The hotel was even fancier than I thought. There were people moving in and out of the front doors, bellhops in red jackets, valets hustling to park cars. The place was definitely operational and doing well. My calf wound didn’t feel great and although the bleeding had slowed, it hadn’t stopped.
There was no way I could go into that hotel with a bleeding leg and blood all over my shoe. A few blocks up I found a Walgreen’s, went inside and bought some bandages, scissors, medical tape and some cleaning wipes. Outside, sitting in the car sideways with my driver’s side door open, I rolled up my pant leg and studied the wound. It wasn’t bad. A neat little groove on the outside of my leg. It would probably need stitches at some point, but for now, I was going to field dress it.
The kit I bought had some antiseptic and I used it to clean off the dried blood as best I could. Then I slapped a bandage over the wound and wrapped it with some kind of cloth mesh thing and then on top of that, I wound a few pieces of medical tape all the way around, securing it all in place.
Dr. High. I liked the sound of that.
I took off my left boot and used the cleaning wipes to take care of the blood. It was mostly off, and since my boots were black, it wasn’t going to show up much anyway.
With that all taken care of, I tossed my medical supplies into the back seat of the Maverick, swung my feet in and shut the door.
From my shoulder holster I withdrew the .45 auto and ejected the empty magazine, replacing it with the full one from my belt. Thirteen rounds and one in the chamber.
The hotel was close enough to walk to and I wanted to test out my leg so I could practice walking normally, but before I could get out of the Mav, my phone rang. It was Paul.
“Yeah?”
Paul’s voice crackled over the line. “August, I’ve got something for you. Arcadia’s been linked to an Eastern European gang. They’re run by a guy named Drago Bulatov. Goes by 'The Bull.' Serious operator—drug trafficking, money laundering, the works.”
“How did Richard get hooked up with him?” I asked, watching a couple walk out of the hotel lobby and down the steps.
“It’s possible Richard was a money launderer, and all of his clients were criminals, which would be where the two hooked up. That would be my guess.”
“Mine too.”
It occurred to me that Paul had mentioned Rule in our meeting at the diner. “Remember Rule?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I haven’t had a chance to dig into that yet.”
“Rule Investments,” I said, “is Amelia Webb’s investment firm. If Richard was tied to Arcadia, he was probably trying to pull off some kind of embezzlement. Taking money from his wife’s company or clients and using it to make himself and Bulatov rich. Then disappear.”
“Makes sense,” Paul said. “Richard somehow learned his wife’s pass codes or how to break through their security protocols, got access, and started figuring out how he could make a big score.”
“The dumb shit doesn’t realize he’s in over his head with this Bulatov character,” I said, watching a taxi pull up to the hotel entrance.
“He’s a bad dude. Remember that mutilated body they found in the river? That was his work, for sure.”
“All right, thanks Paul,” I said.
“What are you doing now? Need backup?”
“Nah, I’m just going into a hotel to see if they have a room.”
“That sound ominous,” he replied.
“Might be,” I admitted.
No sooner had I ended the call and put my phone away, it buzzed again. I checked the screen—Amelia.
“August,” she said, her voice not as steady as I was used to. “We just discovered an authorized transfer. It’s massive. It would wreck the firm if it went through.”
“Richard,” I said.
She cursed under her breath.
“Can you stop it?” I asked.
“We’re trying. There’s a virus and a bunch of firewalls in the way that aren’t ours but we’ve got the best computer people in the world. I’m hoping we can cancel it before it goes through.”
“Let me guess, it’s going to Arcadia Investments.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where it will be sent off to a million different accounts and channeled through fake accounts and probably wind up in the Caymans in some numbered account.
“Not if I can help it,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”
She hung up and I got out of the car and walked toward the entrance, moving past a group of tourists snapping pictures of the lobby. I pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped inside.
The lobby was a different world from the streets outside—marble floors, high ceilings, a grand chandelier hanging overhead. A few guests were milling around, checking in or chatting by the fireplace. I made my way to the front desk where a young woman in a tailored uniform looked up with a practiced smile.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said. “How can I help you?”
I pulled out my private investigator’s badge and held it up. “I got an urgent call from my boss,” I said. “He’s staying here and he’s with Arcadia Investments. Can you ring his room and tell him I’m here?”
She hesitated and I said, “Sorry, my cell phone is dead. Ran out of juice not five minutes ago.”
“Okay,” she said, glancing around for a supervisor but luckily, no other staff was in sight. “And your name?”
“Just tell them a Mr. Bulatov is on his way up.”
She tapped something into the computer, her fingers moving quickly over the keys. She peered at the screen and then picked up the phone. She punched in a number and said, “You have a visitor here. A Mr. Bulatov. He would like to come up.”
The young woman hung up and said, “You can go right up.”
I nodded. “Thank you,” I said, pocketing the badge and heading for the elevator and then turned back to her. “Ah, Room…”
“1110.”
The ride up felt slow, each floor ticking by with a soft ding. I kept my hand close to my side, where my .45 sat holstered. When the elevator finally reached the eleventh floor, the doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, and I stepped out into the hallway. It was quiet, the thick carpet muffling my footsteps.
I started toward Room 1110, my eyes scanning the numbers on the doors. As I reached the halfway point, my phone buzzed again. I pulled it out—Amelia.
“We stopped the transaction,” she said, her voice strained but relieved. “Whoever was behind it, we’ve locked them out.”
“Good,” I said, my eyes still on the hallway. “I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up and slipped the phone back into my pocket, stopping in front of Room 1110. The door was closed.
With my .45 in my right hand, I lifted my left hand up to knock on the door.