The soft buzz that came from the alarm clock lasted no more than two seconds before being shut off. Two seconds after that, Carlton Book slid his legs from the mattress. It was seven o’clock; Book’s normal wake up time, and in the last twenty-five years, the ‘doze’ button was used twice. Carlton Book always woke up quickly, always afraid of wasting a day.
He went to the bathroom and drained his kidneys, then looked in the mirror as he prepared his toothbrush. As he brushed his teeth with a battery operated toothbrush, he stared intently at his reflection, cocking his head in one direction, then the other, looking at his face in different angles. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but was satisfied that his reflection hadn’t changed. He rinsed and splashed handfuls of ice cold water against his face. He dried off and went to the living room.
He positioned himself under the chinning bar in the doorway and proceeded to do four sets of fifty pull-ups. Once that was completed, he did four sets of pushups, then four sets of sit-ups. He stood and shook the stray brown locks from his eyes and went to the kitchen.
As he did every morning, he went to the coffee maker (that was set to brew on an automatic timer) and poured himself a large mug. He sipped at the hot brew and made his regular breakfast; two slices of unbuttered toast and a bowl of oatmeal. He took the plate, coffee and bowl to the coffee table in the living room, turned on the set, hit the local news channel, then returned to the kitchen for his coffee.
His eyes and mind grazed over the politics and the sports results, calmly munching on a piece of toast, waiting for the oatmeal to cool. He was on his second spoonful when the tired face of a man in a blue suit filled the screen. He was walking up the steps of City Hall and through a small group of microphone wielding reporters. Book’s eyes shifted to the bottom of the screen. Detective Lieutenant Desmond Fine showed in the center of the yellow panel. The word LIVE flashed in the corner of the screen.
Book tapped the volume control.
“Was last night’s murder the work of the ‘3-Monkey Killer’?” asked a reporter.
Book watched several emotions flit across Fine’s tired face in the course of a second. He leaned forward and looked directly into the camera.
“No,” he said. “This is not the work of the 3-Monkey Killer. This was a murder, but it does not show the signature brutality displayed by the serial killer stalking our area.” His voice and expression were stern. Fine tried to turn in order to continue up the steps but found another microphone inches from his face.
“When will an arrest be made on the 3-Monkey Killer?” asked a woman, her eyes wide and locked on the detective.
She reminded Book of a shark he saw on the Discovery Channel.
“The investigation on the 3-Monkey Killer is ongoing,” he replied, moving backwards up the stone steps. “We are still following up leads, so at present, we have no information to report.”
“But tell us something!” cried a reporter.
Fine’s head spun in the reporter’s direction. His face was tight and his unblinking glare made the man with the microphone retreat a step.
“If we had anything of importance to tell, we would!” he snapped. He stared at the man and shook his head. “Dear God, do you think we want this ... this ... monster loose on our streets?” Fine shook his head again and continued up the stairs.
The screen changed to the first reporter (her name, Maggie Hall, stenciled on the bottom, next to the word LIVE), her eyes locked on the camera. The reporter droned on about the body found near a bus stop and the ineffectiveness of the police department in capturing the 3-Monkey Killer.
She went on, naming the victims of the serial killer, but Book ceased to listen.
He knew all about the 3-Monkey Killer. He was a monster and was mentioned on every news channel, especially after a dead body was found. The killer was the topic of several daytime talk shows who added to the city’s fear by graphic reenactments of the murders. The killer was also the subject of a televised Q & A between retired members of law enforcement, civic groups, and a panel of psychologists, hosted by an ex-surfer dude /now-reigning pop shrink. One station kept a scorecard on the bottom of their screen, showing 3-Monkey Killer: 11 – Police: 0.
Book knew all about the 3-Monkey Killer, and what he knew disgusted him.
