Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 05
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Five Minutes
Grinding his tires across the gravel surface, Donovan brought his Roadster to a complete stop outside the Main Office of the EverRest Motor Lodge. The local traffic, once he pulled off the interstate, had slowed him down considerably, and he had to concentrate to keep from leaping from the open convertible and drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Casually, he opened his door – heard Marty following suit – and he marched in the direction of the glass doors. Quickly, the detective took up stride with him. "Let me do the talking," the NSA agent cautioned.
"I think that's a mistake, Craig," Guerrero offered.
"How's that?" Donovan asked. "If I hadn't given you a heads up, then you wouldn't even be here."
"Right," the detective agreed, "but, so far as anyone knows, DeMarco is only a suspect in arson ... and that certainly doesn't fall under the domain of the NSA."
"What about the murder?"
"We don't know that he killed Emile Luga."
"Not yet, we don't," Donovan corrected.
"Look, buddy, I think you should let me handle this because you're with the NSA," the detective explained. "These local types – the small business owners who scrape by on meager business from bargain-hunting tourists – they have greater respect for the boys in blue who serve and protect them 'visibly' on a daily basis. That puts me in the catbird seat, Craig, not you. So why don't you let me handle the questions? What harm can I do? I'll introduce you as my assistant, a detective-in-training."
"Oh, I'll bet you'd like that quite a bit."
"You've got to admit that it has a certain charm."
"Fine," Donovan agreed, brushing the detective off. "Remember what I told you: DeMarco is classified. He's off-limits to you, so he's even more off-limits to civilians, and that includes motel desk clerks. You so much as mumble his first name, and I'll have you back walking a beat. Are you with me on this?" Emphatically, the man said, "You're here to ask about a Walter Churney. He checked in late last night. Get a room number, and then I get to do the talking with DeMarco. Understand?"
Reaching for the handle, Guerrero put on a face of pure innocence. "Craig, have I ever let you down?"
"Don't start today."
Inside, the elderly desk clerk was busy alternating between shuffling through the day's stack of mail and keeping tabs on the news broadcast blaring out of the nine-inch black-and-white television sitting on the counter. When he saw Donovan and Guerrero enter, he immediately turned down the volume and dropped the mail on a desk located beneath the counter. With a smile, he greeted the men.
Easily, Guerrero reached inside his jacket pocket and produced his black leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal his badge and detective's identification. The old man's smile faded in a flash.
"Hello, officers," he said. "How can I help you?"
"Good evening," the detective replied. "My name is Detective Guerrero. This is my partner, Detective Donovan. We're with the Washington D.C. Police Department, and I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time."
"Of course, detective," the man responded. "How can I help you?"
"What's your name?"
"Danny Carlson," he said. "Daniel Carlson," he quickly corrected. "I'm the manager here at the EverRest."
Guerrero nodded. "Were you on duty yesterday evening, Danny?"
"Yes, sir, I was."
"That's good." Guerrero glanced casually out the nearest window, making a mental note of the number of automobiles parked within eyesight. It was an old habit he had learned from his first partner long ago, and old habits die hard. "We're looking for a gentleman who arrived in D.C. last night. He came in on a late flight from Paris. We've received information that he registered for a room here at your lodge."
Raising an eyebrow, Carlson reached for the registration book. Turning the book back a single page, he asked, "What's the fellow's name?"
"Churney," the detective said. "Walter Churney."
"Churney?" Carlson held a look of surprise. "Well, yes, detective. He registered for a room here last night ... but he didn't fly in from Paris, as I recall."
"What do you mean?"
The old man shifted uncomfortably where he stood. "I talked to the fellow. He told me he took the train in yesterday. As I understand it, he's a tobacco lobbyist, and he was in town to meet with some folks up in Washington." Carlson tugged his pack of Pendley Cigarettes from his pocket. "We talked about his work. He seemed a bit ... oh, I don't know ... agitated? I gave him a room, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him today."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, sir," the man explained. "As a matter of fact, he's had a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on his door all day long. My guess is that he's been catching up on his sleep. The maid checked in with me about it, and I told her that, since I had seen how tired he was last night, not to bother with the room. I told her that I'd change the bedding for her. As a matter of fact, I was about to go out and take care of that when you detectives showed up."
