8
Aligned Design
Ch. 2
"The Hilton Garden Inn on Maple in Evanston, please," Gleason said to the cab driver.
She had stayed at that hotel once before, about a year ago when she had come to Chicago to present at a lecture series at Northwestern University. The conference board had booked her there and she liked the hotel. Besides, she was going to be talking with the folks at Northwestern on Friday anyway.
After her lecture last year, the head of the Antiquities Department had asked to take her to dinner. Dr. Milton Manlowe was a lovely, old school, gentleman-scholar. During dinner, at the Athletic Club, across from Millennium Park in downtown Chicago, they had discussed all the places Gleason had taught, the consulting and expert witness work she had done. Marlowe knew her books and liked them. He had made sure all three were part of the required reading list for the department. Over coffee after dinner, Manlowe had invited Gleason to bring her program to Northwestern. He thought it would be a valuable addition to their developing School of Ancient Studies.
She had been tempted. From what little she had seen of the city, she knew she loved Chicago. It had everything New York had, but it was cleaner, safer, and less expensive. The streets were wider and the people were nicer. She had certainly been tempted.
She had told Manlowe that she was honored at such an offer; however, she had made a commitment to Brookbine. Gleason assured him she would contact him if the opportunity for her to leave Brookbine ever came up. He seemed pleased at her sense of loyalty.
Well, that 'opportunity' to leave Brookbine had presented itself and she had called Manlowe after her meeting with Dean Boyer. Dr. Marlowe was delighted to hear from her. He was more than delighted that Gleason wanted to discuss the possibility of bringing her program to Northwestern. They had not discussed any details of why now and such; but they had made an appointment for that Friday, at one in the afternoon.
"Yes, this is Detective Robert Goren of Major Case, NYPD. I need to determine if a Gleason Wintermantle has purchased a ticket or boarded a flight anytime after seven pm this evening. . . . Yes, I'll wait. . . . Thanks, what time does that flight arrive? . . . Is she connecting in O'Hare? . . . What's the return date on that ticket? . . . I see. . . . Yes, thanks."
Bobby sat at his desk in One Police Plaza and rubbed his eyes, he was so tired. It was just past ten Monday night. He had used his capacity as a police officer to find out where she had gone. He had phoned the security offices at LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark airports rather than use the computer to search manifests for her name. He didn't want the cookies of a computer search like this to show up later.
Thank God she had not left the country. She's in Chicago, just Chicago. I can go get her. Shit, I can't do that, he thought; she's run from me. She needs to be away for a time.
Sledge rolled off Eames, caught his breath and said, "I'm gonna stay here tonight, ok? I'm beat. I'll leave early in the morning and go to my place before work."
Eames shifted under the sheet, reached for a tissue, handed it to Sledge and said, "Ok, but throw that in the toilet before you go to sleep." She rolled onto her side and turned off the light.
Sledge smiled, wadded up the tissue with the condom he had pulled off and walked to the bathroom.
"Here we are, ma'am. That's thirty-one dollars."
Gleason took a twenty, a ten and a five from her wallet and handed it to the driver over the seatback in front of her. "May I have a receipt?"
The driver flipped down the visor, snatched a blank receipt and handed it back to her. "Do you need a hand?" he asked.
"No, I've got it. Thanks."
Gleason laid the strap of her leather handbag over her right shoulder and lugged out the carpetbag. She walked across the brick entryway and pushed the revolving door. She walked to the short registration desk on the right.
"Good evening, can I help you?"
"Yes, you have a reservation for Gleason Wintermantle?"
The desk clerk flipped through the vertical file. "Yes, ma'am. Five nights, perhaps to extend. Non-smoking on the seventh floor. Is that correct?"
"Yes, thank you. I guaranteed the reservation with my credit card, but I'd like to pay cash for the stay, if I may."
This lady doesn't want a paper trail, the desk clerk thought. "Well, I'm supposed to keep a record of the credit card on file until you check out. You may pay in cash at that time if you wish and no charges will appear on your credit card bill."
"I understand that. You see, I would prefer not to have my card in use at all. May I pay daily, then?"
The desk clerk looked at the tall, thin, lovely woman. She knows what she's doing, she's done this before, he thought. She does not want to be found. "Of course, I understand. It will be one hundred seventy-two per night, including tax."
Gleason withdrew the currency for two nights and slid the bills across the marble ledge. The clerk took the cash with, "One key or two?" and processed her key. He slid it back to her with a smile. "The elevator is around the corner to your left. The elevator doors open on the reverse wall to the rooms. It's a little odd," he said with a smile.
"I remember," she smiled back.
"Will you need a wake-up call?" Gleason shook her head no. "Have a good night, then."
"Lewis, it's Bobby. What are you doing? . . . Yeah, I know what time it is. Haven't seen you in a while and was wondering if you wanted to go out and get a beer or something. What do you say? . . . Yeah, I know it's a work night. You want to go or not? . . . She's fine. You going with me? . . . No, she's back to work; she went back last week. . . . Huh? Oh, I see, sure, no problem. Tell her hi for me. . . . Yeah, sure, next time. Bye."