As far as the police knew, there were eleven victims. Male and female. No specific age, but always over 25. Caucasian. African-American. Asian. Hispanic. Fat and thin. All from different walks of life, different fields of interest, different professions, and different personalities. The commonality was that they were all were found with their throats cut, their lips and ears removed, and their eyes gouged out. After the third body was found, one reporter on the nightly news mentioned that it reminded him of a statue he had seen as a child.
The one of the three monkeys; see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
From that moment on, the serial killer was referred to as ‘The 3-Monkey Killer’.
As Book absently stirred the remainder of his oatmeal, his thoughts turned inward. There was a crazy on the loose who was torturing, mutilating and killing people at random. He himself would never leave any clues at the dump sites - of which there were many - giving the police no leads. The killer grabbed the victims at bars, at restaurants, at bookstores, at their home, at their office; there was no discernable pattern. Sometimes there would be evidence of a struggle, but this creature left not a fingerprint, not a hair, not a fiber for the police to trace. He skirted past security cameras like a mist. You may see a shadow at the edge of the screen, but there was nothing for the video forensic department to go on.
It bothered Book that there could be someone like that out there preying on people. He hoped that when the killer was caught, he would be shot on sight. No one; no thing like that should be allowed to live another second.
Book frowned. What could create such a creature?
He shook his head and raised the volume a notch. He switched to the Discovery Channel and watched an episode on conjoined twins. After the show was over, he shut off the television, deposited his bowl into the sink, refilled his mug and went to his laptop.
Book spent the next several minutes opening encrypted files, whistling ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ as he worked. He leaned back in his chair and scanned the balances in his oversea accounts and raised his eyebrow. He accessed the deposits and found the one he expected and a new one. He clicked on the recent entry and found that the sender used a different bank than the one before it. Book closed the files and the computer and went to his BlackBerry on the coffee table.
His eyes ran over the messages in his in-box. Tyler and Sloan Provisions needed him to form a business plan for their company. Jenkins Hardware needed his taxes reviewed. They had their own accountant, but they trusted Book more. Nielsen’s Mug, the coffee shop uptown, needed their financials looked at. And one other.
Book opened the email and read the information. He closed the message and checked his daily planner. He had to work the figures on the Willows Group’s financials, but that was pretty straightforward and wouldn’t take him more than an hour to complete. Otherwise, it was a free day. He smiled. Tomorrow was dinner with Lena.
A small pang of regret filled his chest. He liked her a lot. Maybe he was in love with her; he wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t allow her into his life. That would add too many unknown variables. They were the best of friends, they dated, and they enjoyed each other’s company. That would be enough.
He sent a reply, stating that he would ‘help out' by ‘picking Uncle Eddie up at the train station’, but wanted to check ‘the train schedule’ before he committed to anything ‘because there might be a conflict’. He answered the other messages, setting up appointments and asking for certain documents to be sent to him, and then shut the BlackBerry down. He went to his desk, unlocked one of the drawers and took out dark brown hair dye, a thin mustache and gold aviator glasses.
He went to the bathroom and took a very hot shower.
* * *
Book was in his suite, taking sips from his bottle of mineral water, looking out of the picture window on the city below. As much as he liked visiting the trees and hills and carbon copied streets of quiet suburbia, he knew in his heart he was a city boy. Whenever he was offered the chance, he would get a room at the top of a four-star hotel, get a suite on an upper floor and stand in the window, marveling at the architecture and construction.
Book stood in the window, a soft smile on his face. He casually ran his finger across the mustache on his lip and peered at his reflection, making sure his combed back hair and glasses were in place. His watch beeped and he did an abrupt about face, grabbed his laptop (which was now in a hand stitched alligator case), pocketed his key card and went to the elevators.
He had checked in under ‘Henry Simmons’, explained he was from a New Jersey pharmaceutical company, was only in town for two days, and mostly needed their lobby for a meeting with a potential client.
“What can you do to help me?” he asked the well dressed young man behind the counter.