Smiling, Guerrero tried, "If that were the case, then Mr. Churney missed his meeting with whomever he came to see." Reaching out, he tried, "Why don't you give us the key, and we'll turn down the sheets if Mr. Churney is out."
Hesitating, Carlson took a step back. "That isn't policy."
"Look, Mr. Carlson," the detective said, "I have it on good word that Mr. Churney might be a bit out of his element. You said so yourself that when you greeted him yesterday evening he wasn't in a good state of mind. With all due respect, I can't allow a civilian like yourself to get caught up if this man flies off the handle ... so why don't you go ahead and give me the key? I promise you that we'll knock before we enter. If it makes you feel any better, you can stand with sight, serving as a witness to everything I say. What do you say?"
Grimacing, the old man finally conceded, slapping the key to Guerrero's palm. He took it, and he gestured toward the door.
"Shall we?"
The three men stepped outside. The traffic on the main road had picked up a bit, but no one was in the act of entering the EverRest's parking lot. Donovan glanced over at the key in Guerrero's hand – Room 106 – and he started in the direction of the room. The detective held up a hand to Carlson, telling him to stay where he was, and he joined the NSA agent as they walked across the pavement toward the door marked '106.'
"Pretty smooth, eh?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Marty," Donovan cracked. "Basically, you scared an old man. That's all I saw back there."
"Yes, but that's what I do every day."
"In that case, you should be proud of yourself."
"Cut me some slack, Craig," the man snapped. "Not all of us get the prime jobs for Uncle Sam."
The detective was right. Donovan realized he had taken a cheap shot, and he apologized. "I didn't mean anything by it, Marty. You're a good cop. You're certainly the best one I've ever known ... and, for what it's worth, I know about your history. I know you tried for the FBI and the CIA, and I think it's too bad that things couldn't have worked out differently for you."
They neared the door, and both men reached to their belts, revealing their pistols but keeping them low and out-of-sight of the aged Mr. Carlson.
"How do we play this?"
Donovan smiled. "You're asking me? You've already convinced the old man that you're calling the shots. How's it going to look it your assistant suddenly takes command?"
Guerrero grinned back at the NSA agent. "You know, for a G-man, you're all right, Donovan."
"Nothing fancy, Marty," the man warned with concern. "You knock on the door. If he doesn't answer, we key the lock." His voice low and focused, Donovan added, "You so much as hear a peep out of DeMarco, and guns go through the door first ... got it?"
"Got it."
Stopping at the end of the sidewalk, Donovan took a spot just out of range of the room's bay window. The building was made of solid brick, so he leaned hard against them, his arm braced and ready to pull up to shoulder height if necessary. From there, he watched as Guerrero walked past the window, stopping briefly to fix his ear to the glass listening for anything – a man talking on a telephone, a television, anything – but he quickly stepped past the curtain-covered glass and reached the door. Glancing back at Donovan, he nodded.
Donovan nodded back.
Reaching up, the detective rapped on the door with a single curled knuckle. Simultaneously, he called out, "Mr. Churney, this is the D.C. Police Department. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
There came no reply.
Smirking, Guerrero rapped on the door again. "Mr. Churney, I'm not going to ask you again. Open the door, please."
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Still, there came no reply.
Slowly, the detective raised the key, and, from where he stood, Donovan heard the metal scratch as Guerrero slid the key into the lock.
Suddenly, from over his shoulder, Mr. Carlson cried out, "Detective, I really think that you should let me do that."
Quickly, Donovan glanced back, and he saw that the old man was fastly approaching.
"It's my job, after all," Carlson tried.
Turning quickly, Donovan took a few steps in the old man's direction, and he held up his free hand. "Mr. Carlson, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the building, sir."
Guerrero slowly turned the key in the lock. He heard the crisp thud of the bolt sliding out of its socket and back into the door.
Carlson took another step closer, and Donovan couldn't risk it. He edged a bit more in the direction of the man, more firmly stating, "Mr. Carlson, I'm going to have to warn you that you're interfering with police business."
