE

  

Brad had followed me from Pennsylvania. My paranoia had been on target.

I slouched down in my chair and watched the scene. From my vantage point, which was across a crowded room where people and pets mingled over wine and cheese, I knew I wouldn't hear their conversation, so I listened to their body language. From what it was telling me, these four men were arguing.

Harrison was doing the talking and the other men were listening. His gestures, though kept close to his body, were emphatic.

Louis was red in the face. He didn't like what he was being told.

And then there was Brad. He wore a straw Hamburg tipped down low over his forehead. His wavy black hair peeked out in the back. He stood inches over the other men, his white zip front GE nylon windbreaker open over an orange and white checkered shirt. His hands were in the pockets of his khaki trousers, and the sunlight gleamed off of the face of his 1960's Rolex Submariner watch. I knew the watch. I'd given it to him for Christmas less than a year ago.

I felt sick. My heart raced and I shifted to the side, to remain in the shadow of the fireplace. It couldn't be, it couldn't be! I was trapped in a nightmare of past and present. I wanted to leave but standing up and fussing with the crutches would only draw attention to me, attention I couldn't afford.

The fourth man, the one in the suit, had his arms crossed over his chest. His attention was so focused on Harrison's face he didn't notice the small dog sniffing his shoe. Suddenly, as if startled, he kicked his foot out with a jerk. The dog jumped backward. A woman in a navy blue dress scooped up the dog and glared at the man. After he apologized to her, his eyes swept the room. I lowered my head and slunk down further.

A cocktail waitress came around to check on different tables and, when she got close enough to block my view of the men, I waved her over.

“Hi, I'm supposed to be meeting someone here, but I need to leave,” I whispered. “Would it be possible to leave a message with you?”

“Sure,” she said, her hand fishing through the pocket of a faded blue floral apron tied around her waist.

She handed me a ballpoint pen and a blank order ticket. Hastily I scribbled on it.
Mr. Jordan. I couldn't wait. Please meet me tomorrow morning for breakfast. Madison Night (room 319).
I folded the paper and wrote “Jack Jordan, Hotel Security” on the more blank of the two sides of the paper. I held it out to her and she took it.

“Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Worse than a ghost, I think. Is there a way out of here other than the entrance past the bar?”

She looked over her shoulder. I followed her gaze. The men were gone and I didn't know which direction they'd headed.

“There's the service elevator off the kitchen, but I can't let you take it.”

“Please,” I said. I reached out and put my hand on her forearm. She looked at it, then back at me.

“Are you sure you're okay?” she asked again.

My mind scrambled for something to say without sounding crazy. “I'm sorry. I'm on a bit of medication from an injury last week and I feel woozy. I should get back to my room.”

“Let me get someone from the hotel to escort you back to your room.”

“Wait, do you have a wheelchair?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Before I could stop her, she left.

I knew I wasn't woozy from medication. Aside from the jetlag, my mind was clear. I looked around the room again and picked out Louis, Brad, and Grey Suit at the bar, their backs to me. I wasn't sure where Harrison the Concierge had gone, but this was as good a chance as any for me to get out of there. I stood up and reached for the crutches, then headed past the other guests toward the kitchen. A collapsible wheelchair sat against the wall. I looked through the glass on one of the doors and saw the cocktail waitress talking to Harrison.

I put my head down and left the way I'd come. I reached my room undetected. I threw the crutches on the carpet and sat on the bed. I needed to talk to someone. I needed to find out what was going on. I needed an ally.

I dialed the operator. “Hello, this is Madison Night in room 319. I'm trying to reach Jack Jordan from hotel security. Is there a way to reach him?”

“Hold for a moment and I'll ring the concierge desk,” she said politely.

“No!” I answered quickly. “Please don't. Is there a way to get a message to him directly, without involving anyone else from the hotel?”

“I can page him to call me. What would you like the message to be?”

“Tell him I'm sorry I had to cancel—no. Tell him I need to see him—no, not that either. Can you tell him to call me?” I held my breath, knowing how I sounded. “It's in regards to an issue with the hotel.”

“Ms. Night, if your room is somehow unsatisfactory, I can try to make different arrangements for you.”

“No, that's not it. There's something going on tonight he needs to know about.”

“Ms. Night, are you in some kind of trouble?” she asked.

“Please page Mr. Jordan. I'll be in my room waiting for his call.”

My knee throbbed. I leaned back on my tush and spun until I was long ways on the bed. My foot kicked the suitcase balanced on the luggage rack by the end, and the case tipped over, spilling the contents onto the floor. On top of everything else, I knew the cross-dressing germophobe would have serious issues knowing his stuff had been in contact with hotel-grade carpet. But now that the contents had been spilled onto the floor, there was no way to pack it back the way it had been packed. Which meant, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to see if there was anything in there I could use.

