Bitter Retribution Page 16

  “He didn’t say.” I frowned. She sighed and stared down at her phone when it beeped. From inside my own parka, I heard my cell phone ring. I unzipped the jacket and reached for it when Heather gasped. “What?”

  “Tox says Nancy just showed up at Alson’s room looking for him. She’s flipping out he’s not there,” Heather stammered, texting as fast as her fingers could move. My phone continued to ring and I pulled it out of my pocket when she added, “This is really bad . . . Jordan, will you come with me?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I nodded, glancing down at my phone’s screen. My heart leapt into my throat when I realized it was Rick. My brain went crazy as I tried to imagine why he was calling. Maybe he was calling to say he really missed me and couldn’t live another day in London without me. Or maybe he was calling to say that he was seeing that redhead now. Or maybe—

  “Jordan?”

  “Huh?”

  “Is . . . is that important?” she asked, nodding at my phone, whose constant ring was starting to attract the attention of several annoyed guests.

  I looked at her and then at my phone. I really wanted to take that call. I wanted to take that call more than anything in the world, but when I saw the look in my best friend’s eyes, I knew I couldn’t. She was no longer attempting to hide her panic. Heather was going through what was quite possibly the worst situation in her life and she was asking for my help. I couldn’t let her down.

  “No, this is . . . it’s . . . nothing.” I swallowed hard. I glanced down at the screen once more as the ringing stopped. I had ignored Rick’s call. I felt like someone reached inside my chest and was squeezing my heart so tightly I couldn’t breathe. I was certain my heart was going to explode from the pain. Taking a deep breath, I repeated, “It’s nothing.”

  Heather hurried out of the lodge and down the warped wooded steps, which were covered with black, muddy snow. I followed her without a word, my gloved hand gripping my cell phone as I wondered why Rick had called. There were so many possible reasons that I couldn’t decide which one seemed the most likely. My instinct was to ask Heather her opinion, but I knew this definitely wasn’t the time for it.

  Usually, Heather is the first person to notice when I’m upset, whether or not we’re in the same time zone. Although I already knew she was distracted, I realized just how anxious she was when she not only didn’t mention my uncharacteristic silence, but also refused to say anything at all as we made our way back to the resort’s hotel. As we reached the front doors, a grunting sound, accompanied by a loud thunk and cries of protest reached our ears. We both turned as a man in his late thirties with short black hair, dressed in all black, ran up to us. Two securities guards chased him, but not before he was standing beside us, shoving his cell phone in our faces.

  “Brent, Hollywood Minute,” he gasped, glancing behind him at the two giants lumbering toward us. “A member of your crew was killed this morning during a tragic incident onset. Is it true Alson Andrews was the intended target? Our sources say he’s been receiving threats from . . . aah!”

  “All right, let’s go,” the first security guard, a man who would have been chosen during the first round of the NFL draft sighed, grabbing the reporter by the shoulders. “You must be Spiderman, pal. I don’t know how you scaled that wall.”

  “Wait!” the man exclaimed, waving his phone at Heather and me for a comment as the two guards began to drag him away. “Has Alson Andrews been receiving death threats? Our sources say he received one this very morning and now he’s missing. Care to comment?”

  Heather stared at him, mute. Groaning, the larger of the two guards lifted the reporter off the ground. The reporter flailed about like a fish out of water as he continued to hold his cell phone up, desperate for a golden comment. From behind the gate, flashes of light from countless cameras immortalized the scene in what would undoubtedly become the next internet hit on some trashy celebrity site. Finally, the guards had had enough.

  “If you don’t stop fighting us, you’re gonna lose more than a phone, pal.”

  “That’s a threat!” the reporter declared self-righteously as they carted him to the gate. “I have that recorded. I’m going to sue this whole place. I’m going to sue you, your boss, this resort, Schooling Dad—”

  The guard shoved his shoulder into the reporter’s extended hand, causing him to drop the phone. It fell to the ground, where the screen cracked and the second guard crushed it with his black boots. They grinned at each other as the reporter continued to wail. I stood there, stunned by what I had witnessed. Glancing at Heather, I could tell she was more than stunned. She was afraid.

  She rushed into the lobby, blasting past the front desk, making a beeline for the elevators. Her ability to speed walk in those stupid plastic boots left me shocked and my own feet wailing in agony. As I hobbled after her, I promised my aching toes I would change into a pair of regular shoes as soon as we were in the hotel room.

  After exiting the elevator, she ran down the hallway, but came to a dead stop a few yards away from Alson’s room. When I caught up to her, I was about to ask her why she stopped, but then I looked up and my question was answered. Whatever tornado blasted through Alson Andrews’ suite had carried debris into the elegant hallway in its wake. Broken glass and china littered the threshold.

  Tox stood near the suite’s door with his arms crossed, somberly watching as Nancy paced back and forth over the mess and yelled into her cell phone. A maid stood next to a cleaning cart biting her lower lip, unsure of how to do her job with a crazy woman in the way. With each accentuated word, Nancy poked the air furiously. When she saw Heather, her eyes narrowed. I swallowed hard.

