Chapter 14

Lauren stared at me openmouthed for an instant before she got it. "You mean he's..."

"Well, I didn't see any wings on him," I said carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. "So, yes, he's probably dead from the fall."

"I... oh, my God, Rick, you saved us." She shuddered. "He was going to..." She came into my arms and hugged me. It was a moment before I realized she was crying, almost silently.

"It's all right," I said somewhat awkwardly. "It's over."

She shook her head against my chest in silent negation.

"What's wrong?" I asked her after a moment became clear she wasn't stopping.

"I... it's all my fault," she gulped. "I made you... I got you into this... you killed someone because of me. I made you a... a..."

"A murderer?" I asked.

She looked at me miserably. "Yes."

"Lauren," I said. "I'm not a murderer. Maybe it's simplistic to say so, but the law agrees with me. Anything that just happened here is either self-defense or defense of another. The law says you can kill someone to save your own life, or someone else's life. And I agree with that law. He was going to kill us. Why would he walk away and leave witnesses? I don't know what, exactly, his business is with Victor, but I'm guessing it wasn't a joint venture to send rosaries to nuns in underdeveloped countries. He was a bad guy, and if was in business with Victor he was a very bad guy. I know this, sweetie, because there aren't too many legitimate business associates who you can call up and say, 'Hey, if you're not doing anything tonight, could you nip over to the midtown Marquis with an illegal handgun and beat the shit out of someone you've never met? Thanks ever so much!'"

She was looking hopefully at me now.

"Now, that said," I continued, "we shouldn't go waltzing down to the nearest police station and explain everything, because we can't explain everything. But we didn't do anything morally or legally wrong here. OK?"

She nodded. And then a hint of a smile touched her face as she said, "In that case, would it be really wrong to say that was so cool? I can't believe you bluffed him like that! You were awesome."

"Thank you, thank you very much." I paused. "I don't ever want to be so callous that I cheer when someone dies, but when that someone has just threatened the life of the woman I love, I'm willing to..."

I stopped, aghast. Had I just said... ?

Lauren was looking at me with wide eyes.

"Um, was that in my out-loud voice?" I tried jokingly. "Sometimes stress can make..."

"Don't you spoil it," Lauren said. She molded herself to me and kissed me languorously slowly and thoroughly. "I love you too, you know. I vote that we take all the usual speeches about how it's too sudden and a result of the crazy circumstances and just pretend they'll all been said, so we don't waste any time, OK?"

I looked down at her. "I just hope when I do take you home to Mom, I can explain this to her," I chuckled.

We kissed for a few more moments, and I was acutely conscious of Lauren's body against mine, the soft swell of her breasts driving me away from rational thought. It was only with an effort that I pulled away. "Also," I said hoarsely, we do have to deal with the fact that there's a corpse down there, which will eventually attract attention. I eased over towards the window. I couldn't see any flashing lights or hear any sirens, so wherever he had fallen was obviously not all that public. I reached up and pulled the window closed, part of my brain replaying that last moment in the original Friday the 13th movie where the corpse of Jason surges out of the lake unexpectedly. I knew it was irrational, but just in case he'd been hanging on by his fingertips I wanted to be ready to leap back and shriek like a little girl. No such drama ensued, fortunately for my cardiac health, and I turned to Lauren.

"We should simply go about our business," I said. "When they do discover the body, there's no way of knowing which of the floors he fell from. There's nothing to connect him with this room, or us. And when the cops run his prints, they'll most likely find he's in the system, which will make them focus on an act by one of his criminal associates."

"How about the memory sticks you gave him?" asked Lauren.

"Blank. From Walmart. Nothing to tie them to..."

"They have your fingerprints on them, though," she said, distressed again.

"No, this isn't TV," I said. "They're plastic, with a rough surface. I doubt they'd hold prints well at all. And frankly, unless something happens to elevate this case above the usual, I'd be surprised if they even take fingerprints from all his personal possessions. You know how many homicides they see every day? When the vic is in the system as a bad guy, believe me, they go through the motions, but it's not a case of critical urgency." I paused. "And in the worse case scenario, what of it? They ask me, and I recall I misplaced two USB sticks I just bought. I think I left them by accident when I left the hotel bar. In fact," I went on, "that's not a bad idea. When I leave the bar tonight, I'll come back and ask the bartender if anyone turned in some USB sticks. Cover all the bases."