What Simmons received was an over-priced suite on an upper floor and full access to the hotel, including the lobby. He thanked the desk clerk profusely and paid with a platinum credit card which was under his company’s name. As he gave his information and showed his driver’s license, Simmons mildly complained that the client was a very particular individual; sort of eccentric - mostly a pain in the ass. Because the man represented one of the three largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, Simmons was told to wait for the potential client if he was late or delayed in any way.
Simmons figured meeting him in the lobby of the hotel would put him in good favor with the client and the desk clerk agreed, passing him his key card and surreptitiously palming the fifty dollar bill Simmons had pushed in his direction when he returned the man’s credit card.
Simmons waved to the desk clerk (who nodded back) and sat in one of the chairs that filled the lobby. He converted the side-table to a desk where he placed the laptop. He opened the website of the company he represented and went from page to page. The desk clerk came by to ask if he need anything while he waited. Simmons asked for a cup of coffee, which was brought over a few minutes later. Simmons kept his attention on the glass and chrome entrance to the hotel. From time to time, he would stretch his neck and look around at other areas of the lobby, then return his eyes to the entrance.
Hours ticked by. Simmons was now pacing around the chair, pressing the heels of his hands in the lower part of his back. He rolled his head on his neck and glanced at the bay of elevators, the hotel’s side exits, the doorway that led to the basement, to the hotel store, then back to the front door. With the exception of bathroom breaks, Simmons was glued to that area of the lobby.
Simmons walked over to the front desk.
“Would you mind watching my computer for a moment?” he asked the clerk. “Got to ... you know.”
“No problem, Mr. Simmons,” the clerk said.
“Great!” smiled Simmons. “Remember, he’s ... “
“’About five foot five, plump, balding, kind of like a Swedish Danny DeVito’,” finished the clerk, smiling. “All taken care of, Mr. Simmons.”
Simmons shot the clerk a wink. “Thanks!” he said. “I really mean that.”
The clerk frowned slightly. “If I may be frank, Mr. Simmons, it has been three hours. Hasn’t your client called to let you know exactly what time he’d be here?”
Simmons sighed. “He was supposed to be here an hour and a half ago.”
The clerk’s jaw dropped slightly. “An hour an ... and he didn't call to say he was going to be late?” The young man’s face reddened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Simmons! I spoke out of turn.”
Simmons held out his hand. The clerk looked down at it for a moment before taking it. Simmons grasped his hand warmly and pumped it a few times. He then grinned at the clerk.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Herbert,” the clerk answered. “Dave Herbert.”
“Well, Herbert Dave Herbert,” Simmons said smiling, “I want to thank you for your honest reaction. In my line of business, I get covered in so much bullshit, any sincere and honest response is so ... Well, it makes me feel good. But my boss said to wait. So I wait.”
Herbert watched the grinning man heads towards the restrooms, then return a few minutes later, saluting him as he walked by. He watched the man go back to his seat and direct his attention to his laptop screen. The clerk shook his head and returned to his paperwork.
Every once in a while, Simmons would get up to stretch his legs and engage Herbert in meaningless small talk about television, hotel goings on, sports, shift changes, fire safety regs, staff information, and other topics to pass the time. All through it, Herbert was ready to participate, sympathizing with the beleaguered pharm rep with a lot of time on his hands.
* * *
Dave Herbert walked over to where Simmons was sitting. He was no longer wearing the hotel’s blazer. He was dressed in a sport jacket, slacks and boat shoes.
“Well, I’m done with another day, Mr. Simmons!” he said.
Simmons smiled and closed his laptop and placed it in his case. “The client canceled the meeting,” he said. “Wants to reschedule.”
Herbert frowned. “When did he call?”
“About a minute before you stopped by,” Simmons answered holding up his cell phone.
Herbert’s face hardened, but he kept silent.
“Yeah,” agreed Simmons tiredly. “I know. But it is approved rudeness.”
“Do you want me to set up a table in the lounge?” asked Herbert. “You could probably use a drink right about now.”
