The Upside of Death

Zach follows the trail. Part 12

You can buy The Upside of Death book at Amazon, iBooks and Kobo.

Zach sat up slow and easy. He was behind a couch, jammed in like an untidy sleeping bag. No sounds in the room, the place had the buzzy ambiance of a tomb. He grabbed the back of the couch and drew himself upright. His ribs complained with every breath. Swayed a little and surveyed the area. Empty bottles, vodka again, sat on the coffee table, a pile of food wrappers nearby. The room previously closed now had its door wide open. The birds had flown, the most precious one of all gone with them. The bastards had dragged him behind the couch so Keera couldn't see him. Keeping her confused and uncertain would be one of their key tactics to controlling her.

He entered the open room. One king-size bed, disturbed covers on one side only. Keera's bed. The pillow indented where she had slept. He bent over and sniffed the pillow. Her scent, her lovely scent. A single dark hair curled across the cotton. Hers. Long and dark and one he'd once stroked. She had slept here, and he'd been so close. His plan so stupid, so pointless, it never had a chance. Now she was gone again and no way to find her.

He checked over the rooms. In the kitchen, dirty dishes, smeary tumblers, stacked in the sink. A million fingerprints left by people who didn't expect to ever be caught. The other bedroom held two single beds, both rumpled, no useful clues.

He figured Keera wasn't allowed into the kitchen, but she would have needed the bathroom. Brown tiles, avocado basin and a glass shower door on the edge of a bathtub. The tub was dry; no showers for anybody this morning. He caught himself in the mirror, started at the swelling around his eye and the grazing beside it. The toilet seat down. A soap wrapper, tiny and crumpled, sat in the soap dish attached to the wall, green soap next to it, a mashed corner, but unused. Who would unwrap soap and not use it? People in a hurry.

He spent another ten minutes in the apartment opening drawers, closets, but found nothing that gave him any more information. Downstairs, the concierge stood in the lobby, sorting mail into boxes.

"What happened to the people in Room 408?" Zach asked.

The concierge, a turbaned Sikh, replied, "What is wrong? Are they not opening door?" His eyes widened as he caught sight of Zach's face.

"The door's open but they're gone. I was to meet them here this morning."

"Gone?" The Sikh put the rest of the mail on a table and hurried to the elevator. Zach joined him on the ride to the fourth floor.

"My goodness," the Sikh exclaimed as he entered the apartment. "They never said they would leave early."

"Did they owe money?" It might help to get friendly with the concierge.

"Oh no, the Russians paid one week in advance." The Sikh looked over the apartment. "Not so messy like I expected. Three men can be very untidy without a woman."

"They had no woman with them? I was to meet a woman here."

The Sikh shot him a hard glance. "This is a respectable establishment. There are no women like that here."

"I didn't mean that." Zach hurried to clarify himself. "It was a business meeting."

"Yes, yes," the Sikh said, not believing him. He inspected the bathroom. "Not so bad. What is this mess on the glass?"

Zach pushed in after him. A smeary word was visible at the base of the shower screen. Green soap flakes dotted through it. He knelt and recognized Keera's handwriting. Faint words, spelled out with the crushed soap bar.

Sedona AZ.

"Do you know what it means?" the Sikh asked.

"Must be some kind of Russian memo," he said. Reached into his jacket to grab his cell, wanting to photograph the scrawl. No cell. He slapped his other pockets and dug inside them. No wallet, no car keys either.