John Abbott - Scimitar

“The Canada Day affair,” Dawson said.

“That’s right,” Carruthers said.

He was a former Marine who kept himself in shape with thrice-weekly visits to Nautilus, where he worked out on the machines and with free weights as well. Carruthers gauged a man’s worth by his muscles, and these guys looked entirely too flimsy for the job; these guys could press twenty pounds between them, he’d be surprised.

“The Canadian Consulate has provided us with a seating arrangement,” Dobbs said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. “What we’d like to...”

“They sent me one, too,” Carruthers said, and unrolled a larger plan than the reduced Xerox copy Dobbs took from his pocket.

“What we’d like to do,” Dobbs said, unintimidated, “is check the room the function’ll be in, see where we can put our people for the best possible security.”

“Happy to show it to you,” Carruthers said.

He was thinking this was a case of overload, pure and simple. Security for the Canadian Prime Minister, security for the Mexican President and the former British P.M. and now Secret Service protection for...

“Our regular people here in New York’ll be carrying the brunt of it,” Dobbs said, as if reading his mind. “We’re just a team of six, lend them a hand.”

“Big affair like this one,” Dawson said, “lots of people, lots of opportunity for mischief.”

“Well, we don’t get too much mischief here at the Plaza,” Carruthers said, sounding miffed.

“’Specially when there’ll be such big guns here,” Dawson said, totally oblivious.

“Come on, I’ll show you the room,” Carruthers said.

She was writing him a long letter when the telephone rang. She was telling him that if he didn’t appreciate her as a person, if he thought all he could do was walk out whenever he felt like it, disappear into thin air like a ghost or something, then she wanted nothing further to do with him. Her concentration was intense; when the phone rang, she almost jumped out of her skin. She went from her desk to the bedside table, and picked up the receiver. On the wall alongside her desk, there was a poster of Boy George, a holdover from her teeny-bopper days. Sonny made her feel like a damn teeny-bopper all over again.

“Hello?” she said.

“I know it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other...”

Geoffrey Turner.

“... and I must apologize for not having called sooner...”

Little touch of humor there; she’d left him at the consulate not four hours ago.

“... but what are you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I’d like to see you,” he said.

“You just saw me,” she said.

“I know.”

A long silence.

“Elita...”

The first time he’d said her name.

It sounded very British on his tongue.

Elita.

“ May I see you tonight?”

But suppose Sonny calls? she thought.

“Elita?”

“What time?” she asked.

The first thing Dobbs noticed were the steps in the alcove off the far corner of the room.

“Where do they go?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” Carruthers said.

“What’s up there?”

“Business offices.”

“Any access to other parts of the hotel?”

“Sure.”

“What kind?”

“An elevator. And fire stairs down the hall.”

“Let’s take a look,” Dobbs said.

Sonny had spread the various ID cards on the dining room table, where they could catch the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Live at Five had just come on. A black woman named Sue Simmons seemed to be running the show, never mind the blond guy with her. Telling all about the detective who’d been found in a laundry basket at the Hilton Hotel this afternoon. Sonny kept studying the fake ID cards.

The one for the Plaza was particularly good. So were the two Detective Division cards. He’d never seen an FBI card, but the seal looked legit and McDermott undoubtedly had copied it from a real one.

A young woman named Perri Peltz was now doing a remote outside the loading platform at the Hilton. She was here with Lieutenant Hogan, she was saying, of Homicide North. Hogan was a short man with a face reddened by the heat. His shirt collar looked too tight. He was wearing a hat, Sonny couldn’t believe it. He was telling Perri Peltz that Allan Santorini had been with Homicide North for twelve years. Good detective, good man.

“Any idea what he was doing here at the Hilton?” Perri Peltz asked.

“None at all.”

“Was he conducting an investigation that might have brought him here?”

“I have no idea. The manager tells me Santorini spoke to him earlier today, but...”

Uh-oh, Sonny thought.

“What about?”

“He wanted to know who was in room 2312.”

“Have you learned anything about that?”

“The room was registered to a man named Albert Gomez.”

Goodbye, Albert, Sonny thought.

“Hispanic?” Perri Peltz asked.

“Possibly. The bellhop who carried his bag up described a man some five feet ten inches tall...”

Eleven, Sonny thought.

“... weighing about a hundred and seventy pounds...”

Sixty-five.

“... with light eyes and dark hair.”

“Was Detective Santorini armed?” Perri Peltz asked.

“He was.”

“But as I understand it, when his body was found, the gun was still holstered, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, it was,” Hogan said, and shook his head. “Santorini was an experienced detective. How anyone could have taken him so completely by surprise...” He shook his head again.

Sonny grinned.

He had stabbed him in the eye the moment he’d entered the room.

“Is it your opinion that the murder took place where the body was found?” Perri Peltz asked.

“I would rather not comment on that,” Hogan said.

“Thank you, sir,” Perri Peltz said, and turned away from him to look directly into the camera. “This is Perri Peltz, News Four, New York,” she said, “reporting from outside the Hilton Hotel on Fifty-third Street and Sixth Avenue. Back to you, Chuck.”

Chuck was the blond guy — Chuck Scarborough, a good code name for a Scimitar agent. He began talking about New York City’s deficit. Sonny watched Sue Simmons trying to look solemn about it all, but managing only to look cute as hell. He reached over to snap off the set, gathered up the cards, and returned them to the leather Mark Cross portfolio. He was carrying it toward the steps leading upstairs to the bedroom when a knock sounded at the front door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Carolyn,” a woman answered.

“Just a moment, please,” Sonny said. He dropped the portfolio on the lowermost step, where he’d remember it later, went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it wide.

The woman he’d seen naked on the deck earlier today was standing there.

Wearing a white dress.

High-heeled, ankle-strapped white sandals.

Blond and tanned and blue-eyed.

“Hi,” she said, sounding surprised. “Is Martin home?”

“I’m sorry, no, he isn’t,” Sonny said.

She was trying to peer into the house, past his shoulder. Blue eyes looking faintly suspicious. Was it possible she didn’t recognize him as the same man who’d...?

“I’m Scott Hamilton,” he said. “Martin’s house guest.”

“Carolyn Fremont,” she said.

“How do you do?” he said, and extended his hand. She took it. Their eyes met. Locked.

“I live right next door,” she said. “I was on my way to a party...”

He was still holding her hand. Eyes sweeping her body. Lingering on the swell of her breasts in the low-cut white dress.

“... at the Cabots, and I thought Martin might have been invited, too. He knows them...”