I slid off the bedspread and eased myself onto the floor next to a pile of Ziploc baggies. I piled them back inside the suitcase and found an envelope protruding from an interior pocket. I slipped the envelope out and read the name that had been caligraphied across the heavy weight paper:
Ms. Elli Lisbon
.

My cross-dressing germophobe was a woman.

Temporarily distracted from far bigger problems, I rooted through the clothes on the floor. Under the red bandana printed maxi-skirt was a white tee with a tiny pocket. Under that was a red canvas bucket hat, red canvas ballerina flats three sizes bigger than my own foot size, and a red and white striped canvas purse. Other outfits were similarly packed: a blue and brown sleeveless sundress with chambray flip flops and an oversized crushable straw hat.

I slid the card from the envelope and read the invitation.
Kick up your heels at the Annual Cattle Baron's Ball!
Said the headline, printed in deep red ink on thick stationery. I glanced back at the bucket hat and the chambray flip flops. Maybe ball meant something different in Texas.

But then, it struck me that Ms. Elli Lisbon and her assortment of weird western clothes might get me out of there safely.

I struggled to my feet, then pushed the western wear aside and traded the poppy printed dress for the prairie skirt. It hung to the floor, perfect for hiding my injured knee and battered white Keds. I pulled on her blue Dodgers t-shirt, then picked up the blue Carmel sweatshirt I'd bought hours earlier and tore it along a seam until I had a square of fabric to tie over my short hair, babushka style. I wasn't concerned with looking stylish or retro or fashionable. My only concern was with not looking like me.

I moved to the hallway and pulled the bathroom door closed to see my reflection. If success could be measured by impromptu Halloween-like attire, it had been achieved. And if I was wrong, I had a good start on an insanity case.

The phone rang. I picked up the extension in the bathroom. Necessity in the form of knee pain forced me to close the toilet and sit on the lid. This was not my proudest moment.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Night? This is Jack Jordan.”

“Mr. Jordan—” I started.

“Call me Jack.”

“Jack, I'm sorry I had to cancel our meeting tonight. Something came up—I mean, something happened. Something that concerns the hotel.”

“Ms. Night—” he started.

“Call me Madison,” I said.

“Madison, were you in the hotel bar earlier this evening?”

“Yes, but I had to leave. There are men who followed me here from Dallas. I don't know what they want from me.”

“How do you know they followed you?”

“I overheard them. They knew I came in from Dallas. They knew I started my trip on the east coast. One of your hotel members is involved with them. I didn't realize it at first. I was shopping, and when I left the store one of these men was outside waiting for me. I think he was going to force me to go with him, but your hotel concierge appeared and helped me. He walked me back to the hotel and I thought I was safe, until I saw him talking to the men at the bar, so I think he's involved too.”

The other end of the phone was silent, and I wondered if Jack Jordan of hotel security was still on the line. “Hello?”

“I'm here, Ms. Ni—Madison. Is that all you want to tell me?”

I wanted to pretend I'd told him everything, but deep down, I knew there was more. “There's another man here, too. Brad Turlington. He and I had a relationship that ended abruptly. I don't know how he knew I was coming here, but he found out and followed me. Mr. Jord—Jack, I do not want to see that man.”

“The best way for you to not see that man is to remain in your room, at least for the rest of the night. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“I'm going to see what I can find out. In the meantime, is there anything I can arrange for you? Have you had dinner?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“The kitchen stays open for room service until eleven, so you have a little time if you change your mind.”

“Thank you.”

After I hung up the phone, I changed out of the makeshift undercover outfit and took another shower, then pulled on a fresh pair of panties and a nightshirt I'd bought at the drug store and crawled into bed. Twenty minutes later I called room service and ordered a Cobb Salad.

I pulled on a pair of white linen pants from Elli's suitcase and refolded the clothes that had fallen onto the floor. The hotel was eerily silent, except for footsteps over my head. The men who occupied that room, who I'd heard talking on the balcony, were moving about. I crossed the carpet and unlocked the balcony doors a crack and listened. Any conversation I might have heard was drowned by the sound of the water crashing on the rocks of Monterey.

I unscrewed the cap from a bottle of sparkling water from the mini fridge. I poured half of it into a plastic cup from the bathroom, settling into the plush armchair next to the sliding glass doors. There was a knock on the door to my room.

“Ms. Night? It's Jack Jordan. I have your room service,” said a deep voice.

I set the water on the table and crossed the room to the door. “Just a minute.” I hadn't expected the head of security to deliver my food, but, in light of the circumstances, I didn't mind the extra attention. As I reached for the chain that locked the door, I peeked through the peephole and froze.

Jack Jordan, head of security wasn't standing in front of my door.

Harrison the Concierge was. And there was no tray of room service in sight.

MIDNIGHT ICE: SIX

  

I'd undone the chain, and now my fingers fumbled with it, trying to get it back into place. There was no point in pretending I wasn't in the room. I backed away, stumbling when I connected with the corner of the mattress. With my hands on the surface of the muted turquoise and yellow floral coverlet, I guided myself around the bed to the phone and dialed the operator.

