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I thought deeper. Aside from this faux card, Brian had a sudden excess of cash, enough to hire Kraunauer. Where do sudden large chunks of money come from, and what connection could they have to the corpses in my room? I stood and looked at them again, first on the bed, then in the closet, and then I went back and stood over One, where he lay so peacefully on my bed.
All of us who work in law enforcement are taught to shun racial profiling, so I tried not to leap to any conclusions that might offend anyone, no matter their ethnic background. But it was not possible to avoid the observation that the dead men looked very much like they might be Mexican or Central American. And having said that, one could not help adding, with all possible political correctness, that if indeed they were Mexican or Central American, and since they had actually been violently murdered, and it had happened right here in Miami—and if, additionally, there truly were significant amounts of money lurking in the background, then it was at least possible—possible, mind you, no more than a chance that had very little to do with the men’s ethnic identity—it was, as I say, possible that drugs might be involved somewhere along the line.
Brian would certainly have no moral scruples about the drug trade. In truth, he had no actual morals at all. He had all the advantages I enjoyed of being heartless, soulless, empty inside, and devoid of human feelings—but he was not burdened with any of my disadvantages of artificially grafted-on standards. The business of buying and selling drugs would seem like a perfect opportunity for profit, and even self-expression, considering the nature of the competition. He might well have gotten involved in some way. And knowing Brian, he could just as easily have done something that made someone in this ultraviolent world just a trifle peeved.
That didn’t explain who my new friends were. But it did offer the first clear explanation of how and why, and it had the added virtue of being very easy to check.
I picked up my phone and called.
After only three rings, Brian answered. “Brother,” he said with low-quality artificial bonhomie. “How art thou?”
“Not bad,” I said. “A great deal better than my uninvited company.”
“Company?” he said. “Is this wise in your present circumstance?”
“Terribly unwise,” I said. “Especially since they are both exceptionally dead.”
For a long moment Brian said nothing.
“Should I add that I have no idea who they are?” I said at last. “And that I also didn’t do it?”
“Good additions,” Brian said softly, and there was a dangerous edge to his voice I hadn’t heard before. “Describe them.”
“Both about five-foot-six and stocky,” I said. “The nearer one is mid-thirties, dark hair, olive skin, pockmarked face.”
Brian hissed. “The left wrist,” he said. “Please examine it.”
I stepped over to the bed and flipped the left arm off the chest. There was a tattoo, about four inches long. It showed a bleeding Jesus wrapped in the coils of a cobra. “Interesting tattoo,” I said into the phone.
“Jesus with a snake?” Brian said.
“Yes,” I said. “You know this guy?”
“Stay put,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
“Brian, there are cops in the lobby,” I said. But he had already hung up.
I looked at my phone and wondered whether I should call Brian back. I decided not to. He probably wouldn’t answer, and anyway, I felt that somehow the phone had let me down. I didn’t trust it anymore.
But I had to do something. “On my way” could mean a few minutes—but it also might mean half an hour or more. I still had no idea what was going on here, but whatever it was, I didn’t think I could simply stand in my room and wait for the next piece of the puzzle to fall into place. The stakes were very high, and the next piece might well land on my head. Clearly I needed to get out of this room as quickly as possible.
On the other hand, I also needed to meet Brian, and he was coming here. But once again, my newly revived brain rose to the challenge, and this time I wasn’t even sitting straight. Brian would arrive and, just as I had, he would see the cop car out front and proceed to the rear door.
I left the room, making double sure the door latched securely behind me, and the Do Not Disturb sign was still in place. I walked to the stairway. I went all the way down to the ground floor and stood to one side of the door, so I could see out into the parking area without being too easily seen myself.
Ten minutes passed. A woman in a business suit walked by outside and climbed into her car—or at any rate, I assumed it was her car. If not, she was a very smooth car thief.
Five more minutes went by. Two teenage kids came clattering down the stairs from the second floor and slammed out the door to the lobby without paying me any attention.
I looked out the window in the back door. I couldn’t see very much, but none of it was moving. I wondered whether Brian had met with some kind of accident—or, all things considered, more likely an on-purpose. How long should I wait for him? Sooner or later something unpleasant was almost certain to happen. The cops would decide to come up to my room and push me around, or the maid would come to change the sheets. It was even possible that whoever had sent the two Strangers would send another one. Failing that, they might come around in person to make another corpse out of anyone hanging around in my room—or in the stairwell, for that matter. Where the hell was Brian?
I looked out the window again. No sign of him; nothing but a white van. It rolled slowly closer, until I could see the side of it. In big black letters, it said, ATWATER BROTHERS CARPET.
I blinked. Atwater again? Really?
The van backed up into a position that blocked the door where I stood, and a moment later Brian appeared. He wore a pair of tattered gray coveralls and carried a heavy canvas tool bag, and when he put his hand on the door he saw me, and nodded.
I opened the door and Brian stepped through. “Brother,” he said. “We may not have a lot of time.”
