R is for Ricochet

"If you'd care to have a seat, the manager will be with you." His tone was pleasant, but this time he didn't look at me at all. He picked up a sheaf of papers, rapped them against the counter to align the edges, and moved into the i

Irritated, I noticed that my bad angel was now perched on my shoulder, pointing mutely. I could see the manila mailing pouch Reba'd left earlier. It was still lying on the credenza less than five feet away. From where I stood, Marty's name was visible, printed in bold black ink. Here we go.… I moved down the counter and caught the attention of an idle desk clerk, a kid about twenty, probably still in training for the job. He said, "Yes, ma'am. May I help you?"

"I hope so. My name is Mrs. Blumberg. My husband and I are guests of the hotel. He said he was leaving a package for me and I believe that's it." I pointed at the pouch.

The clerk picked it up. "You're Marty?"

"Yes, I am."

He handed it over, happy to be of service.

I was happy, too. 'Thank you."

I made my way to the ladies' room, where I shut myself in a stall. I perched on the toilet seat despite the fact that it had no lid. In correctional facilities, lids are removed to prevent suicide attempts, though offhand it's hard to imagine the procedure whereby one would hang oneself with a toilet seat, especially with that cu

Now this was the perfect example of why it's so impossible to cure me of the naughty lies I tell. Fibs and related forms of deception often have the most remarkable rewards. Inside I found the following:

A United States passport, issued to one Garrisen Randolph, with a two-by-two photograph of Martin Blumberg.

A California driver's license issued to Garrisen Randolph, with a slightly shrunken version of the same photograph. His residence address was listed in Los Angeles, 90024 zip code, which was actually Westwood. Sex:M HAIR:Brn EYES:Brn HT:5-11 WT:272

DOB: 08-25-42, this latter printed in red. Above the picture, also in red, was the license expiration date: 08-25-90.

In addition, there was an American Express card, a Visa credit card, and a MasterCard issued to the same Garrisen Randolph, plus a birth certificate from Inyo County, California, detailing the particulars of Garrisen Randolph's birth.

These were, of course, versions of the phony documents Reba'd stolen from the hidden drawer in Alan Beckwith's desk. The name on these documents was a variation on the name Garrison Randell, probably to ensure that a computer search wouldn't pick up a match. Technically, Marty could leave the country anytime he liked and no one would be the wiser. There was no doubt in my mind that Misty Raine had done the work. I remembered Reba's telling me Misty's newly discovered forging talents had netted her the bucks to pay for that bodacious set of tits. The fellow she'd met in the lounge at the Silverado was probably supplying counterfeit paper, seals, or credit card blanks.

But what did it mean?

Phony documents of this caliber cost plenty. Reba was the one who'd made all the arrangements, but in exchange for what? Clearly she and Marty had a deal. I could see what he was getting out of it, but what was the benefit to her? I thought about the envelope she'd received at the desk. Maybe he'd given her the twenty-five thousand dollars she needed to pay Salustio. Which left the issue of the suitcase, which contained god knows what. I glanced at my watch. It was now close to 6:00.1 shoved the manila pouch in my shoulder bag and left the ladies' room.

I took the elevator up to 8. As I'd hoped, there were maid's carts parked at intervals along the corridor. Many guests had departed for the evening, on their way to di

The maid looked up from the bed where she was folding the heavy quilted spread into something the size and shape of a giant Tootsie Roll.

I said, "Sorry to interrupt, but is there any way you can come back and finish this later? I have a di

She murmured her apologies, picked up her plastic carrier of supplies, and exited.

I hung the Privacy Please sign on the outside knob, pulled on my gloves, and did a thorough search. Marty must have had his wallet, room key, and other items on his person when his assailants hurried him away. I went through the hard-sided suitcase he'd left open on the luggage rack. Underwear, shirts, socks, a few toiletries he hadn't transferred to the bathroom counter. I opened the closet door and ran a hand into the pockets of the pants he'd left. Empty. I made a systematic search of the hanging garment bag, but there was just what you'd expect: suits, trousers, belts, shoes. Aside from the hotel robe, there was no other clothing in the closet and no sign of the usual hotel safe with its four-digit combination lock.

I searched the bathroom, including the underside of the toilet tank lid, and found nothing. I opened the dresser drawers and ran a hand around the interiors. Empty. I pulled each drawer all the way out, wondering if there was something secured under or behind. When I reached the bed table, I went through the same routine. I removed the Gideon Bible. Inside the cover there was a Delta Air Lines ticket, first class to Zurich, issued in Garrisen Randolph's name. The booking was one-way and the flight was scheduled to depart at 9:30 the next morning.

I replaced the ticket between the pages, returned the Bible to the drawer, and closed it. I didn't believe Marty was coming back, but on the off-chance he made it, the ticket would be waiting. I removed my gloves, plucked the Privacy Please sign from the outside knob, and hung it on the inside. I took the elevator down. I went into the newsstand and bought three dollars' worth of stamps, which I pasted on the front of the mailing pouch. I pe

I approached the desk. She appeared to be capable, her smile properly cool and professional. "Yes, ma'am."

I put the mailing pouch on the counter. "I'd like to leave this for Mr. Blumberg in Room 817, but I wonder if you could attach a note. If he hasn't picked it up by tomorrow afternoon, I'd appreciate someone's dropping it in the mail to him."

"Of course."

She wrote the appropriate note and clipped it to the top edge of the pouch. I said, "Oh, and do you happen to have a stapler? This has popped open."

"Not a problem." She reached behind the counter and took out a stapler. I watched while she crunched a succession of staples into the upper edge of the pouch, tightly sealing it. She placed it back on the credenza where it had sat earlier. I thanked her, silently sending up a prayer for Marty's survival.