Where’s Fitch?” asked the man.
He couldn’t have been more than five-and-a-half-feet tall, with a neck so thick that no standard collar could wrap around it. His physique was in the bowling ball category—round and hard. He was probably in his sixties and looked like he had a lot of vinegar left in him.
“Who?” I asked.
“Fitch,” the man repeated. “I’m looking for Jimmy Fitch.”
“I, I think you have the wrong room…” I said, turning for confirmation from Rebecca.
“Who is it?” she asked behind me. “What does he want?”
I was obstructing her view of the man and, more importantly, of the gun pointed at my stomach. Therefore, she didn’t feel the need to tread lightly around him. If anything, she was overly antagonistic.
“Tell him to buzz off.”
“I think you have the wrong room,” I said softly. “Probably just an honest mistake.”
“Both of you get out,” Rebecca sniped.
The man took that as his invitation to come inside. I found myself backing into the room and trying to get as far from the barrel of the gun as possible.
“What’d I just say?” Rebecca shouted. “I told you to get out.”
“Everyone just relax,” I said, in an attempt to defuse the situation. No one likes to be told to relax, and this man was no exception. He flicked his free hand and shoved me backward. My foot caught the edge of the bed and I tumbled dramatically to the floor.
“Jesus! Take it easy,” I cried, in a voice a little too whiny for my own liking.
The man stood over me as he surveyed the room. His eyes darted from one object to the next, looking for something familiar, but with each turn of his head he grew less certain. He blinked his way to the conclusion that he did indeed have the wrong room. He didn’t apologize. He turned and quietly exited.
I cautiously followed him to the door and locked it. The fish-eye view out the peephole showed the hallway was empty, but I couldn’t be sure. I hoped Rebecca had forgotten about kicking me out earlier, even just for a minute to give me time to put more distance between me and the armed man.
“Do you know that guy?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“What about the man he was looking for? I think he said the name Fitch?”
Again, she shook her head.
I glanced around. Suddenly this little box of a corporate hotel room situated on a heavily patrolled hill in downtown no longer felt very safe. Even the heavy door with three forms of locks and latches looked ominous.
“Maybe he had the wrong room,” I said, but my tone felt like it needed convincing. It could have been a coincidence and not actually connected to the murder of the caricaturist, but those sorts of coincidences don’t happen too often.
I pulled out my phone.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m calling the police,” I told her.
As I raised it to my ear, her hand rested gently on my wrist. Rebecca met my gaze and quietly shook her head. I ended the call before it was picked up.
I let silence fill a few minutes.
“What’s going on?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Where’s Julie?”
“I don’t know,” came the same reply.
“Are you worried?” I asked.
Rebecca shot me a look that made me regret stating the obvious. She was worried but not necessarily out of fear for Julie’s safety.
“The police spoke to our gardener today,” Rebecca explained. “He says he saw Julie leaving the house on Saturday afternoon.”
“She’s a suspect,” I finished for her.
“Person of interest,” she corrected. “They would like to talk to her.” After a moment she added, “As would I.”
My urge to help was countered by the realization that there wasn’t anything I could actually do other than offer bits of advice that she already knew.
“You should at least tell the PV police about this,” I instructed. “And consider another place to stay.”
“I’ll move to another room,” Rebecca responded, ignoring my first suggestion.
“If he found this room he could find another.”
“You’re right,” she said, but not in a way that meant she would do anything about it.
“You should really call the police,” I continued. But she wasn’t listening anymore. She just sat on the edge of the bed and stared at a spot on the carpet that held no answers.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca.”
I made a move to leave.
“Okay,” I heard her say behind me.
When I turned, I saw an image I knew too well and had seen too often. It was the one I’d seen sitting across from me when some poor bastard decided their best option was to leave the firm voluntarily, the same look they had when making the “dead man walking” march to the elevator bank. It was the look of complete resignation.
“Okay,” she repeated, “we’ll quit the contract.”
I left with what I came for but there was no joy in the victory.