I made my way inside and saw a fat man sitting behind the reception desk. His gluttonous figure took up most of the desk, as he hunched over an ironclad motored fan in a futile attempt to cool himself. He had thin gray hair, drooping eyes, and a fleshy face and jowls. From the bulk I could see, he looked to weigh close to three hundred pounds, and likely stood under six foot. He was dressed in a button-up white shirt, tie, and suspenders, with sweat stains under his collar and armpits.
I sat at a chair in a part of the lobby that allowed me to see the large man, but at an angle where he could not see me. There I waited as he sipped on a pot of coffee about the size of a drum of oil. My patience was rewarded when he excused himself from the desk and waddled into a side door that must have been the lavatory.
I quickly went around the desk and flipped through the registry. Storm was not listed under his name, but I recognized the name âChris Denardoâ as an alias Storm used back when we were working together. The room he was listed under was 37.
On the back wall was a wooden key rack carved in the shape of a shield with numbers behind each hook scattered across it. Yet there was no key for his room. Storm must have had it on his person.
I took the stairs up to the second floor and down the hall to room 37. I put my ear to the door and tried to make out if anyone was inside. Not hearing anything, I put the driving gloves on and took out my tools.
What I was about to do was risky and something I usually avoided doing at all costs, because no matter which way you cut it, I would be illegally entering the room. If I were to get caught, there would be no getting out of it, and losing my license would be the least of my problems.
I examined the lock and found it to be a standard pin-tumbler lock, easy to pick, like most locks. They were nothing but false security for people. The reality is, if some cat wants to get into your joint bad enough, your run-of-the-mill lock wonât keep them out.
I jammed a stainless steel tension wrench into the keyhole and pushed it slightly in the direction the key would turn before inserting the pick. I raked the pick back and forth until the driving pins moved above the shear line, allowing the plug to rotate freely to where I could open the door.
I gave the hall a final look to make sure it was still empty, and stepped in, closing the door behind me. I hit the lights and found the room to be nearly empty of anything that showed someone was staying there. The wrought-iron four-poster bed was made. The maids had already cleaned the room, presumably early in the morning since all the other keys were still on the rack downstairs.
I went through a basic search of the room, but not as in-depth as some searches. Iâd seen Brawley do searches where his team would tear a place apart from floorboards to ceiling, tossing the disregarded material into the center. Iâd seen a woman become so distraught that she ratted her own husband out in order to spare her china set from being damaged.
I looked under the bed and hit upon a worn leather suitcase. I snapped open the locks. Inside I found a Browning HP 35 lying on top of a stack of old rags. I popped the blue steel thirteen-round magazine, and saw that no bullets were missing. The gun was clean and looked like it hadnât been recently fired.
I set the rod down and sifted through the clothes. At the bottom of the case, I found a yellow Western Union envelope with a telegram that read:
I HAVE FOUND YOUR ACHILLES HEEL STOP
IT WILL RECEIVE THE SAME TREATMENT YOU BESTOWED ONTO ME STOP
I pocketed the telegram, placed the clothes and gun into the case, and slid it back under the bed. Outside the room, I made sure the door was once again locked before taking the stairs down to the lobby. The large man had resumed his position in front of the fan at the desk, and paid me no mind as I walked out.
Â
CHAPTER 6
Later that evening, I
I sat at a chair in a part of the lobby that allowed me to see the large man, but at an angle where he could not see me. There I waited as he sipped on a pot of coffee about the size of a drum of oil. My patience was rewarded when he excused himself from the desk and waddled into a side door that must have been the lavatory.
I quickly went around the desk and flipped through the registry. Storm was not listed under his name, but I recognized the name âChris Denardoâ as an alias Storm used back when we were working together. The room he was listed under was 37.
On the back wall was a wooden key rack carved in the shape of a shield with numbers behind each hook scattered across it. Yet there was no key for his room. Storm must have had it on his person.
I took the stairs up to the second floor and down the hall to room 37. I put my ear to the door and tried to make out if anyone was inside. Not hearing anything, I put the driving gloves on and took out my tools.
What I was about to do was risky and something I usually avoided doing at all costs, because no matter which way you cut it, I would be illegally entering the room. If I were to get caught, there would be no getting out of it, and losing my license would be the least of my problems.
I examined the lock and found it to be a standard pin-tumbler lock, easy to pick, like most locks. They were nothing but false security for people. The reality is, if some cat wants to get into your joint bad enough, your run-of-the-mill lock wonât keep them out.
I jammed a stainless steel tension wrench into the keyhole and pushed it slightly in the direction the key would turn before inserting the pick. I raked the pick back and forth until the driving pins moved above the shear line, allowing the plug to rotate freely to where I could open the door.
I gave the hall a final look to make sure it was still empty, and stepped in, closing the door behind me. I hit the lights and found the room to be nearly empty of anything that showed someone was staying there. The wrought-iron four-poster bed was made. The maids had already cleaned the room, presumably early in the morning since all the other keys were still on the rack downstairs.
I went through a basic search of the room, but not as in-depth as some searches. Iâd seen Brawley do searches where his team would tear a place apart from floorboards to ceiling, tossing the disregarded material into the center. Iâd seen a woman become so distraught that she ratted her own husband out in order to spare her china set from being damaged.
I looked under the bed and hit upon a worn leather suitcase. I snapped open the locks. Inside I found a Browning HP 35 lying on top of a stack of old rags. I popped the blue steel thirteen-round magazine, and saw that no bullets were missing. The gun was clean and looked like it hadnât been recently fired.
I set the rod down and sifted through the clothes. At the bottom of the case, I found a yellow Western Union envelope with a telegram that read:
I HAVE FOUND YOUR ACHILLES HEEL STOP
IT WILL RECEIVE THE SAME TREATMENT YOU BESTOWED ONTO ME STOP
I pocketed the telegram, placed the clothes and gun into the case, and slid it back under the bed. Outside the room, I made sure the door was once again locked before taking the stairs down to the lobby. The large man had resumed his position in front of the fan at the desk, and paid me no mind as I walked out.
Â
CHAPTER 6
Later that evening, I
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