His palm hot, Guerrero reached down and took the doorknob in hand. He tightened the hold on his pistol, his finger locked alongside the barrel in the safety mode, a position that would prevent him from accidentally pulling the trigger if something happened to shock him.
Still, the old man wandered another step, and Donovan, his fear for the man pumping the blood through his veins, abandoned his spot and took three steps in the necessary direction. Finally, Carlson saw Donovan's pistol, and he realized that the detective wasn't requesting that he stay back. It was an order.
Taking a breath, Guerrero turned the doorknob and pushed ...
Donovan heard the shock of the explosion before he felt the gale of wind and heat across his back. Somewhere, glass shattered, and he felt the bitter shards firing into his jacket, the gush of hot air throwing first his head forward and, then, his entire body was lifted off his feet, thrown into the air like a leaf blown from the limb of a tree, and he tumbled – head over heels – across open space. His ears cracked from the 'boom' accompanying the blast, and, finally, he hit the ground unevenly – his neck somehow scraping against the sidewalk as his body somersaulted over him. The concrete surface bit into his neck as he cracked his head hard against the stone. The rain of glass stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Donovan rolled onto his back, slapping hard to the ground, sending shock waves of icy hot pain through his entire body. The dull thud of his head striking the sidewalk rattled his teeth, and, without thinking, he did the unthinkable: he let go of his pistol, heard it drop on the concrete, and he drove his hands up to his skulls, cradling it against the pain, shielding his face against the onslaught of steel, brick, and more glass. A wave of heat engulfed him momentarily as the fireball hurtled past him. He closed his eyes, fearing the worst, but even the darkness had started to spin, to twirl, to pirouette in a macabre dance of destruction, of death, of disillusion ... and Craig Donovan, lying there on the sidewalk outside what was left of the burning cave that was once Room 106 of the EverRest Motor Lodge, surrendered to the abyss of unconsciousness, allowing the darkness to claim him and, perhaps, claim his very soul.
END of Chapter 05
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Five Minutes
Grinding his tires across the gravel surface, Donovan brought his Roadster to a complete stop outside the Main Office of the EverRest Motor Lodge. The local traffic, once he pulled off the interstate, had slowed him down considerably, and he had to concentrate to keep from leaping from the open convertible and drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Casually, he opened his door – heard Marty following suit – and he marched in the direction of the glass doors. Quickly, the detective took up stride with him. "Let me do the talking," the NSA agent cautioned.
"I think that's a mistake, Craig," Guerrero offered.
"How's that?" Donovan asked. "If I hadn't given you a heads up, then you wouldn't even be here."
"Right," the detective agreed, "but, so far as anyone knows, DeMarco is only a suspect in arson ... and that certainly doesn't fall under the domain of the NSA."
"What about the murder?"
"We don't know that he killed Emile Luga."
"Not yet, we don't," Donovan corrected.
"Look, buddy, I think you should let me handle this because you're with the NSA," the detective explained. "These local types – the small business owners who scrape by on meager business from bargain-hunting tourists – they have greater respect for the boys in blue who serve and protect them 'visibly' on a daily basis. That puts me in the catbird seat, Craig, not you. So why don't you let me handle the questions? What harm can I do? I'll introduce you as my assistant, a detective-in-training."
"Oh, I'll bet you'd like that quite a bit."
"You've got to admit that it has a certain charm."
"Fine," Donovan agreed, brushing the detective off. "Remember what I told you: DeMarco is classified. He's off-limits to you, so he's even more off-limits to civilians, and that includes motel desk clerks. You so much as mumble his first name, and I'll have you back walking a beat. Are you with me on this?" Emphatically, the man said, "You're here to ask about a Walter Churney. He checked in late last night. Get a room number, and then I get to do the talking with DeMarco. Understand?"
Reaching for the handle, Guerrero put on a face of pure innocence. "Craig, have I ever let you down?"
"Don't start today."