  “You!” she cried, slamming her cell phone onto the cleaning cart so hard the maid jumped. Tox shook his head. As her heels crunched over the shards, she exclaimed, “What’s going on here? Ever since I put you in charge, things have gone downhill. Alson is missing! Were you aware of that? You are supposed to be watching him, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “This has been the worst day ever,” she continued, frowning. “Trip’s accident threw us completely off schedule. Now Alson’s missing . . . and the media! The media! Do you know what they’re saying? And this mess . . . management just left! I had to apologize for this! They’re going to send us a bill. Oh my God, this is a PR nightmare!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I don’t ask much,” Nancy sighed, brushing her hair back. “And I’ve given you one of the most coveted jobs in television. People far more qualified than you have begged me for a chance, but no. I chose you because you’ve been with the show since the pilot and done a great job. Now what I am supposed to think?”

  “Nancy, I’m sorry, it’s just—”

  “Heather, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry that I ever thought you were capable of—”

  “It’s not her fault.”

  15

  Tox stood beside the frightened maid with his massive arms crossed. Standing six-foot-six with a body that rivaled a Mack truck, he actually dwarfed the hallway. Lowering his head, he shoved his hands in his coat pocket as he made his way to us slowly.

  “It’s not her fault,” he repeated, nodding at Heather as he came to a stop beside Nancy. “It’s mine. She was clear – no one in, no one out. Kid said he felt sick and needed some meds. I went down to the gift shop to get some. Came back and he’s gone. Don’t blame her. This is on me.”

  “All right,” Nancy snapped, placing her hands on her hips and glaring up at him. “You’re fired.”

  “You can’t fire me.”

  “Excuse me?” she gasped with indignation. “How dare you—”

  “How dare I?” He inched closer. “Lady, I don’t work for you. I work for David Hughes. If anybody fires me, it’ll be him. But I doubt he will. You wanna know why?”

 
Nancy maintained her position and glared at him, but said nothing.

  “David won’t fire me because no one wants this job.”

  “No one wants this job?” Nancy exclaimed. “You are delusional. Anyone would be lucky to have your job! Alson Andrews is one of the most gifted young stars of this generation. He is charming, intelligent, talented and—”

  “A pain in the butt,” Heather muttered. We all looked at her, surprised. Her eyes widened when she realized she had made that comment out loud. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “It’s true, Nance. I’m sorry, but the kid’s a total jerk. He skips rehearsals, never learns his lines, and has a rotten attitude. Had he actually decided to show up for filming today, Trip wouldn’t be—”

  As she trailed off, she turned away from us. Nancy stared at her before glancing at Tox warily and then me. “You’re some kind of investigator, right? Start investigating. Find Alson.”

  “Okay . . . but there are a few conditions.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  “First, Heather keeps the head writer gig,” I began. “She’s a really, really good writer and you haven’t even let her—”

  “Fine,” Nancy interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “And?”

  “Don’t make any announcements until I’ve had a chance to check into everything. We don’t know what’s going on and the less people that know, the better.”

  “All right,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, one more thing. You gotta let me do this my way.”

  “What?”

  “If I’m gonna do this, I mean really figure out what’s going on here, not just find Alson, but the whole, you know, murder thing, you can’t question me or argue with me or whatever. Do we have a deal?”

  “Fine,” Nancy replied. “But for God’s sake, be discreet. And hurry up. We need to start filming by five if we want to keep on some kind of schedule.”

  I wanted to say something, but when I glanced at Heather, she gave me a pleading look, and I relented. Offering up a sarcastic smile, I nodded. “You bet. I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding a missing teen star and solving a murder case in, like, six hours. I mean, Veronica Mars does it in forty-five minutes, right?”

  “Who?” Tox interrupted, his brow furrowing.

  “Never mind.” I suddenly realized that Nancy was not paying attention. During my reply, her phone beeped and she rushed over to the cleaning cart, scaring the maid all over again. Frowning as she read the text, she typed a response quickly. Without glancing up, she waved her hand at me.

  “Yes, fine, you do that,” she muttered, hurrying toward the elevators. We watched as she pushed the button. The elevator to her right chimed and opened. She hurried inside, texting on her phone as the doors shut. I turned to Heather. She was staring at the elevator doors with a blank expression on her face.

  “You okay?”

  “Huh?” Brushing her hair back, she nodded. “Um, yeah, I’m fine . . . it’s just . . . never mind. We’ll talk later.”

  “Uh, ex-excuse me?” a soft voice hesitated. I looked around and realized the tiny voice had come from the tiny maid. She stood in the hallway, halfway hidden behind the large cleaning cart, chewing on her lower lip and clutching a clean, white towel.

  “Yes?” I asked when I realized no one else was going to say anything. She stared at me, her brown eyes suddenly wide and her face contorted with fear. I smiled to reassure her.

  “Is . . . is it all right,” she trailed off and stared down at her bright white shoes.

