Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) by J.A. Konrath, Jack Kilborn, Ann Voss Peterson
Tags: General Fiction
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perfect, too clean, the bridges crisp and new stretching over dyed azure canals. An Italy built exclusively for the rich.
We turned after the replica of the Campanile Bell Tower and entered the resort drive, crossing over a bridge, traffic slowing. Heath lowered a window a crack, letting in a wave of desert-heated night air along with a wisp of O Sole Mio from one of the gondoliers on the outdoor canal.
“A tragic song. One of heartbreak. Do you know the words?”
About to answer, I caught myself. Just because Chandler was multilingual didn’t mean Simone the prostitute could say the same. I shook my head.
“It is about a poor soul thinking back to the time he was in love, when he had a moment of happiness, before his lover betrayed him.”
“That is sad.”
“You have no idea.”
“What’s the hold up?” Bratton shouted to the driver just as the car resumed.
We continued over the first bridge and under a copy of Ponte di Rialto, the famous bridge that spanned the Grand Canal in Venice, finally reaching the hotel’s expansive, cobblestoned porte-cochere . Chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the portico along with reproductions of Italian frescoes framed by gold molding. Even at night, the area bustled with several bell boys dressed in black and white striped duds matching the outfits of the gondoliers.
We didn’t have much luggage, I carried nothing but my little purse, and Bratton and Heath only had one carryon size suitcase each, and it didn’t take long for us to unload ourselves from the car, through five steps of oven-like heat, and enter the Venetian’s lobby.
The first thing I noticed was the scent. Despite the size and throngs of people visiting this time of year, a sweet, floral fragrance tickled the air. A globe fountain dominated the middle of the lobby, water gurgling and sluicing down into the base below. The marble floors held a pattern that played with the eyes, and a map of Venice stretched along the wall behind the reservation desks. As in the portico, the ceiling was covered with more frescoes framed in gold.
“I will arrange for the rooms.” Heath said and broke away
I watched him cross to the reservation desk, and start chatting up a blonde who worked at the hotel. He leaned toward her, his body language all flirt, and to my shame, for a second, I felt a tweak of jealousy.
It had obviously been too long since I’d last been on a date.
I didn’t have a steady social life. Those in my business never did. But I tried to get out now and then, pick up an attractive guy in a bar, and have a little fun. They never knew my real name, never saw where I lived, and never heard from me again, but it was something, a way to feel close to another human being, a way to wear off a little sexual energy. But it had been a long time since I’d had an opportunity to let loose.
I’d dealt Heath that winning hand in a moment of weakness.
Now that I’d cooled down and was on my way to the privacy of Bratton’s suite, either as prostitute or nursemaid, it didn’t seem like I’d be able to fulfill that particular debt. And I had to admit, it made me feel a little crabby.
“How are you feeling now?” I asked my john/patient/victim.
He shot me a look of contempt, as if I wasn’t even worthy of an answer.
Charming man.
While he was ignoring me, I took a peek at the gold ring, now illuminated by a chandelier the size of a small helicopter. Brushed gold, the band was set with a large ruby surrounded by diamond chips. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that he wasn’t wearing it when he pawed me up the first time. He had to have picked it up at the bank.
So what about this ring of power was so special that Jacob would send me on my own little Frodo errand? Or was the ring superfluous, and the real package was tucked into his wallet?
I supposed it didn’t matter. My orders were to make it look like a robbery. I’d take it all.
Moments later, Heath returned, three key
We turned after the replica of the Campanile Bell Tower and entered the resort drive, crossing over a bridge, traffic slowing. Heath lowered a window a crack, letting in a wave of desert-heated night air along with a wisp of O Sole Mio from one of the gondoliers on the outdoor canal.
“A tragic song. One of heartbreak. Do you know the words?”
About to answer, I caught myself. Just because Chandler was multilingual didn’t mean Simone the prostitute could say the same. I shook my head.
“It is about a poor soul thinking back to the time he was in love, when he had a moment of happiness, before his lover betrayed him.”
“That is sad.”
“You have no idea.”
“What’s the hold up?” Bratton shouted to the driver just as the car resumed.
We continued over the first bridge and under a copy of Ponte di Rialto, the famous bridge that spanned the Grand Canal in Venice, finally reaching the hotel’s expansive, cobblestoned porte-cochere . Chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the portico along with reproductions of Italian frescoes framed by gold molding. Even at night, the area bustled with several bell boys dressed in black and white striped duds matching the outfits of the gondoliers.
We didn’t have much luggage, I carried nothing but my little purse, and Bratton and Heath only had one carryon size suitcase each, and it didn’t take long for us to unload ourselves from the car, through five steps of oven-like heat, and enter the Venetian’s lobby.
The first thing I noticed was the scent. Despite the size and throngs of people visiting this time of year, a sweet, floral fragrance tickled the air. A globe fountain dominated the middle of the lobby, water gurgling and sluicing down into the base below. The marble floors held a pattern that played with the eyes, and a map of Venice stretched along the wall behind the reservation desks. As in the portico, the ceiling was covered with more frescoes framed in gold.
“I will arrange for the rooms.” Heath said and broke away
I watched him cross to the reservation desk, and start chatting up a blonde who worked at the hotel. He leaned toward her, his body language all flirt, and to my shame, for a second, I felt a tweak of jealousy.
It had obviously been too long since I’d last been on a date.
I didn’t have a steady social life. Those in my business never did. But I tried to get out now and then, pick up an attractive guy in a bar, and have a little fun. They never knew my real name, never saw where I lived, and never heard from me again, but it was something, a way to feel close to another human being, a way to wear off a little sexual energy. But it had been a long time since I’d had an opportunity to let loose.
I’d dealt Heath that winning hand in a moment of weakness.
Now that I’d cooled down and was on my way to the privacy of Bratton’s suite, either as prostitute or nursemaid, it didn’t seem like I’d be able to fulfill that particular debt. And I had to admit, it made me feel a little crabby.
“How are you feeling now?” I asked my john/patient/victim.
He shot me a look of contempt, as if I wasn’t even worthy of an answer.
Charming man.
While he was ignoring me, I took a peek at the gold ring, now illuminated by a chandelier the size of a small helicopter. Brushed gold, the band was set with a large ruby surrounded by diamond chips. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that he wasn’t wearing it when he pawed me up the first time. He had to have picked it up at the bank.
So what about this ring of power was so special that Jacob would send me on my own little Frodo errand? Or was the ring superfluous, and the real package was tucked into his wallet?
I supposed it didn’t matter. My orders were to make it look like a robbery. I’d take it all.
Moments later, Heath returned, three key
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