"So... that's it? We just go downstairs like nothing happened?"

I nodded. "Yep. We're innocent, we know nothing." I paused. "Also in the category of covering all bases? Here's something to remember: if, for any reason, you should come to the attention of the police, and I'm not with you, there are only two things you should say: Am I free to leave? And I want my attorney and won't answer questions without my attorney present."

"Got it," she said. "Am I free to leave? I want my attorney." She paused, and then added roguishly, "Easy to remember. I do want my attorney." She gave me a kiss that curled my toes, and then said, "OK — let's go."

"Um... actually, the 'we' part of 'we just go downstairs is 'me.' I hate to ask this, but someone needs to stay with Lisa. If she wakes up, finds herself alone, and starts freaking out, that would be bad. And although I don't think it's a real problem, there is a chance we'd get grief over having you inside the bar area without being able to produce an ID. I'd rather not risk it. So if you could stop by Courtney's room, let her know what I'm doing, and then..."

Her face clouded up. "Oh. OK."

"Lauren, we just have to each do what..."

"No, you're right," she interrupted. "My bad. I just wanted the fun assignment. But I remember how I felt on the train when you weren't there. I'll go."

"Thanks." I looked at her. "You'll be in a room down the hall and on the other side from where our guest fell, so I think it's unlikely that you'll even be canvassed. Hang tight, let me see what kind of info I can get from Brock, and I'll be back up before you know it. You have my cell phone number if something happens."

A quick kiss goodbye, and she was off.

I let myself give in to the shakes after she was out the door. Holy shit! I was perfectly happy to beat someone to death metaphorically, on the witness stand; I was a veteran of many trials that involved serious injury and even death... but never had I come so close, personally, to the actual event of death. I had tried for a cool, James Bond reaction when Lauren was in the room not for self-aggrandizement, but because I didn't want to upset her. With her gone I let myself tremble and shudder.

Also, my stomach hurt. In college, I had worked out pretty obsessively on a speed bag to build arm endurance, but that was the extent of my experience with boxing. This guy had been skinnier and shorter than I was, and one punch from him took me out of contention. That was sobering. Maybe, when this was all over, I'd find a gym that had a sparring program for middle-aged guys and learn to defend myself a little better with fists instead of words. On the other hand, I thought wryly, my words, his fists, and look who won.

I pulled myself together and headed down. Brock was waiting for me just outside the entrance to the appropriately-named Atrium Lounge, a bar and light fare eatery at the bottom of the hotel's huge atrium. We sat at a table and I flagged down a waiter and asked for a double Glen Fiddich, neat, which I felt I deserved after recent events. With that on its way, I turned to the business at hand. I was unsure of how to gain his help without inadvertently handing him the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. My instinct told me that he was a basically good kid who simply delighted in outsmarting others; there had been no real malice in his defeat of his school's security system. But I also reminded myself that there were plenty of Sunday school teachers and Supreme Court justices I wouldn't trust at the controls of a device that could re-write reality. The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on, I thought sourly. Yeah, right. "Not any more, Omar," I said aloud.

"I'm sorry?" Brock said.

"Sorry. Just mumbling to myself." I replied. "Thanks for coming up on such short notice."

"No prob! Like I said, I'm just basically chillin' at home since I had my, you know, my problem at school. And my pop was saying I should get a job."

"Well, here's the job," I said. "I need you to educate me. See, I'm writing a book." I had decided that this lamest of all excuses would be plan A for explaining my undoubtedly eclectic set of questions. Since John Grisham and Scott Turow made it big, almost every lawyer I know has felt, secretly, that they are just as equipped to write the next blockbuster novel that will be optioned by Hollywood and sell millions. And because I needed to be able to explain the actual, real-world things I would have him examine, I also had a Plan B. I explained that "a friend" in the world of research had set up a test computer application in the manner usual for his research, and I was welcome to examine its vulnerability and what could be learned about it from the outside. These experiences, I told him, would form part of the factual research for my novel about a heroic lawyer battling the forces of government corruption and terrorism.