R is for Ricochet (Kinsey Millhone 18)

Chapter 29

I was lying on a bed, caught up in a confusion of conversations, which seemed to be about me. It reminded me of car trips as a kid, listening to the low, lazy buzz of adults talking in the front seat while I snoozed in the rear. I experienced the same sweet certainty that if I could just remain still, feigning sleep, others would take responsibility for the journey. Something flat and icy cold was pressed against the side of my head, causing a stinging sensation so sharp that I hissed. Someone put the towel-wrapped ice pack in my hand and encouraged me to hold it myself at a pressure I could tolerate.

The hotel doctor arrived and spent an inordinate amount of time checking my vital signs, making sure I still knew my name, the date, and how many fingers he was holding up – a number he varied in an attempt to trick and deceive. There was talk of paramedics, whose services I declined. Next thing I knew, there were two more guys in the room. One I gathered was the head of hotel security, a hefty gentleman in a business suit with a gaping lapel. I caught a glimpse of leather that I hoped was a shoulder holster and not a back brace. The notion of a man with a gun was comforting. He was in his sixties, balding and beefy-faced with a thick gray mustache. The man with him, I was guessing, was part of the hotel-management team. I turned my head slightly. A third man appeared in the doorway with a walkie-talkie in his hand. He was slim, in his forties, sporting what was surely a toupee. He entered and conferred with the other two.

The beefy-faced guy with the mustache introduced himself, saying, "I'm Mr. Fitzgerald, hotel security. This is my associate, Mr. Preston, and the manager, Mr. Shearson. How do you feel?"

I said, "Fine," which was ridiculous, as I was flat on my back with a very tender lump on my head. Someone had removed my shoes and put a blanket over me that really wasn't warm enough.

The manager leaned close to Fitzgerald and spoke to him as though I wasn't there. "I notified corporate. The attorney suggested we have her sign a waiver, releasing us from any liability…" He glanced at me and then lowered his voice.

There was a squawk from the walkie-talkie. Mr. Preston retired to the corridor and conducted his conversation beyond my hearing. When he returned moments later, he chatted with Fitzgerald, but in a tone so subdued I couldn't pick up the content. The manager excused himself and after a brief conference Mr. Preston left as well.

I struggled to get my bearings. They had apparently settled me in an empty guest room, though I didn't remember how I'd arrived. For all I knew, they'd dragged me through the halls by my heels. I could see a desk, sofa, two upholstered chairs, and the Art Deco armoire that housed the minibar and TV. I'd never stayed in such an upscale hotel so it was all a revelation to me. The management at the Paradise in Reno could take a lesson from the Neptune when it came to interior design. I adjusted my ice pack and said, "What happened to Marty?"

Fitzgerald said, "We don't know. They managed to get him out of the building without being seen. I had the parking lot attendant check for his car, but someone had already claimed it and had driven it away. No one remembered the driver so we're not sure if Mr. Blumberg left on his own or in the company of the men who abducted him."

"Poor guy."

"The police are here talking to the woman with you. They'd like to ask you a few questions when you're up to it."

"I don't remember much, but sure," I said. In truth, I didn't feel like conversation. I was cold. The knot on the side of my head throbbed sharply with every beat of my pulse. My midsection was sore. I had no idea what Reba was telling them, but I suspected she'd be less than candid. The whole situation was too complicated to explain, especially since I didn't know how much the feds considered confidential. I was sick about Marty. My last glimpse of him – cheek split, blood running down the side of his face – he'd seemed resigned to his fate, like a man being hauled off to the gas chamber, priest at his side. It was the dread in his eyes I found haunting, as though he knew that something far worse was in store for him. I wanted to rewind the reel of film, let events unfold again so I could find a way to help him.

Fitzgerald said something else, but I wasn't taking it in. I removed the ice pack and checked the soggy terry cloth with its blush of blood in the loops. I rearranged the fold and laid the fresh cold of a new spot against my poor banged-up head. I was shivering, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for another blanket. "Sorry. Could you repeat that?"

"Had you ever seen these men before?"

"Not to my recollection. I thought they were on their way to meet someone else. They were coming right at us, but it's like a stranger waving in your direction. You turn around and look back, assuming it isn't you they mean. Reba might remember more than I do. Can I talk to her?"