A/N: Heading for the end of our second arc. I trust folks are hanging in. This story is a little diversion for you, I hope.


(She Was A) Hotel Detective

Chapter Twenty-Three: Homeward Bound


Tuesday, November 9, 1965
The Palmer House, Chicago
Noon


Beside Sarah, Chuck sighed and sat up, swinging his legs around and planting his feet on the floor. He looked at her, his face apologetic like a little boy's. She got a whiff of mustard and peppermint — and she started sniffling and giggling again. She sounded a touch deranged, even to herself.

Chuck was okay (at the moment), she knew that: but the strain of the last few days, and especially the night before, had coursed out of her as she cried and laughed.

Bryce Larkin was dead. Sarah had not killed him but she had exposed him, put him in harm's way, that harm's way. And while she did not like Larkin, she had known him for months, worked with him, gone out with him. And he was dead. He was, in his hapless, self-admiring way, a bad guy, but that did not make him any less dead; it did not give her the power to decide if he lived or died.

And she had dealt out violence, violence in response to violence. Joey The Clown would never walk as he had before she crashed into that parking lot. Shaw's hand might be irreparably damaged, and who knew about his leg? It was a hellish thing to take a life or to feel responsible for one being taken, it was also a hellish thing, to maim another human being. She had her reasons — and the men, including Larkin — would have done the same, or worse, to her had the tables been turned, but still…

Chuck encircled her shoulders with his arm, holding her close. "Larkin?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes, and Lombardo and Shaw, all of it."

"I'm sorry, Sarah. I got you into an awful mess; it's my fault."

"No, Chuck, it's not. You didn't bug this room or bring the KGB into this. Neither did I. We're just caught in a mess that we had no idea we were in when we met: but we were already in it, despite our ignorance of it."

Chuck grew pensive. "Thrownness…"

"What, Chuck?"

"It's...um...philosophy. Devon quoted Swinburne; I can mention Heidegger."

"Heidegger?"

"A German philosopher. He's still alive. I read him in an Existentialism class at Stanford. He thinks of human life as...um...in a condition of thrownness. We just find ourselves here, in the world, a world already structured, shaped by concerns we didn't choose, lined with paths we didn't create, caught up in situations that always outrun our understanding of them...I actually think that class might have brought on my ulcer…"

Chuck gave her a funny smile. "Who knows?"

"Heidegger, huh?"

"Yeah, but, although I guess he's right, I also think it's easy to overstate, to think that because we don't understand everything, we don't understand anything, to think that because the world overmasters us we have no mastery…"

"That's kinda deep for hot dogs, Chuck."

He grinned at her, hearing the echo of their first conversation. "So, hot dogs and Heidegger don't mix?" He chuckled at his question.

Sarah reached over and picked up the remainder of his hot dog and took a bite, shaking her head at Chuck as she chewed. "That's good. Morgan shouldn't have brought it up here, but still…"

Something about Chuck's face struck Sarah. At that moment, still reddened from his ulcer episode, he looked so much like Ellie the night before when she had come storming from the bathroom to litanize Sarah, finger jabbing. "You know, you really look like Ellie right now. I see the resemblance more than ever before."

Chuck continued to smile for a few seconds, then his face went slack, his eyes out-of-focus. "Chuck?"

"That's it, Sarah. I know where I saw Maria Tomek before. I see it now. I never saw her before!"

"What are you saying, Chuck?"

"She's his sister. She must've dyed her hair, and when I saw her, the blood, the shock of it, the family resemblance escaped me. But that's it, Maria is...was...Aidan's sister."

Sarah felt the tumblers click into place. She had almost had it earlier in the day, reading the letter. Her gut agreed with Chuck. It did not feel surprising once Chuck said it. Of course, siblings.

Sarah put the last bite of the hot dog down immediately and put her finger to her lips. They had already given Algernon something Sarah would have liked him not to know.

She flattened her voice, making her reaction to Chuck's insight seem less excited that it was. "That's interesting. We'll have to ask Ellie and see if she agrees."

Chuck understood. "Yeah, I could be wrong. Now that I think about it…"

Sarah decided to turn the discussion another way. "Did you record what you remembered of your conversation with Accardo?" She gestured to the tape player on the other dresser in the room. She nodded her head, to let Chuck know he could just speak.

"Yes, I did. What do you want to do with it?"

