Nine

“Right,” said the leathery one, and she slewed back.

“I think they ought to find whoever’s killing them,” the baseball fan said seriously, causing everyone to stare. “And then make him the director of the FBI!” he finished, causing laughter all around.

Frederick laughed harder than any of them.

She could only take so much, Meghan decided. She hated to call Kit again, but after all, he had just tried to reach her. She didn’t bother going down to the lobby. She used her cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Meghan? Are you okay?”

“You heard the press conference?”

“Press conference?” he repeated blankly.

“Oh-I thought that was what you were trying to talk to me about, the last time you called.”

She heard the pause before he asked, “When?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” she said, her voice sounding small, even to her.

There was a silence, then he said, “I haven’t called, Meghan. Someone else knows you’re there.”

She let out a low moan. “Never mind me! They’re going to kill Gabe.”

“Meghan, no-they’ll try to bring him to trial.”

“No! You don’t understand.” She told him about the vigilantes. “I’m here in New Mexico, and those sick bastards are looking for Gabe! They may already have him.”

“Meghan-we’ve got to try to learn more. We can do that in L.A. Until then, there really isn’t much we can do for him.”

Panic started rising. “But if Gabe-”

“Are you forwarding calls from your home phone to your cell?”

It was a practical question. She felt the panic ebb. “No, but I can set that up from here.”

“Good. Do that right away, so Gabe can reach you more easily. Now-we need to think about your safety.”

“I can defend myself.”

“I’d like to believe that, but no one is a one-person fortress,” he said.

“And why be foolish, right?”

“Right. Given these news reports, I think you have to take every sign of danger seriously. You need to make sure no one tries to use you to get to Gabe.”

“Maybe the FBI’s already followed me here.”

“Maybe. If it is the FBI, you’ll be okay. But if it isn’t-” He stopped. “Call hotel security and tell them someone has been trying to break into your room-sticking a card in the key slot, banging on the door. Tell them you are afraid to stay in the room, that you want a new room, and you want an escort from this one to the new one on another floor. Make the hotel security office describe the person who is coming up and don’t open the door to anyone who doesn’t have ID and exactly match that description.”

“Should I just go to another hotel?”

“I already considered that. I think you’d be followed. The Sandia Towers will take care of you, just let them know you want their help. Tell them you got a couple of crank calls just before the problem started. Tell them you don’t want any incoming calls. When you get to your new room, call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to see if I can arrange some additional private security for you until I can get there. In the meantime, you don’t open the door for anyone, and you only answer the cell phone. All right?”

“Yes, all right. Thanks, Kit.”

“Meghan-”

“Yes?”

There was a long pause. “Don’t talk yourself out of doing what I’ve asked you to do. You’ll hang up, you’ll ask yourself if it was all your imagination, or maybe even wonder if you’re causing too much trouble. You won’t be. Promise me-”

“I’ll do everything you asked me to do, Kit.”

“Thanks.”

She called the hotel security office. She found that without any effort at all, she could sound as if she’d been scared out of her wits.

They responded immediately.

Frederick lingered a little longer, unable to tear himself away from the congratulations and good wishes he was receiving-undercover, on behalf of the project-in the bar.

But soon his new comrades were distracted by the sports news, and he bid them adieu. He strolled over to the front desk and waited patiently in line. Normally, he would have been able to use the privileges of those with membership in the frequent guest program. He found himself in the rather novel position of not being catered to, but he felt proud that he had remembered to stand in the not-so-special line.

He smiled at the registration clerk. She was a young African-American woman. He thought she was quite attractive. He glanced at her name tag and said, “I’m embarrassed to admit this, Rashida, but I’m a little superstitious. I need to stay on the seventh floor. I need two sevens and a one in the room number. Ideally, you’ll give me room seven-seventeen, if it’s available.”

She seemed taken aback for a brief moment, then said, “Let me check.”

He worried a little at that hesitation, but he decided that it was, after all, an odd request. And she wasn’t behaving as if she felt suspicious-just dealing with a crazy white guy. That was okay. She typed something into the computer, then said, “It’s already reserved, but let me check with my supervisor. I’m sure we can get you into that room.”

He removed his sunglasses. “Thanks. It’s silly, I know.”

She smiled, and he was pleased to hear her give a shy little laugh. “It’s not a problem at all-you just wait right here, and I’ll take care of this right now.”

She went through a door behind the front counter, into an office. There was a two-way mirror on the wall between the registration desk and the office.

Reflected in the two-way mirror, he saw for the first time that he had one brown eye, one blue.

He quickly put his sunglasses back on and considered bolting away from the desk. Undoubtedly Rashida had noticed and had laughed at him. He felt a sudden surge of anger.

But-wait a minute, he thought. David Bowie’s eyes were like that, weren’t they? Maybe she liked the idea of a man with features that were a little unusual. It wasn’t as if they were strange enough to land him in a circus, for God’s sake.

Rashida returned, smiling, with an older woman in tow. The older woman was Hispanic. Her name tag identified her as Consuela Ramon. Managers, he noticed, got to have last names on their tags. She wore a walkie-talkie that crackled at her hip. She was smiling, too. “Mr. Grady?”

He nearly didn’t respond. “Oh yes,” he said, remembering which credit card he had given Rashida. “I’m Mr. Grady.”

“We’ll be happy to give you that room. We’re just waiting for housekeeping to check to make sure it’s clean and ready for you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Rashida flirted with him while processing his registration. Consuela didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she helped the next two people in line while Rashida concentrated on him. Rashida was obviously so dazzled by him, she could hardly keep her mind on what she was doing. She nearly didn’t return his credit card. He had to ask for it. He wondered about that for a moment, but she gave it right back, apologizing.

He was putting the card back in his wallet when he heard a male voice on Consuela Ramon’s radio. “Consuela, we’ll be right there.”

And she glanced at him and smiled.

He turned and walked away.

“Mr. Grady?” Rashida called. “Mr. Grady, your room key!”

He walked faster, not looking back. Once outside the hotel doors, he ran to where the lame-ass car was parked. He hurried into it and, tires squealing all the way down the ramps of the structure, made it to the exit gate. He jammed his prepaid ticket into the slot with some anxiety. The gate seemed to take forever to lift, but at last his car could fit beneath it, and he peeled out of the structure just as a beefy security guard ran toward him, shouting. He saw the parking booth guard step out into the street and take note of the car’s license plate-reading its actual plate number, not the phony one he had written on his registration card at the front desk.