Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 39

AS SOON AS I GOT off the phone with Alex I called Harry.

“How are you doing with Alan’s credit cards?”

Phin, talking about his past while we were in the motel, reminded me that the easiest way to find someone is to track their latest credit card purchases. If Alan listened to my warning and checked into a hotel, he probably made the reservation using a card. Harry, given the nature of his business, had sources with all the big banks.

“It’s not good, sis. Ah, Christ!”

“What? What is it?”

“Slappy just puked beer all over the place. He can puke farther than he can piss. This is even messier than a brass clown. Good fucking suggestion, Phin.”

“Focus, McGlade! Can you get his usage history?”

“I’ve got his complete history. But Alex must have known we’d do this. I’ve got hotel charges for eight hotels in Dubuque, Iowa, all made within the last twenty-four hours. She must have made the reservations using his card.”

Shit.

“Can’t you tell which one came first? Or which is the most active? Maybe he had room ser vice, or watched a movie.”

“Negativo. All I’ve got are pings, not actual charges. Billing doesn’t happen until hours, sometimes days, after a card gets authorized. That’s why it doesn’t appear on your statement right away.”

“Give them to me.”

Harry read the list. I wrote the names and addresses down on the back of the donut bag.

“How far are we?” I asked Phin.

He had the accelerator pinned, and we were flying so fast that even seat belts and air bags wouldn’t save our lives if he made a mistake.

“Ten minutes from Dubuque. What’s the destination?”

Alan had eight minutes left. “We don’t know yet.”

“We’re going to hit traffic when we reach the city. There will only be time to try one hotel.”

“How about Jim Hardy?” I asked Harry. “Anything?”

“The main Google hits are for a pro golfer, an old-time newspaper comic, an NFL quarterback from the fifties. But the golfer gets the most.”

“Those eight hotels. Do any of them have a golf course nearby?”

“I can check. Aw, Jesus!” Harry made a gagging noise. “Right in the mouth! Do I gotta buy a goddamn hockey mask to protect myself from flying monkey dung?”

My call waiting beeped. Tom Mankowski. “Call me back,” I said, and clicked over to Tom. “Please give me some good news.”

“The Dubuque cops are calling all the hotels, searching for an Alan Daniels, and so far they’ve found six reservations.”

“Any check-ins?”

“All six. They’re sending out teams, but they’re not a big department. The town only has sixty thousand people in it, and there was some big shoot-out at a department store, so they can’t spare many men.”

“How about Jim Hardy?”

“I’ve been poring through Alex’s files. So far, nothing. Lieut…there’s something else you need to know.”

“Spill it, Detective.”

“The Feds have a warrant. Dubuque PD was ordered to arrest you on sight. They believe you’re harboring a fugitive. Are you?”

“He’s a bank robber. You want to talk to him?”

“Tell him I said hi,” Phin said.

“Be careful, Lieutenant. I’ll call when I hear something.”

I hung up. Phin tapped the brakes, causing me to lurch forward in my seat.

“Exit, Jack. We have to make a decision.”

I stared at the list of hotels. We had a one in six chance of picking the right one. And even if we did pick correctly, we might not make it in time. I hated these odds, almost as much as I hated my job, my life, myself. And Alex. God, did I hate Alex. For what she did to Latham, and now to Alan. Harry figured out from the picture that she’d hooked him up to a defibrillator. Which explained her “light him up like a Christmas tree” comment.

Or did it?

Alan wouldn’t actually light up. He’d be electrocuted. She could have easily made a snide comment about him being shocked, or fried, or something to do with his heart. Why’d she mention Christmas?

I redialed Harry.

“Google Jim Hardy plus Christmas.”

“Hold on, I’m brushing my teeth.”

“Now, McGlade!”

“Fine! Aw, God. There are chunks of monkey chow on my keyboard. It smells awful. I’m starting to think this pet thing wasn’t a good idea.”

“Harry!”

“Okay! Jeez! First hit is…Holiday Inn. How about that? Jim Hardy is the character Bing Crosby played, sang ‘White Christmas’ in it. Slappy, no! One beer is enough!”

“Holiday Inn,” I told Phin, squinting at the directions on my GPS-enabled cell phone.

Phin gave me a quick sideways glance.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to use your cell. Feds could track it.”

“No choice. Turn on Fourth Street, right on Main.”

I called 911, told them there was a murder being committed at the hotel, just as we pulled into the parking lot, squealing tires.

“The cops know about you,” I said to Phin. “You should stay in the car.”

“Like hell.”

We both got out and ran for the lobby.

“Alan Daniels,” I yelled at the front desk, flashing my badge. “What room number?”

Wrong approach. The girl was flustered, scared, and kept screwing up her typing. Finally, after an eternity, she said, “Room 212.”

We stormed up the stairs, less than two minutes to spare, and found Alan’s room, a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the lock. Phin unleashed a vicious kick. The door was strong, and held firm. But it couldn’t hold up against three shots from a forty-caliber Beretta.