"We're going to poke the bear." Sarah stopped, then spoke to the air. "Sorry, Algernon, a figure of speech." She wanted him to know she knew he was listening, someone was listening. She wanted him to worry about anything and everything said in the room, to have to wonder what was spontaneous and what was staged. It might matter later, any shadow of a doubt she could create now.

Chuck went to get the tape player. Sarah recalled the number to Accardo's she found in Larkin's Moe's file.


Keeping conversation at a minimum, they cued the recorder to a particular part of what Chuck recorded, one in which he spoke for a minute before stopping, then Sarah dialed out of the hotel. The number was local.

As Sarah expected, Accardo answered the phone. She immediately began the tape, holding the phone near the speaker. She heard Accardo demand to know who was calling, then heard him fall silent. She let the tape play to the point where Chuck paused, and then she stopped it. She disconnected the phone.

"Now, we let him and the Outfit stew."

Chuck gave her a raised-eyebrow look, not understanding. Sarah winked at him. She grabbed the stationery and wrote a note while asking Chuck about how he felt.

"Fine, now. No more hotdogs for this boy. Can you have someone get me some Pepto, just in case?"

Sarah answered. "Sure, look I sent you sister and Devon on an errand. They should be back soon. I need to run another one myself; I'll pick some up."

She finished writing the note and handed it to Chuck.

I am going to Accardo's. I need to know what he knows about Maria's records if anything. Be back as soon as I can.

The concern shown on Chuck's face but he nodded. Sarah leaned forward and kissed him, tasting mustard and peppermint and Chuck, and knowing that she tasted of mustard too. He put his arms around her and drew her to him. He kissed her with real hunger and she could feel his desire for her pressed between them. She pushed him back. "Sorry, Chuck, but…"

"No," he said with an understanding smile. "I get it. I've never been much for public displays of, you know, affection, though I admit I normally thought of the public as seeing not hearing, and as plain folks, not KGB spies…" He blushed cutely.

"Affection, Chuck, is that what this," — she pointed from him to her, her to him — "is?"

His blush deepened. "Affection. Um...Sarah, I...I…" He was stammering fiercely. "I...you see, it's Tuesday, and I met you on Friday, that's just a few days, and, I know, we've, you know...and it's some kind of magic. For me, I mean. I don't know for you. I won't presume but, even though you were being quiet...And, anyway, you're you and I'm me and I understand if...you know...when this ends, you…decide that…"

"Decide what, Chuck?"

"That this," — he imitated her him-to-her-to him gesture — "was not a good idea, or was a good idea but just a...temporary thing…that when this ends, this ends..."

His faith in her last night had buoyed her, allowed her to cope with what had happened. He was still buoying her. "Chuck," she pulled him closer, "do you know how hard it's been for me to be quiet, you know, when...we make...magic." She put her lips to his ear, close enough that they brushed his ear as she continued in a whisper. "I want to scream and scream and scream — in the best possible way. You make me happy, Chuck. You make me real."

She leaned back and what she saw in his eyes made her feel weak, more vulnerable with another person than she ever felt. And then she knew she saw mirrored in his eyes what he was seeing in hers.

Is this what it is to be in love?

They stood, each lost in the other's eyes, for a moment, then Sarah reached up and cupped his cheek.

"I'll be back soon. Stay in the room." She grabbed her things quickly and left before she said the words, the words she wanted to say but had never said, never wanted to say. Before.


Sarah walked into the basement office. Holbert was on the phone, Devon's phone. He hung up after she came in without saying anything.

He shifted in Devon's chair. "When are you coming back to regular work? Not that I'm complaining about the extra hours, but…"

"Soon, Holbert, I hope. Anything going on I need to know about?"

"No. All's quiet. I just got back from lunch. Called the little woman. Guess I should get back to the lobby. Do you know how much longer the FBI will be here? I talked to the guy, Agent Lakoff, he says they don't have any clue where this Bartowski fellow's gone to, hiding."

Sarah had an idea. "Say, Holbert. I need to run an errand. It will likely take a couple of hours. Any chance I could borrow your car?" Holbert drove a white Ford Fairlane, an older one.

He looked surprised. "My car? Is it hotel business?"

Sarah nodded. "And I'll see that Casey fills the tank for you."

Holbert considered it for a second. "Okay." He put his hand in his jacket pocket and produced the keys. He tossed them to Sarah. She caught them deftly, but grunted silently as she did. Her shoulder was not happy about it.

