Michael Connelly - The Poet

A feeling of pure dread began to descend on me now. Warren's flower was in full bloom and was choking me. I stood up to pace a little but felt light-headed. I blamed it on the painkiller and sat back down on the bed. After a few moments' rest, I reconnected the phone and called the hotel in Phoenix, asking for the billing office. A young woman took the call.

"Yes, hello, I stayed at your hotel over the weekend and didn't really look at my bill until I got back. I had a question about a few phone calls I was billed for. I've been meaning to call but keep forgetting. Is there someone I could talk to about that?"

"Yes, sir, I would be glad to help. If you give me your name I can call up your statement."

"Thanks. It's Gordon Thorson."

She didn't reply and I froze, thinking maybe she recognized the name from the TV or a newspaper as the agent slain in L.A., but then I heard her begin tapping on a keyboard.

"Yes, Mr. Thorson. That was room three twenty-five for two nights. What seems to be the problem?"

I wrote the room number down in my notebook, just to be doing something. Following the journalist's routine of making a record of facts helped calm me.

"You know what? I can't-I'm looking around my desk here for my copy and I seem to have misplaced… Darn it! I can't find it now. Uh, I'll have to call you back. But in the meantime maybe you can look it up and have it ready. What I was concerned about was that there were three calls made after midnight on Saturday that I just don't remember making. I have the numbers written down here some-here they are."

I quickly gave her the three numbers I had gotten from the Visa operator, hoping I'd be able to finesse my way through this.

"Yes, they are on your billing. Are you sure you-"

"What time were they made? See, that's the problem. I don't conduct business in the middle of the night."

She gave me the times. The call to Quantico was logged at 12:37 A.M., followed by the call to Warren at 12:41 A.M. and then the call to the PTL Network line at 12:56 A.M. I stared at the numbers after writing them down.

"You don't believe you made these?"

"What?"

"I said you don't believe you made these?"

"That's right."

"Was there anyone else in the room with you?"

That was the point, wasn't it, I thought but didn't say.

"Uh, no," I said, and then quickly added, "Can you just double-check those for me and if there is nothing wrong with your machines, I'll be glad to pay. Thank you."

I hung up and looked at the times I had written in my notebook. They fit. Rachel had stayed in my room until almost midnight. The next morning she told me she had bumped into Thorson while in the hall after leaving. Maybe she had lied to me. Maybe she had done more than bump into him. Maybe she had gone to his room.

With Thorson dead, there was only one way of pursuing this theory outside of going to Rachel, which I couldn't do yet. I picked up the phone up once again and called the FBI office in the federal building. The operator, under strict orders to screen calls to Backus, especially from the media, was not going to put me through until I told her I was the one who had killed the Poet and that I had an urgent need to speak to the special agent. Finally, I was put through and Backus picked up.

"Jack, what's the problem?"

"Bob, listen to me, I'm very serious. Are you alone?"

"Jack, what-"

"Just answer the question! Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell. I've just got-Look, just tell me, are you alone?"

There was a hesitation and his voice was skeptical when it returned.

"Yes. Now what's this about?"

"We've talked about the trust in our relationship. I've trusted you and you've trusted me. I want you to trust me again, Bob, for the next few minutes and just answer my questions without asking me any questions. I will explain it all after. Okay?"

"Jack, I'm very busy here. I don't under-"

"Five minutes, Bob. That's all. It's important."

"What's your question?"

"What happened to Thorson's things? His clothes and things from his hotel. Who got it after he… died?"

"I gathered it all together last night. I don't see what this has to do with anything. His property is nobody's business."

"Indulge me, Bob. This isn't for a story. It's for me. And for you. I have two questions. First, did you find the hotel receipts, the bills, from Phoenix with his stuff?"

"From Phoenix? No, they weren't there and they weren't supposed to be. We checked out on the fly, never went back. I'm sure the bill is being sent to my office in Quantico. What is on your mind, Jack?"

The first piece clicked into place. If Thorson didn't have the bills, he likely wasn't the one who had taken them from my room. I thought about Rachel again. I couldn't help it. The first night in Hollywood, after we had made love, she got up and took the first shower. Then it was my turn. I envisioned her taking the room key from the pocket of my pants, going downstairs and slipping into my room to conduct a quick search of my things. Maybe she was just looking around. Maybe she knew somehow that I had the hotel bills. Maybe she had called the hotel in Phoenix and had been told.

"Next question," I said to Backus, ignoring his own question. "Did you find any condoms with Thorson's things?"

"Look, I don't know what kind of morbid fascination you have with this but I'm not going to go on with it. I'm hanging up now, Jack, and I don't want you-"

"Wait a minute! What morbid fascination? I'm trying to figure out something you people have missed! Did you talk to Clearmountain today about the computer? About the PTL Network?"

"Yes, I've been fully briefed. What's it got to do with a box of condoms?"

I noticed he had inadvertently answered my question about condoms. I had not said anything about a box.

"Did you know that a call was placed to the PTL Network from Thorson's room in Phoenix on Sunday morning?"

"That's preposterous. And how the hell would you know something like that?"

"Because when I checked out of that hotel, the clerk thought I was an FBI agent. Remember? Just like that reporter at the funeral home. He gave me the hotel bills to take to you people out here. He thought it would save the time of mailing them."

There was a long silence after this confession.

"Are you saying you stole the hotel bills?"

"I'm saying what I just said. They were given to me. And on Thorson's bill there were calls to both Michael Warren and the PTL. And that's funny, since you people supposedly didn't know about the PTL until today."

"I'm sending someone over to pick up those bills."

"Don't bother. I don't have them. They were stolen from my room in Hollywood. You've got a fox in the henhouse, Bob."

"What are you talking about?"

"Tell me about the box of condoms you found in Thorson's things and I'll tell you what I'm talking about."

I heard him exhale in a tired, I-give-up fashion.

"There was a box of condoms, okay? It wasn't even opened. Now, what's it mean?"

"Where is it now?"

"It's in a sealed cardboard box with the rest of his things. It goes back to Virginia with his body tomorrow morning."

"Where's this sealed box?"

"Right here with me."

"I need you to open it, Bob. Look at the condoms, see if there is a price tag or anything that shows where he got them."

As I listened to the sounds of him tearing cardboard and tape my mind served up my memory of the sight of Thorson coming down the hall with something in his hand.

"I can tell you right now," Backus said as he was opening the property box, "they were in a bag from a drugstore."

I felt my heart leap and next I heard the crinkling sound of a bag opening.

"Okay, I've got it," Backus said in a voice showing his strained patience. "Scottsdale drugs. Open twenty-four hours. Box of twelve condoms, nine ninety-five. You want to know the brand, too, Jack?"