Michael Koryta - Tonight I Said Goodbye

Burks was watching me with interest but not judgment. “I only hit him once,” I said, “but it was a hell of a punch. When I left he was lying on his face in the parking lot with a broken nose. I drove away, and about ten minutes later a highway patrol officer pulled me over after being dispatched to look for my car. I was arrested for drunk driving and assault. Convicted on both counts and dismissed from the force. The chief told me I was an embarrassment to the department.” I finished the lemonade and pushed it aside.

“At least you got the satisfaction of breaking the bastard’s nose,” Burks said.

“It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as you’d think.”

He nodded. “So Randy’s dead?”

“Died two nights ago, I’m afraid. I was with him when it happened. Someone took him out with a rifle from long range.”

“What was he involved with?”

I spread my hands. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. He was killed before he could tell me anything. My partner and I are trying to find a missing woman and her daughter. The woman’s husband was a shady operator; he might even have been involved with Russian organized crime. Hartwick supposedly has ties to the same folks, and he showed up in Cleveland a few days ago.”

“Randy Hartwick was involved with the Russian mob?” Burks said it as if he found this hard to believe.

“That’s what we’ve heard.”

He shook his head. “I suppose anything’s possible, but I’m awfully surprised to hear that. He was a hell of a nice guy.”

“How long had he worked for you?”

“About ten years. I bought the resort twelve years ago. I was hoping to upgrade the security, you know, to avoid liability issues and all, and I started asking around about security companies. One of the guys I talked to suggested Randy, said he was fresh out of the Marines and looking for a job. So I called him, and we worked it out. He’s done a fine job for me, too.”

“A guy in Cleveland suggested Hartwick was using the security job as a front while he ran weapons in and out of the country,” I said. “Was he around much?”

“He took vacations now and then, but, yeah, he was around for the most part. I never had any complaints about him. We’d meet every few weeks to talk things over. He always seemed serious about the job.”

“Who’s this man who recommended Hartwick to you?”

“A guy named John Brewster. He manages another one of the hotels, and he’s an ex-Marine like Randy. You know how those Marines are about helping each other out with jobs? It’s almost like a fraternity thing, except the Marines aren’t a bunch of rich, pansy white boys.”

“You think he could tell me more about Hartwick?”

“More than I can, that’s for sure.”

We kept at it for another half hour. Burks couldn’t tell me much about Hartwick’s personal affairs; he knew him only as a reliable and trusted employee. He did offer to pull Hartwick’s personnel file and let me have a look at it. That might give me some new resources, if nothing else. He also gave me a phone number for John Brewster.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more, son. And I’m sorry about what happened to Randy, too.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “You’ve helped as much as you can, and I appreciate that. Besides, it was fun taking your money.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Shit, son, it was worth a few dollars to see that ugly swing of yours in action.”

I left the golf course and drove back toward the Golden Breakers. I called John Brewster from the room and received no answer. Burks had promised to get me the personnel file by the next morning, but I didn’t have it now. I left the room and found two of the resort’s security guards, but neither of them could tell me anything about Hartwick. Apparently, he was the sort of guy who kept to himself. At five, I gave up and went for dinner.

I ate at a calabash seafood restaurant that offered an all-you-could-eat buffet for a reasonable cost. I hadn’t eaten any lunch, so I definitely took my money’s worth. When I was full, I returned to the hotel and went for a walk along the strip, my stomach still too heavy for a run. The people on the sidewalks were mostly older couples-middle-aged women clutching bulging shopping bags while their husbands trailed behind, reliving the day’s golf game in their minds. In the summer there would be families with young children, and college students looking to party, but now, in early March, the town was quiet. I had a feeling I’d like it less if I came in the summer.

I walked a few miles south before I turned and went back. This time I left the sidewalk, cut behind the hotels, and walked across the sand, staying just a few feet ahead of where the waves washed up. The tide was rising, and in the morning this stretch of the beach would be submerged. It was dark now, and a full moon had risen, casting a pale glow on the black water and giving the waves a golden shimmer as they crested.

Back in the hotel room, I flipped through the television channels just long enough to determine there was nothing worthwhile on and then tried calling Joe. I didn’t get an answer at the office, and his cell phone went right to voice mail, which meant it was turned off. Perfect. I sat on the balcony and watched the water some more, then tried calling Joe again and had the same result.

At ten I changed into an old pair of gym shorts and went downstairs. I hadn’t packed swim trunks, as I’d been planning for business and not pleasure, but as long as I was here I might as well enjoy the whirlpool.

It was a beautiful night. The air was warm and smelled of saltwater and hyacinths. I turned on the jets in the whirlpool and settled into the steaming water. A cool breeze was coming in off the ocean, and the contrast of its feel across my face and the hot water on my body was a strange and invigorating sensation. I tilted my head back and looked at the moon, then closed my eyes and listened to the gentle thumps of the waves hitting the beach. I wondered what Joe was doing back in Cleveland and whether he and Kinkaid had been able to make any progress with the Russians or Hubbard. I wondered if they’d be disappointed in the utter lack of progress I’d had so far today. Probably. I thought about John Weston, and Randy Hartwick, and then flashes of Betsy Weston’s smiling face and her beautiful mother slipped through my mind. It was easy to forget about them as I sat in the whirlpool with a refreshing night breeze bathing my face and the sound of waves in my ears. I didn’t want to think about them. It was too nice a night.

I’d been in the whirlpool for about twenty minutes when I heard the door to the hotel open and close. I opened one eye and saw a woman with dark hair standing in the shadows, unwrapping a towel from around her waist and placing it on a lounge chair. Even from the side and in the shadows, it was obvious she had an amazing body. For a moment she looked vaguely familiar, and I wondered briefly if it could be Rebecca, the desk receptionist. Then I realized the hair was too curly. I closed my eyes again, disappointed. Maybe Rebecca would be back behind the desk in the morning.

The wind picked up off the ocean, cooling my face and neck and sending a chill down my spine despite the steaming temperature of the whirlpool. In the distance, someone was playing soft jazz music on one of the balconies. It was a fitting and welcome addition to the night. I heard the water splash beside me as the woman stepped into the whirlpool, and I reopened my eyes and looked at her. She gave me a shy smile and then did as I had done, leaning her head back, glancing at the moon, and closing her eyes. I kept mine open this time, though. There had been something familiar about the woman, all right. She was Julie Weston.