“What I want is to take a hot shower and be horizontal!” chuckled Simmons. “My spine is none too happy with me. Besides, the client said that he may be finished with his meeting early and call me after dinner hours.”
Herbert stared at Simmons.
“Or,” added Simmons, “meet him at this very spot, sometime tomorrow morning.”
“So even when you’re off duty, you still have to wait for client?” asked Herbert.
Simmons nodded and shrugged. “Like I said, the boss says wait, so I wait.”
Herbert shook his head and held out his hand to Simmons. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Simmons, but I hope not to see you tomorrow.”
Simmons grasped it. “And you don’t take this the wrong way, Herbert Dave Herbert, but I hope not to be here tomorrow.”
Herbert grinned. “Have a good evening!”
Simmons waved, then called the young man. Herbert turned at the door, his eyebrows raised. “My room has cable, right?”
Herbert grinned. “Every channel you can imagine!” he said. “You can get overseas TV if you want!”
“Great!” said Simmons. “I love Japanese game shows! Good night!”
* * *
Book returned to the room and took a nice hot shower. Feeling refreshed, he called room service and ordered dinner. While he waited, he stood at the window, looking at the city in night.
The room service attendant came, dropped off his food, was generously tipped and left. Book, dressed in a plush white hotel robe, sat on the couch eating his dinner of chicken pot pie and a Caesar salad, watching the next installment of ‘I Claudius’.
Immediately after the show ended, Book went to the bedroom and put on a red two piece velour jumpsuit and matching sneakers. He combed his hair, returned the mustache to his upper lip, put on the glasses, slung a towel around his neck and left the room.
He stood by the elevator for ten minutes, waiting for a one of the staff to appear. A young Hispanic woman in a white shirt, black slacks and matching vest smiled warmly at Simmons when she passed.
“Oh, excuse me,” he called before she turned down the hallway.
She turned around. “Yes, sir?”
“What time do the exercise room and pool close?”
“As long as you have your key card, sir, it doesn’t!” she chirped.
“Great!” he said. “Great! And they are ... ?”
“Just press the P button when the car arrives, sir,” she said. “The ‘P’ is for the pool and exercise rooms.”
“Great!” he exclaimed. “Thanks!”
The woman grinned and continued around the corner.
Book pressed the down button on the pad. He hummed ‘If I Didn’t Care’ and tapped his foot while he waited. The elevator door opened and Simmons got in and pressed P. Time to go exploring, he thought as the doors closed.
* * *
At nine-thirty-two exactly, Dave Herbert stopped in front of the glass double doors to the hotel allowing them to open automatically before stepping forward. He glanced over to the left side of the lobby and saw Mr. Simmons sitting in the same chair he sat in the day before. He frowned as he saw the man’s fingers weakly tap the keys on the keyboard. Versus check in at the desk and go to his locker as he always did, he made a straight line to Simmons.
“Good morning,” he said as he approached. “Looks like you ... “ Herbert came to a sudden stop when the man turned in his direction. “Oh, my God!” Herbert exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
Simmons dark brown hair was mussed and lines crossed his forehead. His eyes behind the glasses wavered in and out of focus. His skin had a faint green tinge. He smiled weakly at Herbert.
“I really don’t think dinner went down well,” he said, his voice creaking.
“You need to lie down!” Herbert said. “I’m calling the hotel physician!”
“No,” Simmons said, holding up a weak hand. “It’s my stomach, that’s all. Acid reflux. Heartburn. Nothing I can’t handle.” He tilted his head to the bottle of antacid tablets next to the laptop.
“Look, Mr. Simmons,” Herbert began in a hushed tone, his face contorted into a deep frown, “You’ve gone beyond the call of duty here, and if this so-called client of yours is an ... an asshole, you shouldn’t have to suffer for it.” Herbert straightened his shoulders and glanced gravely past Simmons when he added, “Please excuse my outburst.”