Inside, the elderly desk clerk was busy alternating between shuffling through the day's stack of mail and keeping tabs on the news broadcast blaring out of the nine-inch black-and-white television sitting on the counter. When he saw Donovan and Guerrero enter, he immediately turned down the volume and dropped the mail on a desk located beneath the counter. With a smile, he greeted the men.
Easily, Guerrero reached inside his jacket pocket and produced his black leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal his badge and detective's identification. The old man's smile faded in a flash.
"Hello, officers," he said. "How can I help you?"
"Good evening," the detective replied. "My name is Detective Guerrero. This is my partner, Detective Donovan. We're with the Washington D.C. Police Department, and I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time."
"Of course, detective," the man responded. "How can I help you?"
"What's your name?"
"Danny Carlson," he said. "Daniel Carlson," he quickly corrected. "I'm the manager here at the EverRest."
Guerrero nodded. "Were you on duty yesterday evening, Danny?"
"Yes, sir, I was."
"That's good." Guerrero glanced casually out the nearest window, making a mental note of the number of automobiles parked within eyesight. It was an old habit he had learned from his first partner long ago, and old habits die hard. "We're looking for a gentleman who arrived in D.C. last night. He came in on a late flight from Paris. We've received information that he registered for a room here at your lodge."
Raising an eyebrow, Carlson reached for the registration book. Turning the book back a single page, he asked, "What's the fellow's name?"
"Churney," the detective said. "Walter Churney."
"Churney?" Carlson held a look of surprise. "Well, yes, detective. He registered for a room here last night ... but he didn't fly in from Paris, as I recall."
"What do you mean?"
The old man shifted uncomfortably where he stood. "I talked to the fellow. He told me he took the train in yesterday. As I understand it, he's a tobacco lobbyist, and he was in town to meet with some folks up in Washington." Carlson tugged his pack of Pendley Cigarettes from his pocket. "We talked about his work. He seemed a bit ... oh, I don't know ... agitated? I gave him a room, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him today."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, sir," the man explained. "As a matter of fact, he's had a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on his door all day long. My guess is that he's been catching up on his sleep. The maid checked in with me about it, and I told her that, since I had seen how tired he was last night, not to bother with the room. I told her that I'd change the bedding for her. As a matter of fact, I was about to go out and take care of that when you detectives showed up."
Smiling, Guerrero tried, "If that were the case, then Mr. Churney missed his meeting with whomever he came to see." Reaching out, he tried, "Why don't you give us the key, and we'll turn down the sheets if Mr. Churney is out."
Hesitating, Carlson took a step back. "That isn't policy."
"Look, Mr. Carlson," the detective said, "I have it on good word that Mr. Churney might be a bit out of his element. You said so yourself that when you greeted him yesterday evening he wasn't in a good state of mind. With all due respect, I can't allow a civilian like yourself to get caught up if this man flies off the handle ... so why don't you go ahead and give me the key? I promise you that we'll knock before we enter. If it makes you feel any better, you can stand with sight, serving as a witness to everything I say. What do you say?"
Grimacing, the old man finally conceded, slapping the key to Guerrero's palm. He took it, and he gestured toward the door.
"Shall we?"
The three men stepped outside. The traffic on the main road had picked up a bit, but no one was in the act of entering the EverRest's parking lot. Donovan glanced over at the key in Guerrero's hand – Room 106 – and he started in the direction of the room. The detective held up a hand to Carlson, telling him to stay where he was, and he joined the NSA agent as they walked across the pavement toward the door marked '106.'
"Pretty smooth, eh?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Marty," Donovan cracked. "Basically, you scared an old man. That's all I saw back there."
"Yes, but that's what I do every day."
"In that case, you should be proud of yourself."
"Cut me some slack, Craig," the man snapped. "Not all of us get the prime jobs for Uncle Sam."
The detective was right. Donovan realized he had taken a cheap shot, and he apologized. "I didn't mean anything by it, Marty. You're a good cop. You're certainly the best one I've ever known ... and, for what it's worth, I know about your history. I know you tried for the FBI and the CIA, and I think it's too bad that things couldn't have worked out differently for you."
They neared the door, and both men reached to their belts, revealing their pistols but keeping them low and out-of-sight of the aged Mr. Carlson.