Fuck.
"I know, she called me this afternoon and asked if I could cover for her again. All week, can you believe it?" Brandon, the graduate student and Lisa, the student assistant in the faculty offices were sharing pizza at her apartment.
"Did she say why?" Lisa asked.
"No, just that she needed to be away for the rest of the week."
"She asked me if I had your cell number. What time did she call you?"
"It was before her two-thirty class. Why?"
"She had a meeting with the Dean this morning. The dean wanted to talk with her before her next class; that would have been her two-thirty. So, then she called you after talking with the dean. I wonder what the meeting was about."
"I don't know, but I'm getting a lot of experience and the pay is adding up." Brandon said with a smile.
Bobby knew this was a bad idea. He knew he should go home, go to bed and just sleep. He knew where Gleason was; not specifically, but she was in Chicago. He had wanted to run her credit card, but was afraid to. He didn't want an unauthorized search to show up later.
He knew he shouldn't drink alone. Shit, he'd called Lewis, probably his best friend. But Lewis had 'Sheila' over. What a skank that one was. Lewis had no taste in women. His Gleason, now – Gleason was a lady.
Bobby took another swig of his scotch and thought of her beauty. Even so sick, she was beautiful. She was so smart. So funny. Or, she had been. Christ they don't even talk anymore. Let alone fuck. He finished his drink and tapped for another. He needed to slow down.
"Make that one a double, will ya?"
"So, what did you tell them?"
"I told them the truth. That I didn't know the paintings had been lost. That I called the shippers to find out what day and time they would be delivered."
"Did you use my name?"
"Give me some credit, of course not."
"Do you think they believed you?"
"I don't' know. It got weird at the end. The guy detective was wandering around, touching stuff and I asked him not to. He was being a real pig about touching stuff and I wanted them to leave. He was going to hurt the art. So, I told them I was done talking and to leave. Then the guy detective asked about the assigned value of the paintings, you know, market or marked up. He was implying that I knew the artist was going to be killed and that the value would increase. I'm telling you he knows or at least suspects. I'm worried, Jenese. He knows."
"Calm down, no one knows anything. You said it got weird, what happened?" Jenese asked.
"Well, I didn't want to respond to the question about the value, so I told them to leave. And the guy detective went nuts! He got in my face, backed me up against the door, screaming at me to sit down and answer more questions. I swear, Jenese, I was frightened. I thought he was going to hurt me."
"What did the other cop do?"
"Well, she looked as surprised as I was. She hollered at him to stop it and grabbed his sleeve. He stopped and kind of looked surprised. Then he left first, and then she left saying they would be back."
Jenese thought over what Canvettelli had relayed. So, the big cop is a doofus with a temper, huh? Sounds like he might suspect something, though. We'll have to be careful.
"Come on," he said to Canvettelli, "let's get some dinner. You've had quite a day, haven't you?" Jenese leaned into his lover and kissed him gently.
Gleason unpacked her things. She realized how little she had. Everything was interchangeable, easy to care for. The wardrobe of the fleeing. She didn't care. It was the story of her life.
She washed, brushed her teeth and hair, slipped into her nightgown, took her pill, pulled back the spread and sheet and climbed into bed. She pulled her green throw around her shoulders and closed her eyes.
She laid thinking of Bobby. He loved her. She knew that. He loved her as no other man had loved her. Even Gavin. Gavin had been wonderful, kind, smart, everything any woman could want. She had loved Gavin. But Bobby . . . there was something about him. An intensity; layer after layer of being. Bobby made her feel whole. His love reached into her soul. She felt his intensity; his love was tangible.
Then why am I here in Chicago? Why aren't I in his bed, with him? Why aren't I letting him love me? What is wrong with me? Why haven't I told him I love him? He loves me. He's said it, more than once. Why am I running from my one and only?
Gleason could answer none of her questions. She knew, it had been wonderful, those first, so few days. But something had changed after the shooting. She had changed. Bobby had changed. She didn't know what to do to change it back.
Finally, she slept.
"Hey, Alex, that you?"
Sledge had reached over Alex's sleeping form when she hadn't picked up the phone on the third ring.
"Who is this?" Sledge grumbled into the phone.
"Alex? Alex, who is that? Hey, you getting some? Good for you. 'Bout time, huh?"
Jesus Christ, it's Goren and he's drunk, thought Sledge.
"Goren, where are you?"
"Huh? Who is this? Lemme talk with Alex."
Sledge sighed and said, "Goren, let me talk to the bartender. Hear me? Give your phone to the bartender. Goren?"
"Hey, you, he wants to talk to you, here."
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is detective Edward Sledge of Major Case NYPD. You've got my colleague sitting in front of you, right?"
"Uh, yeah. He's been here a while. We're going to close up and he's too out of it to drive. I wanted to call him a cab, but he insisted he call his partner. Is that you?"
