Innocent Blood

Twenty-Three

Frank checked his watch. It was almost eleven twenty P.M. and he couldn’t think why Lieutenant Chessman was taking so long. He tried calling him again but his cellphone was busy. The shock of the bombing was wearing off now and he was trembling all over, as if he were running a fever. He watched the news again and tried to make a verbatim note of Dar Tariki Tariqat’s statement, but his hand was shaking so much that most of what he wrote was scribble.

He was about to give up and go to bed when there was a sharp rapping at the door.

‘Just a minute, Lieutenant!’ he called, and went to open the door.

He was about to draw back the security chain when a small hand reached up and stopped him. He looked down, and right beside him stood Danny, staring at him, his eyes very wide. He was wearing the coat and the shorts that they had buried him in.

Frank had thought that when he saw the real Danny – the real dead Danny – he would be overjoyed. But he was so frightened that he let out a kind of a whinny, and his knees gave way, so that he almost collapsed. Danny’s hand was ice cold, and his fingernails were blue. It looked as if there was frost sparkling on his eyelashes, and his breath was fuming around his mouth.

‘What . . . what are you . . .’ Frank started, but he couldn’t get the words out.

There was another knock, louder this time. ‘Mr Bell! Police! You want to open this door?’

Frank didn’t know what to say. Danny kept his hand on top of his, and gave him a solemn little shake of his head, as if warning him not to open up.

‘I . . . ah . . . I just stepped out of the shower!’

‘Come on, Mr Bell. We’re busy men. We don’t have all night.’

‘OK, two seconds.’

He stared at Danny, almost willing him to vanish, but instead, in a creepy, elderly sounding croak, he said, ‘Danger.’

‘Danger? What danger? Those are the cops.’

‘Danger,’ Danny repeated. He was obviously having difficulty in enunciating his words, but this convinced Frank more than anything else that he was the real Danny. Unlike his previous manifestation, he sounded weak and distressed, as any child would if he had died only recently and was still struggling to come to terms with it.

Another knock, and this one was thunderous. ‘Mr Bell! Open this goddamned door!’

‘Just a minute, will you?’

Without another word, Danny fell backward. It was a strange, slow-motion fall. Frank could see his mouth gradually opening, and his eyes blinking like a time-delayed camera exposure. He lunged forward to catch him, and as he did so he heard more banging. Five distinct bangs, as if the police were beating on the door with a hammer.

As Danny fell to the carpet, he disappeared. Melted, like a snowflake on a hotplate. Frank fell face-first on to the floor, jarring his shoulder and hitting his nose. ‘Shit,’ he said, and rolled over. It was only then that he saw five large holes in the door, and smoke, and realized what had happened.

‘Mr Bell!’ the voice repeated. ‘If you don’t open up this door, Mr Bell . . .!’

There was a kick, and the door splintered, and then another kick, and another.

Frank rolled over again, and again, until he had rolled himself across to the sliding door that led out on to the balcony. Thank God, he had left the catch unlocked. He dragged the door open and wriggled outside on his elbows. Below him, the British rock musicians were sitting around the pool, drinking and smoking. Three topless girls were splashing around in the water.

Frank crawled to the far end of the balcony, so that he was out of sight of his living area. He climbed up on to the railing, balanced for a moment, and then jumped. He hit the water with a loud clap, and his world went all bubbly and bright blue. When he broke the surface, the girls were shrieking and clapping, and the musicians were laughing at him.

‘You’re fucking mental, you are, do you know that?’ one of them shouted. ‘You’re a certifiable nutter!’

Frank stayed low in the water, doggy-paddling to keep himself afloat. He looked up at his balcony and saw the two men behind the net curtains, like a shadow theater. They came to the open window and looked out, and he could see that neither of them was Lieutenant Chessman. They stayed there for a few seconds, and he could hear them cursing, but they obviously couldn’t see him, so they left.

Frank climbed out of the pool, his pajamas clinging to his skin. One of the rock musicians tossed him a can of beer, but he tossed it back. ‘No . . . no thanks. I think I’ve had enough refreshment for one night.’

‘Mental,’ the musician repeated, deeply impressed.

Frank padded cautiously back through the hotel lobby, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the marble-composition floor. The night porter was watching Great Police Chases on TV and didn’t even look up. Outside, a car swerved away from the curb, and Frank assumed that the two men were making their getaway. All the same, he climbed the stairs with extreme caution, stopping and holding his breath at every turn. There was a party going on in room 221, with screaming and laughing and heavy-metal music that must have registered 8.5 on the Richter scale, so it wasn’t surprising that nobody had heard the two men shooting through his door.

Back in his apartment, he toweled himself quickly and pulled on a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and a pale-blue rollneck sweater. He was punching out Lieutenant Chessman’s number on the telephone when – right on cue – Lieutenant Chessman appeared in person, followed closely by Detective Booker. Lieutenant Chessman looked hot and tired and his shirt was hanging out. He made a show of knocking on what was left of Frank’s door.

‘Mr Bell? What happened here? Forgot your key or something?’

‘I was just about to call you,’ Frank told him, holding up the receiver. ‘Two guys came knocking at the door, pretending to be cops. When I wouldn’t open up, they just went blam!’

Lieutenant Chessman pulled a face. ‘They said they were cops?’

‘That’s right. It was lucky for me that I didn’t let them in.’

‘Certainly was. Why didn’t you let them in?’

Frank shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Intuition, I guess.’

‘Did anybody else know that I was coming around here?’

‘No, nobody.’

‘Seems like kind of a coincidence, doesn’t it, that they should have pretended that they were cops, when you were expecting the real cops?’

‘I don’t know. Yes, maybe.’

Lieutenant Chessman came into the living area and looked around. ‘How many shots did they fire?’

