Corso flinched as the medical technician worked on the tear in his right ear. “You really ought to go to the hospital,” the tech said again. “Get this thing fixed right.”
“I’ll get it looked at as soon as I get home,” Corso assured him.
The guy’s face said he didn’t believe a word of it. He shook his head as he sat back on his heels, peeled off his surgical gloves and looked up at the cop who’d been hovering over the two of them for the past ten minutes. “That’s all I can do from here,” he announced. “Long as he don’t tear it open while he’s sleeping, he ought to be all right.” The cop nodded and helped him to his feet.
They’d pulled an armchair out into the hall, where a Spanish-speaking officer had managed to get the maid calmed down enough to answer questions.
Corso got to his feet. The room reeled and gamboled. He reached down and put a hand on the bed to steady himself. After a moment, he crossed the room, went into the bathroom and closed the door. His legs felt unsteady, so he sat on the closed lid of the commode and put his face in his hands. After a while, he got to his feet, put both hands on the rim of the sink and looked into the mirror. A trio of medical staples held the top of his ear in place. A thick red scrape ran from his hairline to his jawbone.
He turned on the cold water, scooped up a double handful and splashed it on his face. He sputtered, took a deep breath and repeated the process. Then again and again, until the frigid water began to clear his head.
Someone knocked on the bathroom door. Asked if he was okay. He said he was fine, dried his face and hands with a towel and stepped back into what had once been his hotel room. The pair of cops was comparing notes over by the door. On the far side of the room, the forensic team was packing up its gear and getting ready to leave.
The flattened remnants of the desk were decorated here and there with the remains of Corso’s room service steak dinner. Someone had opened a window, allowing a stiff lake breeze to fan the curtains across the floor like long, gold fingers.
A guy about thirty slipped into the room. He wore a gold badge on the pocket of his blue pin-striped suit. He limped over to Corso and put a concerned hand on his elbow. The badge said his name was Randy Shields, hotel manager. The facial expression said his leg hurt and he’d rather be elsewhere.
“I can’t tell you how sorry we are, Mr. Corso,” he whispered.
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
Corso’s largesse seemed to relieve him. “We have a new room for you,” the guy said. “Two floors up on the lake side. Whenever you’re ready just call the desk and…” He held up a hand. Boy Scout’s honor. “On the house, of course.”
Corso nodded his thanks and pocketed the new plastic key. If there was anything the hotel could do…anything…just anything…Corso kept nodding and trying to smile.
“You from here?” Corso finally asked. “I mean like born and raised.”
The guy laughed. “I’m from here, but been gone for the past eighteen years.”
“You know Nathan Marino?”
“Not personally. I knew of him. Knew his older brother James. We were in the same high school class. Nathan was a few years behind us.”
“What happened to your leg?”
“Kuwait. Shrapnel from a booby-trapped car.”
The cops ambled over. As cops go, these two were a bit long in the tooth. By the time they got to their midforties, most cops were either so burned-out they couldn’t function or so corrupt they didn’t need the pension. These two still shined their brass and polished their shoes, and both wore sergeant’s stripes. That’s where the similarities ended. The bald one had the palest blue eyes Corso had ever seen. Made him look like a vampire. The one with the mustache was Hispanic. Not a Mexican. Something else.
“Guess we got everything we’re going to get,” mustache said.
His partner checked his notepad. “You and Mrs. Casamayor agree right on down the line. Two guys. Blue ski masks. One noticeably bigger than the other. The shorter of the two being helped along by the other guy on the way out.”
Corso nodded. The movement caused his head to spin. He sat down on the bed.
“You’re sure nothing’s missing?” mustache asked.
“This wasn’t a robbery,” Corso scoffed.
The notion seemed to startle them. “You think they meant to harm you?”
“I think they meant to kidnap me,” Corso said. “I think the idea was to render me unconscious and take me away somewhere.”
“You’re basing that on the syringe,” mustache said.
“And the fact that they had a key.”
“I thought you said you unlocked the door.”
“I said I took off the safety bolt. The door should have still been locked, but it wasn’t.”
They snuck a look at each other. Corso didn’t need prompting.
“And the whole way they went about it. You want to assault somebody, you show up with a baseball bat. You want to rob somebody, you jam a gun in his face, you don’t try to wrestle him to the floor and stick a needle in him.”
Separately, they each snuck a look out through the open door.
“What’s in the hall?” Corso demanded.
The bald guy cracked first. “A laundry hamper,” he said. “Nobody from housekeeping has any idea how it got there. They keep them locked in the maintenance closets at the ends of the halls. The maids use those little carts of theirs. They get full, they dump them in the hampers. The hampers themselves are not permitted in the corridors.”
“Ever,” added mustache. “According to Mrs. Casamayor it’s a firing offence.”
“Besides which they quit making up rooms six hours ago.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. Those guys were trying to kidnap me.”
For the first time, the bald cop seemed to consider the possibility that Corso might be onto something.
“We don’t get many kidnappings in Edgewater,” he said finally.
“But then again, we don’t get many celebrities either,” his partner added.
Something in his tone caught Corso’s attention. “So you’re figuring this must be something I brought with me,” he said.
“Only makes sense,” mustache offered.
“How’d they know where to find a laundry hamper?” Corso asked.
The cops gave a collective shrug.
“You said the maintenance closets were locked.”
“Same key the maids use to get in the rooms.”
“They force the door?” Corso asked.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“How’d they know I was in my room?”
They shrugged in unison. Corso kept at it.
“Sounds to me like they had a lot of inside help. It was me I’d start with the hotel staff…past and present.”
“But it’s not your call now, is it, Mr. Corso?” The voice came floating in from the doorway. Corso had to crane himself around the officers to catch a glimpse of Chief Cummings walking across the carpet. She wore a black wool overcoat buttoned to the throat, over some kind of dress or skirt. The cops began primping like schoolboys as she ambled over their way.
“You boys about finished here?” she asked.
They assured her they were ready to go. She encouraged them to do so. They didn’t have to be encouraged twice. They were in the doorway when she said, “Have the report on my desk for start of business tomorrow.”
She watched them disappear and turned her attention to Corso. She reached out and put her fingers on his chin, turning his head to the right so she could see his damaged ear. “Could have been worse,” she mused.
“Could have been better too.”
“You gotta be careful who you open your door to these days.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Corso assured her.
“In the meantime…you go back to your boat and do whatever it is you writers do. We’ll look into the assault. We need anything, or we have any information for you, we’ll be in touch.”
“It wasn’t an assault,” Corso said. “Those guys were trying to kidnap me.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll see.” She said the words in the tone an adult would use on an unruly child. Corso felt his anger beginning to rise.
A pair of liveried porters showed up at the door. Corso directed them to his belongings. He and the chief stood in silence, watching the young men load Corso’s suitcase and garment bag onto a brass luggage dolly and wheel it out of the room.
A moment after the door clicked closed, Corso fished the new room key from his pants pocket and started for the door.
“I think maybe I’m going to stick around for a few days.”
The news stiffened her spine. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mr. Corso. Seems like the forces of evil have drawn a bead on you. It’s probably best you move on.”
Corso laughed. “You probably won’t believe this, Chief, but all of a sudden I’ve got eight million reasons to stay,” he said.