Simmons stared at Herbert for several beats. “You’re right. I should pack it in.” He grinned weakly. “To be honest with you, I’m not feeling too well.”
“Exactly my point, Mr. Simmons,” Herbert nodded.
“This is what I’ll do,” said Simmons. “I’m calling the boss and tell him it is not in our best interest to wait and to cater to this client’s ever-changing needs without a physical contract, obligating us to put up with his bullshit. It puts us in a bad light; making us look weak and desperate. If the ‘potential’ client does not show up in the next hour, I am taking the rest of the day off, due to ill health and returning to corporate in the morning. If possible.”
“I wouldn’t even give them an hour, Mr. Simmons,” said Herbert. “I don’t go on duty for another forty five minutes, but that doesn’t matter. If you need anything, you let me know.”
“Will do,” said Simmons.
Herbert walked to the desk and checked in with the clerk who was in charge of the last shift. They went over any situation that occurred during the evening and any changes to today’s schedule. The clerk looked around Herbert’s head and at the man who was popping another antacid tablet.
“What’s with this guy?” he asked.
“Being jerked around by his boss and a dick of a client,” Herbert replied.
“He looks like he’s about to buy it,” said the clerk.
“Bad stomach.”
“Should I call the doc?” asked the clerk, his hand moving towards the telephone.
Herbert looked at Simmons. He was leaning back in his chair, his head back. He wore a slight smile, like something bad just ended. Herbert shook his head. “He’ll be okay.”
The glass doors slid open on their tracks and a tall swarthy man in an expensive leather jacket over a Polo shirt walked in. He adjusted the large travel bag in his hand and looked around the lobby. He spotted the front desk and walked to it.
The clerk saw the man walk in and snapped to attention. Herbert stepped to the side and looked over the evening report on a clipboard.
“Reservation under Brody Communications,” the man said. “For Michael Juliet.”
“One moment, sir,” said the clerk, tapping the name into the hotel computer.
Herbert felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Simmons wearing a strained expression.
“Need you to watch my things for a while,” he said in a pained whisper.
“Please sign this, Mr. Juliet,” the clerk said pointing to the registry book. The man did and the clerk passed him a key card. “Room 2017. Would you like help with your bag?”
“No. I have it,” said the man. “I’m expecting an important call from Germany. Otherwise, I’m not to be disturbed.”
“No problem, Mr. Juliet,” he replied.
“Thanks,” replied Juliet and walked to the bay of elevators.
“Going to my room for a while,” Simmons said. “Keep an eye on the laptop for me?”
“You okay?” asked Herbert. “Are you going to lie down?”
Simmons grinned sickly. “There are certain things people need to do in a more private atmosphere, if you know what I mean,” Simmons said in a low whisper.
Herbert gave a sympathetic look. “Understood,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Simmons nodded and walked quickly to the bay of elevators. The doors to one car was about to close, but Juliet saw him coming and held the doors for him. Simmons nodded as he entered, tapping the 25th floor. Juliet’s finger pressed 20 as the doors shut.
Both men road the car in silence; one getting off on the twentieth floor, the other the twenty-fifth.
Book went to his room and called the front desk. When the desk clerk answered, he asked if Dave Herbert was still there and if he could speak with him. After a few muffled words, Herbert picked up the line.
“Hi, Herbert Dave Herbert,” he said in a worn voice. “One other small favor.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Simmons,” Herbert said. “Name it.”
“Now I doubt this will happen ... “ Book stopped and chuckled. “Matter of fact, I’ll bet you a fifty it doesn’t, but if the client should walk in ... “
“Call you immediately,” finished Herbert.
“Exactly!” he replied.
“Remember, he’s ... “
“’About five foot five, plump, balding, like a Swedish Danny DeVito’,” finished the clerk.
“Don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “Bye.”
“Just doing my job,” Herbert replied and hung up the phone.