‘Four or five, at least. I jumped off the balcony, into the pool.’

Lieutenant Chessman went outside and peered down at the rock musicians and the three topless girls. ‘Well, at least you had some incentive.’

There were three bullet holes in the wall next to the couch. Lieutenant Chessman peered at them closely, and then he said, ‘Booker, you want to call CSI?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Lieutenant Chessman lifted his head and sniffed. ‘You were alone here, Mr Bell, when this happened?’

Frank nodded.

‘I can smell perfume, that’s all.’

‘A woman friend called by, earlier.’

‘I see.’ Lieutenant Chessman lifted the cushions on the couch, as if he expected to find some incriminating evidence underneath. ‘So what’s all this about Charles Lasser? You don’t seriously think that he’s involved in these bombings, do you?’

‘I had a personal confrontation with Charles Lasser only a couple of days ago.’

‘A personal confrontation?’

‘An argument. He was beating up on . . . a woman I know. I went to his office and warned him to leave her alone.’

‘Really? Can you tell me this woman’s name?’

‘I know it sounds bizarre, but I only know her first name – Astrid.’

‘You know this woman but you don’t know her name?’

‘Look,’ said Frank, ‘do you think we could leave her out of this?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well, I think she may be married or something like that. She’s never told me.’

‘All right. Just for the moment, let’s go back to you and Charles Lasser. You thought he was beating up on this woman, whose name you don’t know, and so you went to his office and gave him a hard time?’

‘That’s right. He denied it, of course, and he said that if I ever repeated it, he would have me hunted down, “like the vermin you are, and exterminated.” Those exact words. The next thing I know, my office is bombed, and Dar Tariki Tariqat puts out a statement that “anybody who accuses God of being cruel will be hunted down like vermin they are.”’

Frank handed him the transcript. Lieutenant Chessman read it with his lips moving. Then he looked up and said, ‘This is pretty tendentious evidence, Mr Bell. Maybe Dar Tariki Tariqat are referring to you, even if they don’t actually name you. But they aren’t necessarily referring to your accusations against Mr Lasser, are they? More likely they’re talking about something that you’ve written in your TV program. For instance, did any of your characters ever say that God was cruel?’

‘What? I don’t think so.’

‘All the same, it seems like a much more logical explanation, don’t you think? It’s what you’re putting out on television that these terrorists are objecting to, Mr Bell, not you personally.’

‘So what about “vermin?”’

‘“Vermin” is a pretty common pejorative, Mr Bell. It doesn’t really establish a connection.’

‘But two guys came around tonight trying to kill me.’

‘Dar Tariki Tariqat are fanatics, Mr Bell. You write a TV show that they think is blasphemous, and because of that they want to get rid of you. That’s all.’

Frank said, ‘Maybe you’re right. But I still think Charles Lasser could be involved in this.’

‘OK. I’ll talk to Mr Lasser. I’m obliged to, since you’ve made a complaint. But I’ll have to be honest with you and tell you that I don’t think it’s going to come to anything.’

‘All right,’ said Frank. He hesitated, and then he said, ‘Ask him about Astrid.’

‘Oh, I will, and I’ll talk to her, too. Do you have some way that I can contact her?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know where she lives and I don’t know her phone number. She always gets in touch with me. But I do know that she’s been seeing Charles Lasser, both at home and at his office. And I do know that he’s been hitting her, and worse. I’ve seen the bruises for myself.’

Detective Booker wrote that down. ‘To your knowledge, sir, has she ever made any complaints to the police about the way that Mr Lasser was mistreating her?’

‘Not that I know of. She didn’t even complain to me.’

Lieutenant Chessman took out a tiny ball of Kleenex and blew his nose. ‘Women . . . who can understand them, huh? The bigger the bastard, the harder they fall. Listen, I’ll talk to Mr Lasser tomorrow and then I’ll call you to put you in the picture, how’s that?’

‘What about protection? What do I do if those guys come back?’

‘Well, I was going to suggest that you find someplace else to stay. Maybe another hotel.’

He was just about to leave when the night manager appeared – a young man with a wispy black moustache and a jazzy pink and orange shirt, and shorts.

‘What’s going on here? What the hell happened to this door? I mean, look at it! What the hell happened to this door?’

Lieutenant Chessman gave Frank a sympathetic slap on the back. ‘Like I said, maybe another hotel.’

He stayed that night with Carol and Smitty. He told Carol that his room at the Sunset Marquis had been double booked, and that a late-arriving guest had shown up from Japan. He didn’t want to frighten her. But when Carol had gone to bed and he and Smitty sat down to some late-night TV and a couple of beers, he explained to Smitty what had really happened.

‘Shit,’ said Smitty. ‘Who did the cops think they were?’

‘They think that they probably came from Dar Tariki Tariqat, and that they were trying to finish what they started.’

‘They didn’t see any connection with Charles Lasser?’

‘They said that it was probably coincidence, him using the word “vermin.” That’s all.’

‘And they didn’t offer you any protection?’

‘They suggested I change hotels, that’s all.’

Smitty put down his can of beer, stood up, and went through to his study. After a short while he came back with a folded chamois leather. He cleared aside the ashtray and the empty beer cans, and then he laid it down on the coffee table.

‘Here, I bought this in ninety-eight, when we had that burglary.’ He unfolded the leather, and revealed a .38 nickel-plated revolver in a belt holster. ‘Why don’t you borrow it – you know, just till this is all over? It’s loaded.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Frank. ‘I’m not at all happy about guns.’

‘I don’t care if you’re happy or not, so long as you’re alive. Here – no argument, take it. You won’t ever have to use it, now you’ve got it, but at least you’ve got it, in case you need it.’