Flashpoint by Ed Gorman Page B

doors that probably wouldn’t put up much resistance. But any reasonably well-made door in any reasonably well-made frame requires energy and a little time. Especially if the door resides inside a home as expensive as this one.
    So while Maddy continued to scream I set about throwing myself against the door a few times, then slamming my foot into a space just under the doorknob.
    Then a funny thing happened. It shouldn’t have been funny – after all, we might find a dead woman in the room, and maybe it was only funny to me anyway – but just as I raised my leg and leaned forward to assault said door again it was opened from inside and I went stumbling head-first across the threshold, then slammed drunken-moose style into Elise and ended up sprawled across the floor.
    â€˜Oh, God, Dev, I’m so sorry.’
    So she wasn’t dead. Or wounded.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ I said. ‘What the hell happened?’
    Maddy was already holding her mother, which was fine with me. That way they were too busy to watch me scramble to my feet. I do, after all, have my dignity. I’ll always be the seventh-grader who lives in fear of being humiliated in front of girls. Who gives a shit what boys think of you.
    Elise had started to cry again. ‘I tried to kill myself, Maddy. Or that’s what I thought I was doing. I put the gun to my temple but at the last minute I jerked it away and the bullet just went into the wall. I’m so sorry. Then I was too ashamed to come to the door!’
    Her arms dangled over Maddy’s shoulders. Neither of them appeared to realize that Elise still held a Smith & Wesson .45 in her right hand. She didn’t even seem to realize when I slipped it from her fingers.
    By now Mrs Weiderman had reached us. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Logan!’
    â€˜Oh, Mrs Weiderman, I did such a stupid thing!’
    â€˜You did no such thing, Mrs Logan. Now I’m going to take you into the guest room and turn the covers back for you and you’re going to lie down and relax while I bring you some hot cocoa with those little marshmallows you like so much. Isn’t that right, Maddy?’
    But Maddy was too distracted to respond. Her mother had fainted dead in her arms.

SIX
    W hen I reached the desk at Linton’s only decent hotel – and the only likely place where Tracy Cabot would stay – I joined a group of four men and one woman who were doing everything except climbing over the registration desk and throttling the nervous-looking young man who was spit-and-polish enough to pass the meanest corporate test.
    The reporters were local. They had no idea who I was, which was to my advantage. A Chicago man or woman might recognize me because I’d been around so long.
    The clerk said, ‘This gentleman would like to get through. I’d appreciate it if you’d stand down the counter, please.’
    They were not happy, the dears. I was interrupting the fun they were having tormenting the kid.
    â€˜Welcome to the Regency. May I help you, sir?’
    â€˜Thanks. I’ll need a single for a few days.’ By tomorrow morning there would be no rooms to let.
    I’d brought a suitcase with two changes of clothes and balled-up underwear and socks. After signing my credit card slip, I carried the suitcase over by the elevators where a bellman who appeared to be in his sixties watched me suspiciously. He was a sharp and cynical sixty and he probably watched everybody suspiciously. He’d seen it all and maybe done it all and he knew that we’ve all got it in us.
    â€˜You want some help, sir?’
    His jacket was ruby red with gold-sprayed buttons and epaulets that looked in danger of slipping off. His tan trousers were as faded as his blue eyes.
    â€˜Not with my bag.’ I set the suitcase down and said, ‘But I do need to ask you about a woman.’
    â€˜You mean to hook up with?’
    Nice to know I looked like the kind of guy