Page 59 of A Friend in the Glass

Rufus turned off the audio. He closed the file, yanked the plug from the laptop, and shoved the drive into his sweatshirt pocket before buttoning the jean jacket. “That’s enough, I think,” he said, glancing uneasily at Sam from the corner of his eye.

Sam still didn’t seem to be seeing anything. He gave his coat another tug, and when he spoke, his voice had a stripped-down quality. “She isn’t on any of them.”

“But Del’s talking to someone,” Rufus answered. “I think we could argue he’s talking to Jen, but maybe we can get Del to admit that himself. We can show him what we have—whatshehad. What do they say in those courtroom dramas: get him to flip?”

“So,” Sam said, “let’s get him to flip.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Somehow, after everything that had happened, it wasn’t as late as it felt. The city was quieter as Sam and Rufus made their way back toward the Savoy, but it wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t still. The wind curled around buildings and seemed to be behind them no matter how many times they turned, the sound of it competing with the crunch of their footsteps. There were still cars and people, a cyclist ringing the bell on his bike as he tried to beat the light. The city that never sleeps. Sometimes, apparently, it tossed and turned in bed.

The Savoy wasn’t asleep either when they got there. The lobby was full of shadows, with pools of golden light here and there to soften the darkness. An efficient-looking young woman stood at the front desk, clicking and clacking madly at one of the computers. From the bar came the clink of glasses, the swell of voices, a burst of laughter.

As Sam approached the desk, the young woman looked up at him. She put on a practiced smile and said, “Welcome to the Savoy. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Del Jolly. He told me to come up to his room.”

“Of course. The elevators are right over there.”

“The thing is,” Sam said, “he forgot to tell me his room number. We met at the convention, and we were in a rush.”

The woman gave him a considering once-over. Apparently, chasing a murderer on foot, being hit by a car, and then being thwacked with a metal pole gave you a certain look, because she offered the practiced smile again and said, “I’m so sorry, but we can’t give out guests’ private information.”

Rufus interjected with “Can you give him a ring?”

“Let me see what I can do. What name should I tell him?”

“He probably won’t remember my name,” Sam said, “but you can tell him we met at the Stonefish panel, and I brought those papers he asked about.”

More of that practiced smile. Sam tried smiling back. It didn’t seem to go over well, because she turned her attention to the computer a little more quickly than was necessary and started punching keys with frantic enthusiasm. Maybe he needed a little practice himself.

After a few seconds of energetic computering, the woman picked up the phone and placed the call. Del must have picked up right away because she said, “Yes, Mr. Jolly? There are a couple of men here who’d like to see you. Yes, two of them. They said they met you at the Stonefish panel and brought some papers. Yes. Ok. Thank you, have a wonderful evening.” As she returned the phone to its cradle, she beamed at Sam and said, “Room 918.”

On the ride up, there was no Muzak, no piped-in environmental sounds, only the hiss of machinery: the cables and pulleys, oiled metal, air circulating in the shaft. The elevator dinged when they reached the ninth floor, and the doors slid open. 918 was to their right, three rooms from the elevator. Thedoor was propped open—the swing lock between the door and the frame so that it couldn’t close—and a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the handle. On the other side, the room was dark.

Rufus took off his beanie and shoved it into a pocket. Voice hardly more than a murmur, he said, “Nice to see we’re being expected. I hope Del’s got a mini bar because I could use a drink or four.”

Sam took a deep breath and rapped on the door. The sound died away, and silence padded in after it. He took another deep breath as he worked Chad’s gun out of his waistband. It was a cheap piece of shit—a Hi-Point, small enough to disappear inside Sam’s grip, and it had an American flag design in black and silver on the barrel that had probably made some idiot cream his Jockeys. In theory, though, it would do the job. If it didn’t stovepipe on him. Or fuck, blow up in his hand. He knocked again, but there was no answer. Nudging Rufus to the side, Sam pressed himself up against the wall and nudged the door open.

No shot. No flash. No clap of gunfire.

Instead, the light from the hall unfolded across high-traffic carpet. Sam held the door with one hand, taking in shadowy details: a desk, a sofa, a wet bar, a recliner—

The gloom made it hard to tell for sure, but Sam’s mind followed the irregular bumps and knobs of shadow outlined against the recliner. It might have been something else—a blanket, maybe, or a pile of clothes. But it wasn’t.

“Someone’s in there,” he whispered. The door seemed heavier than it should have been, and he fought the urge to drop his hand and let it swing shut. “A body. In the chair.”

“What?” Rufus hissed. “Who? Can you see?”

Sam shook his head. He checked the hallway; they were still alone, but not for long. He reached through the doorway with the hand holding the gun, found the light switch just inside the room, and flipped it. A single overhead light came on immediately inside the room.

Still nothing. No one burst out of hiding. No one fired.

It was enough light to make out Del’s face in profile. The entry wound from the bullet looked small, almost clean, on the side of his head—at that distance, like a little black circle. The other side, where it had exited, would be a lot worse.

“Stay here,” Sam whispered and stepped into the room.

“Like fuck.” Rufus’s counter was barely audible. He slipped into the room behind Sam.

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