In The Company of Deceit

Chapter 8 - Checking In

It was two-thirty in the morning when the van entered the valley where Salt Lake City lay between the eastern Wasatch Range and the south-western Oquirrrh Mountains. The dearth of traffic at that hour made the broad streets of downtown look wider than ever and the van moved with swift precision through the city's grid with little trouble.

Several blocks from the central Temple Square the van turned into a drive that curved up from the street and came to a stop under a conservatively lit portico. A doorman who looked like he'd been wakened to receive them held the big front doors as the group filed into the silent lobby. A desk clerk, whose demeanour screamed inconvenience, created a wooden smile and cooed his sympathies as each member signed the register and received a key.

The van driver signed and handed over a list from the bus company with the amount of money allotted for the convenience of the passengers. It included meal chits and telephone calls. The hotel could use their own discretion over guests use of the amenities should any desire to do so. The clerk signed off a receipt and watched the driver scoot back out to the drive; his shift wasn't supposed to begin for another three hours.

Kate locked the room door behind her and went straight to the bathroom to check the bump on her head. She winced as her fingers found the spot and measured its size. She was lucky that there wasn't more damage. A few scrapes and bruises from climbing out of the bus and an ache in her left ankle from when she jumped to the ground summed up her injuries.

She went back and inventoried the room, pulled down the bed and opened her suitcase. That was another bit of luck; the bus fell with the storage doors up and so everyone was able to retrieve their stowed gear. Sitting on the bed, she thought about what she'd seen in the Mexican's case, and then the mystery of Belinda's bag containing what felt like more of the same.

She tried to apply a logical reason for such a coincidence but little bits of memory kept intruding. The fact that Del Darrigo and the women seemed to purposely avoid one another and the odd, furtive glances they exchanged. Was it just coincidence? She didn't think so, but then she had no clue as to what else it might be.

These puzzle pieces were the reason she never told the police about what she saw and thought, and she carried those thoughts along with her bathroom things into the shower. The water was a balm on her body and she discovered a few more sore spots as it splattered down on her. Maybe just squatting down and sleeping in the corner, leaving the water on all night, would wash everything away.

******

Benjamin Hagen tossed his briefcase on the squat stool beside the dresser and fell backward onto the bed. He stared at the stucco ceiling, following the little ridges and shadows until his eyes closed, and he let his arms flop out to the side. He recalled the grip of Kate's hand and the solid feel of her waist as he helped her from the bus, wondering if there was any point in trying to exploit that tiny bit of Samaritan propriety. He snorted and knuckled his eyes.

You have bigger problems than worrying about whether you can successfully hit on a virtual stranger. He hadn't been injured in any way and that was a piece of positive luck considering. His next thought fell to his job. He'd have to contact the parent company and advise them of his situation.

He was sure the company lawyers would immediately hunt for a way to sue or somehow extract compensation for one of their employees, even if they were deep sixing him at the same time; maybe he would get something from them as a result.

Benjamin was almost afraid to make the call; it would be a perfect opportunity for them to say, you know what, we really haven't seen a big return from that area, and we have competent personnel in our other territories so consider this final notice; his body shuddered with the idea.

What the hell would he do if they canned him right now? His severance wouldn't last beyond a few months if he couldn't get back home, and who knew how long he might be here? There was also the matter of the samples he'd so cavalierly disposed of.

The police had taken general statements but they were told they would need to be interviewed again and possibly even called as witnesses should there be any legal actions. He sat up and looked at his watch. It would be a few hours yet before he could reach anyone, so he got up and went to the room mini bar, thinking he might as well get what he can out of the bus company.

******

Mickey lounged in a bathtub filled with hot water, his Stetson perched at a jaunty tilt and a bottle of 90 proof from his pack open and sitting on the rim of the tub. Of all the breaks he didn't need was to have the accident make the papers or worse, the TV, with the names of the passengers.

He wasn't naïve enough to think that High Hat would write off the money he took or not be on the lookout for any hint of his whereabouts. Interstate didn't figure in High Hat's concern box; he'd chase his money to the moon. What Mickey figured he had to do was get loose from the police investigation into the accident as soon as he could and high tail it further east, maybe New York. He could get lost in New York, lost with enough money to stay safe.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and sank slowly into the tub, still swallowing as his hat began to float.