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Authors: Gillian Roberts
Tags: Suspense, General Fiction
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about the man is that he drinks vodka, knows how to do the two-step, is an only child and allergic to shrimp.”
Okay, then we’d drop back five yards and try again. “About the room,” I prompted. “Who knew what room you were in?”
She sighed. “I appreciate your efforts, Mandy, but really, who cares? The police think the case is closed. They aren’t interested. Won’t do a thing.”
“I care. I’ll do something. Mackenzie, too. So who knew what room you were in?”
“Frankie,” she said in a dull voice. “He’s the one who got it for us. Well, really for me. He thought I was alone.”
“The bartender?” Was he, then, the second man the witness had seen? I tried to remember whether Frankie was shorter than Sasha, then realized she’d been seated last evening, and he’d been behind the bar. I’d have to check it out myself.
She smiled with a hint of the real Sasha’s personality. “Frankie always had the hots for me, way back to Dimples, can you blame him? He knew the suite was vacant, and a guy at the front desk owed him a favor, so he—wait a minute!” She sat up straighter. “Last night, at the bar. He made some kind of joke about the room. Anybody could have heard, at least anybody nearby.”
Finally. The field had opened, the possibilities of a setup had become real. “Who was there? What was said? Think. Whatever you remember might help.”
She took a deep breath and ticked items off on her fingers. “First of all, this guy in a pin-striped suit. Gray hair, nice-enough looking, must be a high roller because he was usually comped the suite we were in. That’s what Frankie’s joke was about, that I was in the guy’s room, and did anybody object. He made it sound like I was in there with the guy, of course.”
“Did anybody object?” I wanted her to say that yes, indeed, somebody had leaped up—his furious six-foot-tall wife with curly black hair and her short but loyal man friend—and had publicly vowed to destroy both Sasha and the man in the suit. I wasn’t asking for much, just a clear, speedy, and unambiguous finale to all of this.
But Sasha shook her head. “The suit made some really stupid joke back about what a thrill it was to share it with me, how much I had improved its decor. You know the riff. Very stale stuff.”
I tried to think quickly, to get something to hold on to before the matron’s stopwatch reached home. “Backtrack, then. Who else was there besides Frankie and the suit?”
“Who knows? A bunch of people. An Indian couple—Hindus. She was in a green and gold sari, and he had eyes to die for.”
“Control the libido until you’re free again, okay?”
“They were amazing eyes, Mandy. And another great-looking man. I thought he was Harry Belafonte at first. He went off with some girl in a black straw picture hat, like nobody except maybe Princess Di wears when she’s off to a garden party. Looked great, though.” She squinted her eyes. “I’m going to get a hat like that if—when—I get out of this mess.”
“Good, that gives you some motivation.”
She rolled her eyes. “And there was a young guy—soft, flabby fellow with acne. Wearing a bowling shirt and a baseball hat. He was with a pregnant girl with straw-colored hair in a ponytail. She had to be his wife, and that was about it, except for a couple of other women.”
“What about those women?” Sasha had a genetic eye affliction that made her blind to humans with double-X chromosomes. She didn’t fully perceive members of her own sex. Sometimes she noticed their accessories, but seldom their personalities, features, words, or actions. “Think hard. What do you remember?”
She tilted her head. “Okay. There was a flashy one who looked bolted together.”
“Like Frankenstein?”
“Not her head. Her clothing. Brads down the side of the slacks and the sleeves. Gold chains, gold rings.”
“Gold hair?”
“No, dark. And big. You know the type, all teased up and out. And a
Okay, then we’d drop back five yards and try again. “About the room,” I prompted. “Who knew what room you were in?”
She sighed. “I appreciate your efforts, Mandy, but really, who cares? The police think the case is closed. They aren’t interested. Won’t do a thing.”
“I care. I’ll do something. Mackenzie, too. So who knew what room you were in?”
“Frankie,” she said in a dull voice. “He’s the one who got it for us. Well, really for me. He thought I was alone.”
“The bartender?” Was he, then, the second man the witness had seen? I tried to remember whether Frankie was shorter than Sasha, then realized she’d been seated last evening, and he’d been behind the bar. I’d have to check it out myself.
She smiled with a hint of the real Sasha’s personality. “Frankie always had the hots for me, way back to Dimples, can you blame him? He knew the suite was vacant, and a guy at the front desk owed him a favor, so he—wait a minute!” She sat up straighter. “Last night, at the bar. He made some kind of joke about the room. Anybody could have heard, at least anybody nearby.”
Finally. The field had opened, the possibilities of a setup had become real. “Who was there? What was said? Think. Whatever you remember might help.”
She took a deep breath and ticked items off on her fingers. “First of all, this guy in a pin-striped suit. Gray hair, nice-enough looking, must be a high roller because he was usually comped the suite we were in. That’s what Frankie’s joke was about, that I was in the guy’s room, and did anybody object. He made it sound like I was in there with the guy, of course.”
“Did anybody object?” I wanted her to say that yes, indeed, somebody had leaped up—his furious six-foot-tall wife with curly black hair and her short but loyal man friend—and had publicly vowed to destroy both Sasha and the man in the suit. I wasn’t asking for much, just a clear, speedy, and unambiguous finale to all of this.
But Sasha shook her head. “The suit made some really stupid joke back about what a thrill it was to share it with me, how much I had improved its decor. You know the riff. Very stale stuff.”
I tried to think quickly, to get something to hold on to before the matron’s stopwatch reached home. “Backtrack, then. Who else was there besides Frankie and the suit?”
“Who knows? A bunch of people. An Indian couple—Hindus. She was in a green and gold sari, and he had eyes to die for.”
“Control the libido until you’re free again, okay?”
“They were amazing eyes, Mandy. And another great-looking man. I thought he was Harry Belafonte at first. He went off with some girl in a black straw picture hat, like nobody except maybe Princess Di wears when she’s off to a garden party. Looked great, though.” She squinted her eyes. “I’m going to get a hat like that if—when—I get out of this mess.”
“Good, that gives you some motivation.”
She rolled her eyes. “And there was a young guy—soft, flabby fellow with acne. Wearing a bowling shirt and a baseball hat. He was with a pregnant girl with straw-colored hair in a ponytail. She had to be his wife, and that was about it, except for a couple of other women.”
“What about those women?” Sasha had a genetic eye affliction that made her blind to humans with double-X chromosomes. She didn’t fully perceive members of her own sex. Sometimes she noticed their accessories, but seldom their personalities, features, words, or actions. “Think hard. What do you remember?”
She tilted her head. “Okay. There was a flashy one who looked bolted together.”
“Like Frankenstein?”
“Not her head. Her clothing. Brads down the side of the slacks and the sleeves. Gold chains, gold rings.”
“Gold hair?”
“No, dark. And big. You know the type, all teased up and out. And a
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