Conspiracy

3

Amanda Rauci took another sip from the wine and glanced at her watch. It was nearly half past seven.

Where the hell is Jerry? she thought to herself, putting the glass down. He should have met her at least two hours ago.

Even if he’d gotten lost, it shouldn’t have taken him this long to get here.

And Jerry Forester never got lost.

Maybe his rotten bitch of a soon-to-be ex-wife had called him with some new bullshit. She was always torturing him with something, even though they were getting a divorce and hadn’t lived together for nearly a year. Amanda couldn’t understand why he even took the bitch’s calls, since inevitably they ended with her screaming at him.

Actually, Amanda could. Forester wanted custody of his two sons, or at least some connection with them. The bitch was doing her damnedest to keep it to a minimum.

Amanda caught a glimpse of herself in the hotel room’s full-length mirror. The nightgown, which had seemed so sexy when she’d put it on earlier, looked a little silly, even sad. She decided to change into her street clothes. When she was dressed, she picked up her cell phone and called Forester again. The call, her third in the past hour or so, went to voice mail like the others.

“Hey, where are you?” she asked. “Meet me in the bar, OK? And hurry up. I’m hungry.”

In the half hour she waited at the bar, Amanda turned down two different offers of drinks. With her hunger getting the better of her, she asked the bartender for a menu, then gave Forester another call. Once again she got his voice mail. She didn’t bother leaving a message.

The baked sole in vermouth was very good, but Amanda left most of it. Too many people were staring at her, calculating whether they might relieve her loneliness.

This wasn’t like Forester, not at all.

Amanda went back to her room, half-expecting — hoping—

that the light on the phone would be blinking, indicating she had a message. But it wasn’t.

Amanda started to dial the number for his office, thinking he might have checked in. She stopped before the call went through. Their relationship was a secret, and besides, by now there would be no one to check in with. It was going on eight o’clock.

Amanda went to the desk in the corner of the room and picked up the phone. Gerald Forester had not checked into the hotel; he didn’t even have a reservation, according to the clerk.

This didn’t necessarily bother Amanda — the hotel wasn’t that busy, and maybe Jerry had always intended on staying with her anyway.

Maybe. Ordinarily, though, he reserved his own room, since the Service paid.

A phone book sat at the edge of the desktop. She pulled it over and leafed through the yellow pages, caught between her instincts to act and the uncertainty of what to do. Then the investigator in her took over; she flipped to the hospital listings and began making calls.

The list was quickly exhausted. No Gerald Forester had been checked in or reported to an emergency room.

The only possible reason for standing her up was that something was happening on his case. Amanda didn’t know exactly what it involved — Jerry never discussed what he was working on. But she did know that he hadn’t planned on doing any real work until tomorrow.

Amanda called the desk again. Had Mr. Forester checked in yet?

“No,” said the clerk, annoyed. “Did you call earlier?”

Amanda put down the phone. And then, on a whim, or maybe to satisfy a growing sense of insecurity, she began dialing other hotels in the area, asking if a Gerald Forester had checked in.

Did she think he was cheating on her? It wouldn’t be cheating, exactly, if they weren’t married. She was worried, and in-secure, and unsure. After the third call—“No guest by that name, sorry”—Amanda got up and began pacing the room.

Amanda heard a noise in the hall. She stopped, held her breath as she heard the footsteps.

Decide, she told herself. Are you mad at him for being late and not calling, or are you happy nothing is wrong and he’s finally here?

Happy.

But whoever was outside didn’t stop at her door. She opened it, saw another man taking out a key several rooms away.

Back inside, Amanda called the next hotel.

“Do you have a Mr. Gerald Forester there?”

“Yes, ma’am. Should I connect you to the room?” Amanda felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. “Please.” The phone rang, but there was no answer.

The Danbury Ramada was only two miles from the InterContinental, and it took less than ten minutes to get there.

Amanda’s heart sank when she saw Forester’s car in the parking lot. She sat in her car with the engine running, literally feeling sick to her stomach.

And then her anger took over.

Who the hell was he in there with? Where did he come off calling her— calling her—and then standing her up?

Amanda got out and walked toward the hotel. She was angry — too angry, she thought — and she reversed course.

Why would he reserve a room in another hotel without telling her?

Maybe it was to keep their affair a secret.

Amanda passed by his car. Looking inside the passenger-side window, she saw a notebook, some pens, and the edge of a room card.

So he’d checked in earlier, without even telling her!

Forester was always locking his keys in somewhere — his car, his office, his house. To avoid embarrassment, he planted spares all over the place. When he stayed somewhere, he made sure to get two cards and left one in his car. He must have gotten up here earlier, gone out, come back — maybe to pick up someone.

Amanda ducked under the rear bumper on the passenger’s side, fishing for the small metal key container Forester kept there. She took it, then slid open the top and took out the car key, only to find that he hadn’t bothered to lock his car.

There was no room number on the key — but the small envelope it came in had the number in tiny script at the bottom edge.

She could surprise him if she wanted. Surprise him in bed with what ever whore he’d picked up.

Unless it was his wife. Amanda scanned the parking lot, sure for a second that his soon-to-be ex had come up here to confront him about something. But Amanda didn’t see the car.

She was being ridiculous, acting like a petty bitch herself.

She put the key card back and started toward her car.

He did owe her an explanation. Leaving her waiting at the bar for hours was rotten.

And uncharacteristic.

Why not go up there right now? If he was cheating on her, at least she would know.

Amanda realized that she hadn’t replaced the spare key holder. She turned and walked back to the car. But before she got there, she changed her mind again: she was going up to his room. She opened the car door, grabbed the room key, and then walked quickly into the hotel, determined to confront him before she could change her mind.

There was no one at the front desk. She walked straight ahead toward the elevators, head down, determined.

Angry.

The elevator doors opened in slow motion. Amanda got inside, pressed the button for the fifth floor.

The doors opened in a few seconds. She found the room at the very end of the hall, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Room ser vice,” she said curtly, her anger still sharp.

No answer.

Amanda knocked again. “Room ser vice,” she said, a little louder. “Mr. Forester?”

Nothing.

“Jerry, open the damn door.”

Still nothing. Amanda slipped the card into the slot. The two lights at the top of the lock came on, both red, then green.

I shouldn’t go in, she thought to herself, placing her hand on the handle. She pushed anyway.

“Jerry?” she said. The light was on. “Why are you—” She stopped in mid-sentence. Her lover sat in the chair across from the door, a good portion of his mouth and head blown away by a bullet from the old-school.357 Magnum that sat on the floor below his open hand.