Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(76)

"Sorry."

I stood and made my apologies to the cameraman. He just stared at me. I thanked Corporal Hearnes for his time and compassion. I left Carolaine my phone number so we could talk about the damages.

“Hey," she said. "What the hell is your hurry?"

I looked behind me at the Hilton and thought about Maia and her .45 alone in Beau Karnau’s suite. Or maybe not alone.

"Duty calls," I said.

"Great," said Carolaine. "See if I share my bath towel with you again."

It was difficult to look dashing as I sloshed down the Riverwalk, leaving a trail of puddles, but the smell cleared a path for me pretty effectively. I waved at Mickey as I jogged past the Hilton concierge desk. His mouth dropped open and stayed that way while the elevator doors closed.

The door to Room 450 was closed, but Maia opened it before I could even knock. When she lowered the gun out of my nostril and stood aside, I saw why she looked so grim.

The room decor was straight out of Versailles. Champagne chilled on the dresser in a silver bucket. The balcony curtains opened onto a perfect summer night sky and all the lights of the Paseo del Rio. The man in the bed was wearing his best velour robe and his comfiest slippers. He lay back, totally relaxed, with two black eyes and the red mark of an East Indian on his forehead. Only Beau Karnau was neither East Indian nor relaxed. He was just dead.

In Maia’s other hand was a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. She sat down next to Beau and took a swig. Then she looked at me. Only the way she breathed, shallowly from her mouth, told me that she was pretty unnerved, and only because I knew her well. Otherwise her face might’ve been made of polished wood, for all the expression she revealed.

I took a soggy index card out of my back pocket—the message Guy White had given us that afternoon.

I said: "Nice of Mr. White to invite us up tonight. Don’t you think?"

I sat down on the other side of Beau. His ponytail had been loosened so that his hair had opened up around his head like a black and gray peacock tail when he fell back. The bruised skin around his eyes was shiny and purple. He had a slight wet smile on his face like somebody had just told him a funny but tasteless joke. Thank God his viscera hadn’t loosened up yet. There was no smell.

"It was Dan," I told Maia. "I lost him."

"You still think he’s not a player?"

I didn’t feel like arguing the point.

On the dresser was Beau’s photo portfolio, open to the first page. The article "Dallas Native Follows Dream" had been carefully removed from the plastic and stuck onto the mirror, maybe where Beau could see it when he woke up every morning. Next to that was a black and white photo of nineteen-year-old Lillian smiling over her shoulder at the photographer, her mentor. Her eyes were full of adoration. On the floor at my feet was an open, empty CD case. It was cracked as if someone had stepped on it.

"Someone finally got what they wanted," Maia said softly. "Without a payment."

"Half of what they want, " I corrected.

Maia handed the champagne over Beau’s body. Beau didn’t request any. I finished just enough of the bottle to belch the nausea out of my system. Only then did Maia seem to notice my appearance.

"You’re wet," she said.

"Don’t ask."

Maia nodded, not in the mood to argue, either.

"White gets us here," she said. "Dan leaves us here. And your friend Mickey knows where we are. We can’t just walk away."

When I didn’t respond, Maia went to the phone and calmly made three calls. First to the house detective, second to Detective Schaeffer, third to Byron Ash.

"Got any plans tonight?" I asked. Neither Maia nor Beau seemed to.

The Hilton chief of security, a large black man named Jefferies, took one look at Beau, then helped us finish off the champagne.

"I don’t get paid enough," he said. Then he sat down in the Louis XIV chair in the corner and started mumbling into his walkie-talkie.

Two patrolmen arrived, then the detectives, then forensics. Tape went up, the media arrived, maids, interested guests, everybody but the jugglers, the nuns, and the dancing bear. Detective Schaeffer finally came dragging in too, looking as usual as if he’d just woken up.

"Take these two into the next room," he told a uniform. "They can wait."

And we did.

Maia’s "favored" status with Mr. Ash must’ve been running thin. An hour after she’d called him, we discovered that Lord Byron would be declining a personal appearance. Instead a junior associate who looked about fifteen showed up and introduced himself as Hass. Hass smiled. Shaking his hand was like squeezing a damp Kleenex.

"Don’t worry," Hass said, "I come highly recommended from Mr. Ash. I’ve handled several criminal actions."

Schaeffer decided to notice us then. He lumbered in with red eyes, managed not to bump into anything, then stared at each of us in turn. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose slowly, meticulously.

"Okay," he grumbled. "Tell me it’s a coincidence."

"Ah, before we start—" said Counselor Hass.

Schaeffer and I exchanged glances.

"He comes highly recommended," I told Schaeffer.

Schaeffer looked sour. "So did my ex-wife."