  “Yes?” I repeated, still smiling. Forcing a smile when I’m not really happy has never been a talent of mine. I always feel really awkward because I know that the expression is fake and to me, it always feels like I look psychotic. Whether or not this maid saw it that way, she was too scared to finish her sentence. We stood there, surrounded by awkward silence until Tox broke it.

  “She wants to clean.” His voice was so loud that it echoed through the hall. He nodded to the cart. “Some guest complained about the mess. She showed up when I realized Alson was gone, but then Nancy popped in and . . . you know the rest.”

  “Oh . . . so you want to clean?” Staring at the carpet, she nodded. “Okay, well, uh, sure, but would you mind waiting a few more minutes? I need to check the room out first.”

  The maid nodded her head, but still averted her eyes. Offering another fake, manic smile to no one in particular, I walked past her, careful to avoid the large shards of glass, as I made my way to the open doorway. As I passed by, I saw Heather leaning against the door to our suite, staring into space with her brow furrowed in concern. Trying not to let my best friend’s anxieties affect me, I entered Alson’s room and flipped the switch.

  What I found was beyond shocking. I doubt that even in his darkest years, a rock star like the late Ace Larkin from the band Tarnished could have destroyed a hotel suite with the level of bravado by which this particular room met its demise. The couch cushions were strewn across the room, some of them torn, and the television flickered and popped, clinging desperately to electronic life despite the large crack in its flat screen. The remains of the dishes from room service that had not been thrown into the hallway were scattered across the coffee table, cracked, splintered and smeared with the remains of what looked like chicken and dumplings.

  It was obvious that some kind of struggle happened in the room and I doubted anyone could have walked away from such an altercation unscathed. Near the mini-kitchen, two of the chairs were knocked over and a third had been thrown into the wall with such force that it left a large hole in the sheetrock. Taking a step further, I saw a dark spot on the carpet near the mini-kitchen. Careful not to touch anything, I knelt down by the stain. I was staring at vomit.

  “Ugh.” I stood up, disgusted by both the idea and the scent of the stain. Holding back the urge to retch, I realized Heather had entered the room, too.

  “This doesn’t look good.”

  “Nope,” I agreed, surveying the room again. “Something definitely went down here.”

  “Do you think someone . . . you know . . . did something to the little brat?”

  “Don’t know,” I shook my head. “I mean, there was a struggle, but . . . I don’t know . . . I’ve only dealt with one kidnapping case and this . . . it doesn’t feel like that one did. Plus, someone threw up over there.”

  “Gross!” she shuddered, making a disgusted face.

  “I don’t think people usually puke before they’re kidnapped.”

  “Ugh, that’s so nasty,” she grimaced. “So what’re you gonna do?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No clue.” She gave me a startled look. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never dealt with this before. I mean, I don’t have any leads on who could’ve tampered with the skis except that Zeke said some random woman was there. Now Alson’s missing and I don’t know . . . wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “That reporter.” I began pacing the room.

  “What reporter?”

  “You know, the one who scaled the wall outside and got pummeled by security. He said something about Alson being threatened. Death threats or something.”

  “Jordan, he’s a pap.”

  “Okay, but is that true?”

  “Honestly . . . I’m not sure,” Heather admitted. “David would definitely know, but—”

  “Call him.”

  “Call him?”

  “Yeah, call him and ask if Alson’s been receiving threats.”

  “I can’t call him!” she sputtered. I shot her a ‘Why not?’ look, to which she insisted, “He’s in the hospital, Jordan! He’s got health issues. He asked me for one, little favor. I can’t call and say, ‘Hey there, Dave! How’s it going
? Hope you’re well . . . oh, by the way, our stunt guy just died and Alson’s missing. You remember him getting any death threats this week? Oh, and thanks for the chocolate.’”

  “Okay, I wouldn’t say it quite like that,” I agreed, “but you could say, ‘Hey Dave! Hope you’re feeling better! Quick question. Has Alson ever received death threats? There are a few posts online claiming he has. You don’t have to mention he’s missing or any of the other stuff. Oh, but thanking him for the chocolate is a must. That was amazing.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “About the chocolate?”

  “Jordan!”

  “Kidding, geez! Look, at the rate I’m getting info on this case, we’ll be lucky if I solve it before next Christmas.”

  “All right, fine, I’ll call,” she groaned, pulling out her cell phone. “Unless you have any more investigating to do, I’m gonna tell the maid to clean the room. It reeks and I don’t want that smell wafting into our room.”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s fine.” I surveyed the room once more, taking a few quick pics on my phone for later. It was then that I first saw it. A small, Altoids mint box on the coffee table. I walked across the room and leaning over, picked it up. Opening it, I found blue, green, red and white colored mints.

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Breath mints?” I frowned, staring at pills. “You know, on second thought, I don’t think we should have the room cleaned yet. If this is a crime scene—”

  “Crime scene?!?” she shrieked, her voice reminiscent of the operatic soloist whose concert my parents forced me to attend when I was in high school for so-called cultural development.