"How do we play this?"
Donovan smiled. "You're asking me? You've already convinced the old man that you're calling the shots. How's it going to look it your assistant suddenly takes command?"
Guerrero grinned back at the NSA agent. "You know, for a G-man, you're all right, Donovan."
"Nothing fancy, Marty," the man warned with concern. "You knock on the door. If he doesn't answer, we key the lock." His voice low and focused, Donovan added, "You so much as hear a peep out of DeMarco, and guns go through the door first ... got it?"
"Got it."
Stopping at the end of the sidewalk, Donovan took a spot just out of range of the room's bay window. The building was made of solid brick, so he leaned hard against them, his arm braced and ready to pull up to shoulder height if necessary. From there, he watched as Guerrero walked past the window, stopping briefly to fix his ear to the glass listening for anything – a man talking on a telephone, a television, anything – but he quickly stepped past the curtain-covered glass and reached the door. Glancing back at Donovan, he nodded.
Donovan nodded back.
Reaching up, the detective rapped on the door with a single curled knuckle. Simultaneously, he called out, "Mr. Churney, this is the D.C. Police Department. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
There came no reply.
Smirking, Guerrero rapped on the door again. "Mr. Churney, I'm not going to ask you again. Open the door, please."
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Still, there came no reply.
Slowly, the detective raised the key, and, from where he stood, Donovan heard the metal scratch as Guerrero slid the key into the lock.
Suddenly, from over his shoulder, Mr. Carlson cried out, "Detective, I really think that you should let me do that."
Quickly, Donovan glanced back, and he saw that the old man was fastly approaching.
"It's my job, after all," Carlson tried.
Turning quickly, Donovan took a few steps in the old man's direction, and he held up his free hand. "Mr. Carlson, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the building, sir."
Guerrero slowly turned the key in the lock. He heard the crisp thud of the bolt sliding out of its socket and back into the door.
Carlson took another step closer, and Donovan couldn't risk it. He edged a bit more in the direction of the man, more firmly stating, "Mr. Carlson, I'm going to have to warn you that you're interfering with police business."
His palm hot, Guerrero reached down and took the doorknob in hand. He tightened the hold on his pistol, his finger locked alongside the barrel in the safety mode, a position that would prevent him from accidentally pulling the trigger if something happened to shock him.
Still, the old man wandered another step, and Donovan, his fear for the man pumping the blood through his veins, abandoned his spot and took three steps in the necessary direction. Finally, Carlson saw Donovan's pistol, and he realized that the detective wasn't requesting that he stay back. It was an order.
Taking a breath, Guerrero turned the doorknob and pushed ...
Donovan heard the shock of the explosion before he felt the gale of wind and heat across his back. Somewhere, glass shattered, and he felt the bitter shards firing into his jacket, the gush of hot air throwing first his head forward and, then, his entire body was lifted off his feet, thrown into the air like a leaf blown from the limb of a tree, and he tumbled – head over heels – across open space. His ears cracked from the 'boom' accompanying the blast, and, finally, he hit the ground unevenly – his neck somehow scraping against the sidewalk as his body somersaulted over him. The concrete surface bit into his neck as he cracked his head hard against the stone. The rain of glass stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Donovan rolled onto his back, slapping hard to the ground, sending shock waves of icy hot pain through his entire body. The dull thud of his head striking the sidewalk rattled his teeth, and, without thinking, he did the unthinkable: he let go of his pistol, heard it drop on the concrete, and he drove his hands up to his skulls, cradling it against the pain, shielding his face against the onslaught of steel, brick, and more glass. A wave of heat engulfed him momentarily as the fireball hurtled past him. He closed his eyes, fearing the worst, but even the darkness had started to spin, to twirl, to pirouette in a macabre dance of destruction, of death, of disillusion ... and Craig Donovan, lying there on the sidewalk outside what was left of the burning cave that was once Room 106 of the EverRest Motor Lodge, surrendered to the abyss of unconsciousness, allowing the darkness to claim him and, perhaps, claim his very soul.
END of Chapter 05