"Thanks, Holbert. I'll be back before your shift ends."

The sense of the clock, winding down, was back upon her. In 2022, with Chuck, she could almost forget it. But now she could hear the steady countdown, the tick, tick, tock, counting down in rhythm with her footfalls as she walked to Holbert's car.

She tried to keep herself focused. What she was about to do could go wrong in so many ways. Accardo was a deadly man.

A deadly man. And she would not have surprise on her side, as she had last night in the parking lot.


Sarah drove the car, pondering. The roadway was slick, treacherous. The snow of the previous days, gone that morning, had become chill sleet as it returned in the early afternoon. Holbert's wiper blades were dry-rotting, only half effective. Sarah had to strain to see through the watery windshield.

Lombardo claimed Maria said the records were at home. She had come to Chicago, presumably without them, but knowing where they were. Sarah had the feeling that Maria, at that moment, before Lombardo killed her, had meant by 'home' what Aidan had meant by it in the letter. Not just a place she lived, like the apartment she must have had in Chicago, but someplace special. Not a home. Home. That special place that Sarah had never had, never known.

But, maybe, with Chuck…

A home. My home. Our home. Someday…

She shook her head and wiped at the windshield with her hand. Not only were Holbert's wiper blades problematic, but the Fairlane's heating system was also weak, ineffectual. Fog obscured the windshield from the inside, sleet from the outside.

Home.

The question was where that home was. Maria's. Aidan's.

They must have been together at some point. Ellie said that Aidan had been an orphan. If he was, and if Maria was his sister, then she was one too. If he was in foster homes, she likely was. Maybe they had been together in one, or maybe they had lived with their parents for a time. There had been someplace special to them both. That was where the records were.

The question was whether Accardo had figured that out or not.

Did he know where that was? If so, he might already have the records. But if not, he might be in roughly the same position as Sarah, trying to figure it out.

Agent Rizzo did not know the answer, but her digging into Maria's past might unearth the answer. Still, Agent Rizzo would not know it as the answer. Sarah had one part of the puzzle, and Agent Rizzo might soon have the other, maybe she already had it.

Sarah had thought about calling her analyst friend at the CIA, but Algernon — and Lakoff — had spooked her. No pun intended. Chuck is rubbing off on me. Or Casey. She was not in a hurry to do anything that might alert the CIA, the spy world, to her part in all of this. As far as she could tell, unlike Algernon, Lakoff had no particular interest in her, in Sarah. Or, he had shown none, anyway. — But why was he there, teamed with Agent Rizzo, and spying on his partner? The answer seemed to be the records. If Algernon wanted them, it made a spy-logic kind of sense that the CIA would too, if only to keep them from the KGB. And maybe that was Lakoff's role. He was there to make sure that if Agent Rizzo found the records, they would not long stay in FBI hands.


Sarah, the Outfit, the FBI — and the intelligence services of the two world superpowers — all were after Maria Tomek's records.

The records were at home.

— And where was that?


Like Joseph Lombardo, Tony Accardo lived in a choice but not the choicest of Chicago suburbs.

His house, as Sarah drove by it, was surprisingly modest. Not cheap, by any means, but surely no one not in the know would ever imagine that the Outfit's boss lived there.

About the only thing abnormal about the house was the stone wall that went around it, taller than Sarah, and the gate closed on the driveway. But the gate was not ornate or imposing. It looked more like poorly chosen landscaping than a security system.

But Sarah was certain that looks were deceiving.

On the third pass, Sarah pulled up to the gate. A man came out of a small stone room annexed to the wall, beside the gate. He was huge, more like a moving piece of the wall than a man. He leaned down low to look in the driver's window at Sarah. She rolled the window down.

Sarah spoke in a voice that sounded like the fall of the chill sleet. "Tell Tony I'm here to talk. About a recording, he recently heard, and about some records, he is...interested in."

The man blinked but did not otherwise respond. He stood up and went back into the room. A couple of long moments later, the gate swung open.

Sarah drove the Fairlane inside, blowing out a breath, thinking of Chuck, and of what might be — if all this could be brought to an end, if she and Chuck lived through it.


A/N: Tune in next time for Chapter Twenty-Four: "The Mobster and the Detective". That chapter will end our second arc.

Thoughts?