"Hardly. Where is he? . . . Got it. Say, keep him there, will you? I'll be there in about half an hour. Take his keys, ok?"
"Already got 'em."
Sledge reached across Eames and hung up the phone. Jesus Christ, Goren. He got up, cleaned up, dressed and bent down to Eames.
"Alex, I'm leaving. Hon, I'm going to go, all right? I'll see you at the office." He kissed her cheek and left.
She never even woke up.
Sledge pulled open the door to Nixon's and stepped inside. Goren sat slumped at the bar. The bartender was wiping glasses and nodded to Sledge as he entered. Bobby was the last patron in the place.
"Thanks for coming to get him. You gonna need a hand with him?" the barkeep asked handing Sledge Bobby's set of keys.
"I don't think so, but thanks. Let's see how this goes. I just may." Sledge crossed to where Bobby sat leaning on the bar top. "Ok, dick weed, wake up. Come on, wake up Goren." Sledge slapped Bobby on the back and shook him by the shoulders. Bobby groaned and nuzzled back into his arms.
"Uh, he's got an unpaid tab," the barkeeper said.
Sledge exhaled with exasperation. "How much?"
"Eighty-nine and change."
"Jesus Christ, Goren." Sledge patted Bobby's back pockets but found no wallet. Great, he thought, Goren's a front pocket money-clip guy, should've known. "Listen, put it on my card and give me a receipt." He pulled his own wallet, slipped out his credit card, and slid it across the bar top. Sledge added a huge tip, signed the slip and slipped the receipt and his card back into his wallet.
Jesus Christ, what an asshole. Where's that woman of his? Why isn't he home banging her lovely ass?
"Goren, wake up! Come on, goddamn it." Sledge hauled the big man upright on the stool and nearly fell backwards with Bobby's bulk. "Have you given him any coffee?"
"I tried, but he refused. Sorry."
"You son-of-a-bitch, wake up." Sledge shook him a good one. Bobby finally roused.
"Wha-- , wha--? Jeeze, lay off will ya?"
"Goren, I swear to God, I'm gonna murder your sorry, genius IQ ass and give the rest of the world a break from your know-it-all-drunken-pissant-self. Get up! On your feet. Hear me? Get up. Stand up, Goren!"
Sledge hauled Bobby off the stool and grabbed him around the back. Sledge swooped under Bobby's right arm and grabbed his wrist.
"Oooomph! Jesus, food poisoning did nothing to take any weight off of you, did it?"
The bar tender came around the bar and opened the door. "Good luck," he said and watched Sledge sway with Bobby hanging off his shoulder.
Sledge leaned Bobby up against Bobby's SUV, propped against him to hold him up and unlocked the passenger side door. He got it open and maneuvered Bobby into the front seat. Moving Bobby was like moving a corpse. Sledge was sweating by the time he got into the driver's seat. He started Bobby's car and drove to Goren's apartment.
Sledge flipped through Bobby's keys, found the one to open the lobby door to his building, pulled it open and shoved Bobby though. He scanned the mailboxes and saw 'Goren 4B.'
"Great, four flights up. Let's go, shit head."
Sledge hauled, pushed, and nearly carried Bobby up the four flights. He staggered down the hall with Bobby's bulk leaning on him. Sledge let rain a trail of expletives that would shock a drunken dockworker the whole way to Bobby's door.
Sledge opened the apartment door and threw Bobby in. He was tempted to just toss in Bobby's keys after him and leave. But he wanted to make sure Gleason knew the lug was home. Besides, he didn't think she could handle a drunken Goren. Gleason still looked pretty weak the last time he saw her. Sledge stepped into the apartment and shut the door.
Bobby stumbled down the hall toward what must be the bedroom. Sledge followed him, ready to explain to Gleason what had happened. Bobby fell across the empty bed and Sledge was surprised not to see Gleason. He felt around for a light switch and then stepped to the bedside table and flipped on the small lamp. She's not here, he realized.
Bobby began to mumble something about "she's gone . . . leff me . . . don love me. . ." Great, thought Sledge, she left him. Smart girl, he said to himself.
"Come on, ass wipe, let's get sober." Sledge pulled off Bobby's shoes, rolled him to the right and removed his weapon, dragged him up and stripped off his leather jacket, and let Bobby fall back down onto the bed. Sledge stepped into the bathroom and turned on the cold water in the shower. He returned to the bedroom and pulled Bobby to his feet, pushing him to the bathroom and into the shower.
He stripped back the curtain and pushed Bobby into the water. Bobby sputtered, thrashed and swore, but Sledge held him in. "Sit down, go on, sit goddamn it! Goren, sit your ass down and drown a little, will you?" Sledge shoved Bobby by the shoulders, until he slipped, slid and finally sat. Sledge focused the spray of water onto Bobby's head and snapped shut the shower curtain. He walked back toward the kitchen and looked for coffee making stuff.