Book quickly removed his jacket, removed the mustache and rinsed the makeup from his face. He then dug into the closet, pulled out a blazer worn by the hotel staff and put it on. He adjusted the small gold nameplate until it was parallel with the pocket’s seam. He then picked up a comb and parted his hair down the center. He smoothed down the sides and looked over his image. He went into a pocket of his suitcase and removed two items. He then put on a pair of latex gloves.
Book opened the door and glanced out into the empty hallway. He walked quietly to the emergency exit, opened the door and saw the taped a piece of cardboard against the door’s strike plate was still in place. He listened for movement and heard none. Simmons walked down to the twentieth floor.
He opened the door slowly and looked in the hallway and found it empty. He closed the door behind him and went to room 2017.
He removed an item from his pocket with one hand and knocked on the door with the other. He glanced down and adjusted the seams of his jacket.
“Mr. Juliet?” he said.
“Yeah?” called a voice from inside.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Juliet,” Book began. “The clerk at the front desk sent me up. He neglected to have you sign one more document. I know you asked not to be disturbed and we deeply apologize for the interruption.”
There was a chuckle behind the door. “Don’t kill the messenger, eh?” Juliet said. “No problem.”
When the door opened, Book moved forward, opening it wider.
“Hey!” shouted Juliet, which was the only sound he was able to make before the electrified points of the taser stuck him in the neck.
The man fell back, his eyes wide and his body going into spasms.
Book closed the door with his foot and stood over Juliet at his head, turning off the device and placing it in his pants pocket. He removed a wire with small wooden handles from the inside pocket and wrapped the cord around Juliet’s neck. Book held the wire taut for a full five minutes, and then kept the pressure on for an additional two. He gingerly removed the wire and placed it back in his pocket.
He slowly opened the door to Juliet’s suite slowly and peered into the hallway. Once again, it was empty. He closed the door quietly behind him and walked to the emergency exit. He walked back up the stairs to the twenty-fifth floor, removed the cardboard from the door, wiped down the knob and strike plate, then back to his room.
Book stowed away his gear, combed his hair, added his mustache and dabbed a little makeup to his face. He wiped down the nameplate, snapping it in half and putting the pieces in his pocket. He looked out on the city below, letting his body relax. He glanced at his watch. Book balled up the blazer and stuck it under his arm, then grabbed his already-packed case and left the room and walked to the elevator bay.
Entering the car, Book pressed 22 and L. When the doors opened on the twenty-second floor, he dashed out and dropped the blazer down the laundry chute. He had left his case in the path of the elevator doors should they begin to close, but he made it back in the car before they did.
He came out of the elevator and walked directly to the front desk. Herbert, now wearing his hotel blazer, was talking to the night clerk. Seeing his favorite guest, he shook hands with the exiting clerk and turned his attention to the guest.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Oh, worlds!” exclaimed Simmons. He held out a one hundred dollar bill.
“No, Mr. Simmons!” Herbert protested. “That’s too much!”
Simmons grinned slightly through a haggard face. “No,” he said. “I insist. You’ve been great.”
Herbert shook his head and Simmons lifted his luggage for the clerk to see.
“Then call it a fee for storing my case behind the desk,” said Simmons. “I’m going to give the asshole forty-five more minutes. He shows up; good. I’ll ask you to take my bag back to my room. If he doesn’t, then versus go back upstairs, I’ll check out and be gone.”
Herbert smiled. “You’re the boss, Mr. Simmons,” he said.
Simmons snorted. “I wish,” he said, passing the bag over the counter.
“And thank you, Mr. Simmons,” said Herbert.
Simmons winked and he returned to his chair and opened his laptop.
* * *
Forty-five minutes came and went.
The man named Simmons packed his laptop and returned to the front desk to pick up his luggage. He shook hands with Herbert Dave Herbert and gave him his business card. He paused to tap a number into his BlackBerry before leaving the hotel.
About two hours later, Juliet’s emergency call from Germany came in and Herbert dutifully rang the room, as per instructions.
No one answered.