Chapter 22
“Yeah, come in. Scotch on the table. Sit there.”
Philip Cross stepped into the room and stared. He had never drunk Scotch, never been in a luxury suite, and never been manipulated so easily as by this man.
He walked past the drink and sat down, straight up on the front of the chair. “Who are you?”
The man smiled. “Does your stuff work?”
He hesitated. “Who are you?”
“Son,” said Leonard, “I told you. I’m Leonard. Chicago. Do I have to tell you everything twice?”
Philip shook his head. “What do you want? I’m busy.”
“You want money, right?”
Philip nodded.
“I have money. You have software. I want software. You have software and you want money… I have money and I want software. Got it, or do I need to go slower?”
Philip sat back in the chair and examined Leonard, who sliced and lit a cigar while he waited for an answer. Suddenly a sense of deja-vu came over Philip, and he tried to remember where he had seen this man before… but no such nightmare came to mind.
“I got it. Now what?”
“How much do you want for your stuff?”
“Depends on my partner.”
“He didn’t tell you? He sent you here to pitch it, and didn’t tell you what to do when some big fish bites on the bait?”
Philip reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card with two items on it: the name “Doc” and a phone number. He handed it to Leonard.
Leonard picked up the hotel phone, put it on the speaker, and dialed the number.
“Yes?”
“Is this ‘Doc’?”
“Yes.”
“This is Leonard. From Chicago. I have your boy in my room. How much do you want for the stuff?”
“What do you mean, ‘you have him’?”
“Relax, Doc, he’s just visiting. I invited him up for a chat. How much do you want?”
“Exclusive?”
“Of course.”
“A million.”
“I’ll give you 600 grand, and another 400 when I see it works. Cash.”
Silence. Then, over the speaker, “Phil, are you OK?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“You good with that?”
“Don’t know anything about him … ‘Doc’.”
“Yeah, I got that. But let’s do it.”
“OK.”
“Leonard, here’s the routing info. You ready?”
Leonard picked up the hotel notepad and pen. “Go.”
When the numbers were given and repeated, Leonard added a condition. “Here’s the deal, Doc, or whatever your name is. I’m going to send this money, and then Philip and I are going to get on a plane to my place for a private screening. Here’s the phone number.”
He rattled off the number. “Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it, but …”
“No ‘but’. I just told you how this is going down. When I see it works, I’ll send him home and you get the rest of the money. If I see it doesn’t work, I’ll come looking for my 600 big ones.” And he hung up.
Philip stood up. “What do you mean, ‘your place’? I’ve got a presentation to do!”
“Sit down, Cross. You just sold the goods. You got no meeting. I’m your meeting. We’re gonna gather up your stuff and hit the road.”
A knock, a single knock, sounded at the door.
“Come in,” yelled Leonard. Two men walked in. Locals, by their look.
“You Leonard?” said one, with a glance at Philip.
“Yeah.”
“Ramón sent us.”
Leonard nodded. “Good. Take this young man back to his room — 217, I believe — and gather up his stuff. All of it. Scrub the room. Take him to the United check-in counter at the airport at exactly … nine o’clock tonight. If he’s been drinking a little by then, so I need to help him onto the plane, well, that’ll be just fine. But I don’t think he will.”
“Right, Mr. Cross? We have a deal? I send the money, and you come with me. Right?”
Philip looked at all the men around him - tough, serious, ugly men - and nodded.
“Fine. Now give the gentlemen your room key, so we don’t have any difficulties. They’ll wait with you while you pack. And don’t worry about the meeting… I’ll cancel it for you. Oh, and do you have a cell phone? Let me have it. You won’t need it while you’re with … us.”
He walked over to the glass door, still open to the balcony, and stepped out to the railing. “Look, Mr. Cross, there’s a swimming pool. Wonder if I can reach it from here …”
Looking back with a smile, he tossed Phillip’s phone high in the air.
Jennie sat in the front row, off to the side where she could keep an eye on the double doors leading into the presentation room. She sipped the chai tea latte and wished there had been more on the breakfast buffet. Glancing back, she saw Mac wander in, slip off his western hat and settle into the back corner of the room. Always cautious, always observant. He winked at her across the crowd.
The meeting should have started thirty minutes ago. People talked, fussed, complained. A stooped elderly gentleman stood up at the other end of the front row and spoke to the crowd, or anyone in it who happened to notice he was speaking.
“What’s going on? Anybody know?”
Murmurs of complaint and frustration welled up, but apparently no one knew.
A hotel manager came in and walked to the podium. He tapped on the microphone, and slowly the room turned its attention to him.
“Has anyone seen Mr. Cross?” he asked. Silence. Jennie looked back just in time to see Mac disappear through the doors.
“What do you mean?” shouted someone in the middle of the crowd. “Isn’t he checked in?”
“Yes,” nodded the manager, “but there’s no answer at his door, and the ‘do not disturb’ sign is on the handle. I thought perhaps someone had seen him this morning, at breakfast perhaps.”
Apparently no one had. People began standing up and looking about.
Jennie slipped down the aisle and out of the room, jumped into the stairwell, trotted up one flight, and almost ran to room 217. As she turned the corner, she saw Mac closing the door behind him and peeling off the latex gloves.
“Andy’s on the way; let’s go for a scenic ride together. Cross is gone.”
“Right,” she said, and suddenly they became two strangers walking different ways in the hallway. She went down the far stairway while Mac strolled back to the elevator.
Jennie walked up to Mac in the milling crowd in front of the hotel entrance. “Mr. Williams, I was thinking of taking a ride around the city. Would you join me?”
“Absolutely,” he said, and waved for a cab. “Great idea. Nothing else to do now, since the meeting is apparently delayed a bit…”
He stepped across the lane of taxis waiting for passengers as Andy’s cab arrived and pulled into another lane. The taxi manager waved them back. Mac stepped over to him, shook hands, and spoke quietly. The man looked at his hand, patted Mac on the shoulder, and sent him on his way. Jennie followed, as Andy walked around the cab and opened the door.
“He won’t bother you,” said Mac, and Andy nodded. They settled into the back seat.
“Andy. Cross has disappeared. Any idea what happened?”
“Yes, Mr. Cowboy, sir. Heard some of the local guys were at the hotel last night to hustle someone to the airport. Could be your guy?”
“When?”
“Late. Maybe for that United flight that leaves at 10?”
“Let’s find out.”
They pulled out into traffic and turned towards the airport.
Jennie dug her cell phone out and dialed a call.
“Dr. Sorenson?” Mac could not hear the response.
“I’m in Mérida. Where is he?” Again, he could not hear what was said.
She hung up. “Chicago.”
Andy slammed on the brakes and slid over to the curb. Three cars surrounded them, pulling in close in front, behind, and on the street side. Men appeared on both sides of the car. Andy’s hands did not leave the steering wheel. Mac’s door was pulled open, hands reached in, and he was yanked out of the cab. He pushed one man away with a punch to the chest, twisted another man’s arm up to force him to the ground, and the barrel of a shotgun was shoved into his stomach.
“No más.”