I was reading it for at least the fifth time, holding it with a plastic bag wrapped around my hand, pacing back and forth across the room. Grant sat on his bed, flipping his phone around in his hand nervously. Daphne sat on the other one, watching me pace. Finally, she cleared her throat.
I paused and turned to her in mid-step. “Yes?”
“Have you…” She waved a hand vaguely at the paper in my hand. “Detected anything?”
“Well,” I said. “It’s clearly a laser printer. I’d guess a Toshiba, made between 2006 and 2012 but I can’t rule out later models. Written on a Mac, not a recent model. Typist was left-handed.”
“Really?”
“No. That’s all nonsense. It’s just a piece of paper. I know exactly as much about it as you do.”
She held out her hand. I shook my head.
“Nope. Not putting this in anyone’s bare hands.”
“Got a finger-printing kit in your gym bag, and access to an FBI database? Because otherwise, what’s the point.”
“If we progress to the point of a serious crime being committed, the police are going to want to see this.”
“Aren’t you here specifically to prevent that?”
“Yes, but I’m not perfect.”
“Well you better be, because company policy is we don’t call the cops unless it’s a matter of life or death.”
“That is not legally binding, and you know it.”
“Look, Mr. Dixon,” Daphne said, lowering her hand. “This is a top-down kind of culture. We circle our wagons and protect our own. That’s why we hired you instead of going to the police. If your first instinct at the sign of trouble is to seek outside authority?” She tsked, shaking her head. “Maybe we’ve made a poor decision.”
I decided to ignore her and read the letter again.
Grant Aronson,
We have warned you. We have told you. Perform this inflammatory act of desecration—spitting upon our sacred history and traditions—is unacceptable. Your ignorance of history and culture is no excuse. This aggression—unlike that of your gimmick namesake—will not stand. If you perform this routine in the sacred borders of Virginia, we will take action.
It was unsigned. I turned it over and looked at the envelope. It simply said “US Grant C/O Delmarva Wrestling.” No address. No return address.
With a sigh, I folded it back up, placed it inside its envelope, and sealed it in another plastic bag. Let Daphne get indignant if she wanted; I wasn’t going to go messing up potential evidence.
I tucked the sealed plastic bag into the back pocket of my jeans.
“The desk clerk wasn’t too keen on answering any questions, but it seems like a fair amount of fan mail gets dropped off at the hotel every stop of the tour. At least that’s what he said. That true?”
Daphne nodded. “It’s a bit old fashioned, but yeah. People leave little gifts and letters such. Photos to sign if we’re going to be in town two nights.”
“Who do you know in the towns you play in Virginia?”
Grant shook his head. “Nobody, really. Nobody I can think of. Only person I know out east is you.”
I studied him for a split second. He did not look worried. If anything he was grimacing, like he was trying to look worried and not sure how to go about it.
“The hotel’s got a camera pointed at the front door,” I said. “I can’t compel them to let me see the footage. But maybe I can apply a little pressure.” I looked at Daphne. “How would it go if I threatened that they might lose the DWF’s business if they don’t let me see it? That’s about the only leverage I can come up with.”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
“Fine,” I said, waving to Grant. “Come on. We’ve got some video to watch.”
“Hey, man, I haven’t even had dinner yet.”
I went to the luggage stand and unzipped my gym bag. I drew out a sealed plastic bag with cutlery and napkins, and then pulled out a pristine jar of my current favorite dinner: a creamy almond butter that cost far too much.
“You can share mine or order a pizza.” I sighed. “Where’s the nearest convenience store?”
“Ask your phone,” Daphne said on her way out the door. “I’ve got shows to plan.”