“Yes, Ms. Night?” she answered. For a split second I was spooked by the fact that she knew who was calling.

“Can you please page Jack Jordan again?” I asked in a low whisper.

“Didn't he call you earlier?”

“Yes, but I need to speak to him again.”

“Ms. Night, are you okay?”

“There's a man at my door. He's trying to get to me. I'm trapped inside and I need help,” I hissed.

“Ms. Night—”

“Hurry!” I said.

I hung up the phone and turned around. There was a click by the door, the slip of a key sliding into the slot. He was coming in after me. I moved past the second of the beds to the curtains by the balcony, my hands searching for the opening. My room was on the third floor, too high for me to jump. The front door opened. I slid the balcony door open further. Harrison entered the room. His eyes went wide as he saw me move through the narrow opening.

“Madison!” he cried out.

I stumbled backward, over the chair I'd rested in earlier, contorted my body and lunged toward the metal railing. Strong arms closed around me from behind, pinning my own arms along the sides of my body. I pushed my head back hard, clunking my skull against his forehead.

“Ow!” he said. He dropped his arms from around my chest to around my waist and picked me up, then carried me back into the room. With his foot he pushed the balcony doors shut, still holding me. I planted my feet on the side of the bed and pushed backward, but with the doors shut, I only succeeded in pushing him up against the glass.

“Shhhhh. Madison, Ms. Night. Calm down. I'm Jack Jordan. Shhh. I'm hotel security. Shhh, shhh. Let me explain.”

I had little energy left, little enough that I needed time to rest if I intended to escape. I went limp. He put his hands on my upper arms and turned me around, then lowered me onto the bed. I looked up at him. He reached behind him to the arm chair and pulled it forward, then sat down directly across from me. Before he spoke, he pulled out his wallet and opened it to a pair of identification cards that showed out from under plastic windows. He held the wallet toward me and I took it.

The first card was a driver's license for Jack Jordan. The address was in Carmel By-The-Sea, California. The other card was hotel identification. Again I read his name, next to the title of Hotel Security Manager. Both pictures were of the same man, the man with salt and pepper hair who in front of me. I handed the wallet back.

“I don't understand,” I said.

“Your message to me—you were right. There's something going on at the hotel and I'm investigating it. I needed a way to keep tabs on them so I've been standing in as the hotel concierge. People trust the concierge. People don't trust hotel security.”

“So when I checked in, you were undercover?”

“In a manner of speaking. The real concierge has been around at all times, ready to step in and help if need be.”

“And outside of the souvenir store, earlier today? How did you happen to be there when I needed you?”

“I've been trying to understand their operation. When you said you had the wrong suitcase, I suspected you might be working with them. I followed you to see where you'd go, what you'd do. Your reaction to Louis made it clear you didn't know him.”

“I can't shake the feeling he wanted something from me, I just don't know what.”

“You're a noticeable woman, Madison, with your fluffy blond hair and aqua outfit. Even in a town filled with tourists, it's not that strange Louis remembered you from your meeting by the elevator. Add in the crutches, and, well, let's just say you're not going to fly under the radar. He probably picked you out of the crowd just like I did. If you look like you look, especially in a town with Doris Day history, you're going to get noticed. It's likely he just wanted to talk to a pretty lady.”

“And you—you were the concierge. The letter you sent to my room was signed Jack Jordan. That's why I asked to meet you for a drink.”

“The letter was for real. You suspected we had a foul-up. I had to make sure we didn't, otherwise it would raise questions about how we were running the hotel. Turns out the foul up was in Dallas.”

“Dallas…” I said slowly. “That's why I thought the men were after me. I heard them say ‘she's coming in from Dallas.' I thought they meant me.” I paused. “So who did they mean?”

“Are you traveling with something valuable?” he asked.

“Right now I'm traveling with little more than the clothes I'm wearing and they aren't even mine.”

“But in your real suitcase, was there something in there with a high value?”

I thought for a moment about the double-knit polyester outfits I'd packed, the four tubes of sunscreen, the assortment of Keds, and the collapsible straw hat to keep me shielded from the sun. I seriously doubted the whole lot would be worth over a couple hundred dollars, tops. Before I could answer, Jack continued.

“I have reason to believe they're expecting a package that was routed through Dallas, something that might've been on your flight. There's a good chance their package never arrived or went to someone else, just like your suitcase did.”

“But they knew I stopped in Dallas on my way from the east coast.”

Jack scratched his head, his salt-and-pepper hair mussed up. “Madison, I don't think the east coast they mentioned is the one you came from.”

“I don't understand.”

“Those men weren't talking about you. They're talking about the east Barbary Coast.”

“Africa?”

He nodded. “You said they called it ‘she'?”

“Yes, that's why I thought they meant me.”

“Madison, they're not here to pick up you. I think they're here to pick up an extremely rare rough cut diamond.”