Graham Masterton - Innocent Blood

Frank crawled to the far end of the balcony, so that he was out of sight of his living area. He climbed up on to the railing, balanced for a moment, and then jumped. He hit the water with a loud clap, and his world went all bubbly and bright blue. When he broke the surface, the girls were shrieking and clapping, and the musicians were laughing at him.

‘You’re fucking mental, you are, do you know that?’ one of them shouted. ‘You’re a certifiable nutter!’

Frank stayed low in the water, doggy-paddling to keep himself afloat. He looked up at his balcony and saw the two men behind the net curtains, like a shadow theater. They came to the open window and looked out, and he could see that neither of them was Lieutenant Chessman. They stayed there for a few seconds, and he could hear them cursing, but they obviously couldn’t see him, so they left.

Frank climbed out of the pool, his pajamas clinging to his skin. One of the rock musicians tossed him a can of beer, but he tossed it back. ‘No . . . no thanks. I think I’ve had enough refreshment for one night.’

‘Mental,’ the musician repeated, deeply impressed.

Frank padded cautiously back through the hotel lobby, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the marble-composition floor. The night porter was watching Great Police Chases on TV and didn’t even look up. Outside, a car swerved away from the curb, and Frank assumed that the two men were making their getaway. All the same, he climbed the stairs with extreme caution, stopping and holding his breath at every turn. There was a party going on in room 221, with screaming and laughing and heavy-metal music that must have registered 8.5 on the Richter scale, so it wasn’t surprising that nobody had heard the two men shooting through his door.

Back in his apartment, he toweled himself quickly and pulled on a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and a pale-blue rollneck sweater. He was punching out Lieutenant Chessman’s number on the telephone when – right on cue – Lieutenant Chessman appeared in person, followed closely by Detective Booker. Lieutenant Chessman looked hot and tired and his shirt was hanging out. He made a show of knocking on what was left of Frank’s door.

‘Mr Bell? What happened here? Forgot your key or something?’

‘I was just about to call you,’ Frank told him, holding up the receiver. ‘Two guys came knocking at the door, pretending to be cops. When I wouldn’t open up, they just went blam !’

Lieutenant Chessman pulled a face. ‘They said they were cops?’

‘That’s right. It was lucky for me that I didn’t let them in.’

‘Certainly was. Why didn’t you let them in?’

Frank shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Intuition, I guess.’

‘Did anybody else know that I was coming around here?’

‘No, nobody.’

‘Seems like kind of a coincidence, doesn’t it, that they should have pretended that they were cops, when you were expecting the real cops?’

‘I don’t know. Yes, maybe.’

Lieutenant Chessman came into the living area and looked around. ‘How many shots did they fire?’

‘Four or five, at least. I jumped off the balcony, into the pool.’

Lieutenant Chessman went outside and peered down at the rock musicians and the three topless girls. ‘Well, at least you had some incentive.’

There were three bullet holes in the wall next to the couch. Lieutenant Chessman peered at them closely, and then he said, ‘Booker, you want to call CSI?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Lieutenant Chessman lifted his head and sniffed. ‘You were alone here, Mr Bell, when this happened?’

Frank nodded.

‘I can smell perfume, that’s all.’

‘A woman friend called by, earlier.’

‘I see.’ Lieutenant Chessman lifted the cushions on the couch, as if he expected to find some incriminating evidence underneath. ‘So what’s all this about Charles Lasser? You don’t seriously think that he’s involved in these bombings, do you?’

‘I had a personal confrontation with Charles Lasser only a couple of days ago.’

‘A personal confrontation?’

‘An argument. He was beating up on . . . a woman I know. I went to his office and warned him to leave her alone.’

‘Really? Can you tell me this woman’s name?’

‘I know it sounds bizarre, but I only know her first name – Astrid.’

‘You know this woman but you don’t know her name?’

‘Look,’ said Frank, ‘do you think we could leave her out of this?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well, I think she may be married or something like that. She’s never told me.’

‘All right. Just for the moment, let’s go back to you and Charles Lasser. You thought he was beating up on this woman, whose name you don’t know, and so you went to his office and gave him a hard time?’

‘That’s right. He denied it, of course, and he said that if I ever repeated it, he would have me hunted down, “like the vermin you are, and exterminated.” Those exact words. The next thing I know, my office is bombed, and Dar Tariki Tariqat puts out a statement that “anybody who accuses God of being cruel will be hunted down like vermin they are.”’

Frank handed him the transcript. Lieutenant Chessman read it with his lips moving. Then he looked up and said, ‘This is pretty tendentious evidence, Mr Bell. Maybe Dar Tariki Tariqat are referring to you, even if they don’t actually name you. But they aren’t necessarily referring to your accusations against Mr Lasser, are they? More likely they’re talking about something that you’ve written in your TV program. For instance, did any of your characters ever say that God was cruel?’

‘What? I don’t think so.’

‘All the same, it seems like a much more logical explanation, don’t you think? It’s what you’re putting out on television that these terrorists are objecting to, Mr Bell, not you personally.’

‘So what about “vermin?”’

‘“Vermin” is a pretty common pejorative, Mr Bell. It doesn’t really establish a connection.’

‘But two guys came around tonight trying to kill me.’

‘Dar Tariki Tariqat are fanatics, Mr Bell. You write a TV show that they think is blasphemous, and because of that they want to get rid of you. That’s all.’

Frank said, ‘Maybe you’re right. But I still think Charles Lasser could be involved in this.’

‘OK. I’ll talk to Mr Lasser. I’m obliged to, since you’ve made a complaint. But I’ll have to be honest with you and tell you that I don’t think it’s going to come to anything.’

‘All right,’ said Frank. He hesitated, and then he said, ‘Ask him about Astrid.’

‘Oh, I will, and I’ll talk to her, too. Do you have some way that I can contact her?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know where she lives and I don’t know her phone number. She always gets in touch with me. But I do know that she’s been seeing Charles Lasser, both at home and at his office. And I do know that he’s been hitting her, and worse. I’ve seen the bruises for myself.’

Detective Booker wrote that down. ‘To your knowledge, sir, has she ever made any complaints to the police about the way that Mr Lasser was mistreating her?’

‘Not that I know of. She didn’t even complain to me.’

Lieutenant Chessman took out a tiny ball of Kleenex and blew his nose. ‘Women . . . who can understand them, huh? The bigger the bastard, the harder they fall. Listen, I’ll talk to Mr Lasser tomorrow and then I’ll call you to put you in the picture, how’s that?’

‘What about protection? What do I do if those guys come back?’

‘Well, I was going to suggest that you find someplace else to stay. Maybe another hotel.’