“Alan!” I cried, barreling into the room, eyes and gun swinging over to the bed.

Empty. The room was empty. The bed was empty. Sitting on top of the sheets was one of those tiny bottles of liquor from the hotel minibar.

A bottle of Jack Daniels.

I thought of Alan, of our wedding day, our vows to love, honor, and protect.

“Alex was here,” I said. “Alan is still at the hotel. He has to be close. Check all the doors on this floor with Do Not Disturb signs on them. She wouldn’t want the maid coming in.”

In the hall Phin went left, I went right. I found a door with the sign, banged on it, got an annoyed response from inside. Not Alan. Moved farther down the hall, but there were no other signs.

Gunshots. Phin, bursting through a door.

I ran to him, praying to a God I didn’t believe in.

Another empty room.

Think, Jack, think. Alex brought him somewhere. It had to be close, had to be on this floor, because she took him with force, dragging him or pointing a gun at him, not wanting to be seen, not wanting the maid to find him…

The maid.

I picked up the room phone, punched the button for House keeping.

“’Allo?”

A woman, foreign.

“Listen very carefully,” I said. “I’m a police officer. I want to know what rooms on the second floor haven’t been cleaned yet.”

“I dunno. I ask Maria. She do second floor.”

And she put me on hold. I felt like screaming. According to my watch, we were already a minute late.

“This is Maria.”

“What rooms weren’t cleaned on the second floor?”

“Lemme see. Room 212, I think. Room 203. And room 208. I knocked, no answer, but they had lock on.”

“Two oh eight,” I said to Phin, and we were flying out the door.

Found the room.

I shot the lock.

He put his shoulder to it, and then we were inside.

Alan was taped to the bed, jerking and twitching, eyes rolled up in his head, a terrifying buzzing noise filling the room. I launched myself at him, reaching for the pads on his chest, and as soon as I touched him my arms locked up and pain flared through my body, like being dropped in scalding oil, so hot I felt it in my muscles and bones. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t move. I would have screamed, but my throat slammed shut.

Then I was on the floor, Phin’s arm around my waist. I gasped for air, managed to get some in, while Phin tugged at an electrical cord plugged into the wall. I crawled back up to Alan, pulled those horrible pads from his chest, pulled up burned skin from where they were attached.

Touched the raw flesh, feeling his heart.

Nothing. No beat.

Hands shaking, I tore at his tape gag, trying not to look at his eyes, his dead eyes, wide open in agony and showing only the whites.

Put my ear to his mouth.

No breath. He wasn’t breathing.

CPR. He needed CPR. I put my lips to his-when was the last time I kissed him?-then pulled away in horror.

He tasted…cooked.

I did it again, not hesitating, pinching his nose, blowing life into his lungs.

There was a wet, rumbling sound, and then brown blood frothed out of his mouth.

I straddled him, put my hands on his chest, began doing compressions.

Blood foamed out of his nose. Out of the corners of his eyes.

“Jack…”

Phin, touching my shoulder.

“The defibrillator,” I said. “We can shock him again. Get his heart started.”

Phin gave me a gentle tug. I shoved his hands away, went back to heart compressions.

“Jack, he’s lost too much blood.”

“Give me the goddamn defibrillator!”

Phin wrapped his arms around me, pulled me off Alan. I brought my heel down on his instep and he released me, then I spun around and punched him in the jaw, staggering him back. I scanned the floor for the defibrillator, found it, saw the button was glued down. No matter. I could put the pads on, plug it back in, it should work.

It had to work.

I picked up the pads, shakily placed them on Alan’s chest, and then noticed that the mattress was soaked in blood.

Too much blood. Much too much.

I gasped, brought a hand to my mouth. Then I placed my palm on his chest, pressed down. More blood sluiced out from under him, between his legs.

“No. Oh no no no no…”

Phin put his arms around me again. I heard sirens in the distance.

“We should go, Jack.”

I reached for Alan’s face, touched his cheek. Then I used two fingers to close his tortured eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

The sirens got louder. Phin half pulled/half carried me away from the bed, past the bathroom, where I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A person, hiding under the sink.

Alex.

I shoved Phin back, reaching for the gun in my belt. Except I didn’t have a gun in my belt. It had somehow gotten in Phin’s belt. I yanked it free, aimed, and fired three times as fast as I could pull the trigger.

Alex didn’t move.

Phin wrestled the gun away from me. I let him, reaching for the bathroom light.

Blood, everywhere. From the woman on the ground. A woman who had a knife stuck in her chest, and who definitely wasn’t Alex.

I crumpled to the floor. Again Phin supported me, holding me around my back with his hand under my armpit, maneuvering me down the hallway, to the stairwell, down the stairs, through the lobby, into the parking lot, while tears streaked down my face.

By the time I was in the truck I was wailing louder than the police cars that were surrounding us.