Authors: Dale Wiley
There was fairly heavy traffic up the Parkway, but, once I
got on the road to Dulles, everything cooled off. I found long-term parking,
took my ticket, and parked the car toward the front. I thought about taking it
to the back and then decided it would be more conspicuous there than in the
front with dozens of other dirty vehicles. I took out the package that had
gotten me in all this trouble, locked the car up, and took the shuttle back to
the terminal. There I rode with a very tired businessman who wanted to nap and
two Italian lovers who were more interested in sucking face and cooing than in
identifying wanted fugitives. I found a taxi once I got back to the airport and
headed back to the Watergate. I figured whoever the cops were looking for was
not someone returning to DC.
The cabby was in a pissy mood and that was fine with me. He
barely even glanced at me when I got in and told him where I wanted to go. I
enjoyed being able to slink back and watch everything go by. I wasn’t terribly
tired after my nap, so I simply stared at the blue sky and watched it become
red, providing me with some sort of uneasy calm, which I desperately needed. I
realized I had been on the lam—See? I was already learning the lingo—for almost
twenty-four hours and figured that was longer than most fugitives managed to
avoid capture. It also made me feel good to realize I was out-witting some
terrorist organization as well. Perhaps, I thought, when all of this was over,
and if they would ever have me, I could intern at the CIA and show them how it
was done.
The white lights of the city began to pop on as we came
closer, and soon we were back in front of the Watergate. I started to regret
how much I was going to have to pay the cabby, but then I remembered it wasn’t
my money. I gave him a generous tip, grabbed my bag, and went inside. I looked
at no one and arrived on the eighth floor unscathed. I ran to my room and
bolted and chained the door.
I was probably as physically safe as I was going to get. My
car was fairly safe, I felt pretty sure no one had seen me, and I was back in
my room at a hotel which was noted for foiling break-in attempts. But I wasn’t
one iota closer to figuring out how to get out of my mess. I took off and
re-folded my suit and collapsed on the bed.
I lay there for a short time, listening to myself breathe
and trying not to think. It didn’t work. I grabbed the remote and flipped on
the news. You can guess the topic of the piece.
But this was different—worse. The reporters were no longer
out to parade the evidence to the public—they had already done that. Now it was
time to show what kind of person I was.
“Trent Norris was a loner, acquaintances say,” the same
grim-faced reporter began.
That was a laugh
, I thought. I was the guy
spinning on my head at parties. Whatever I was, loner wasn’t it.
They cut from the ugly photo of me to a picture of my last
apartment in Atlanta, the one where the bathroom never worked. There a woman,
who I didn’t even recognize at first, talked about me. “He was very quiet,
always seemed like he was hiding something,” she said. “A little destructive.”
Okay. Now I remembered her. This woman lived three flights
below me and was some psycho sixty-year-old divorcee who went back to school
for God knows what because by the time she got out she’d probably be dead. I
saw her approximately once a month when we rode up together in the elevator
with our groceries. And sure, I was quiet. What was I supposed to do? Recite
the Gettysburg Address? I really wondered if she honestly remembered me.
Next, they showed this idiot from college, a guy named Rick
Mason, who was from the Button-Down Tight-Asses for Freedom or some
organization like that. He was one of those college student government types
who like to pass resolutions just so they can get in the habit of doing it in
the future. I had had a class with him, and my friends and I made fun of him
because he was so solemn; I imagined he probably knew it. Now it was his time
to get even.
The reporter gave him a great lead-in. “Norris was known on
campus to be extremely liberal, especially when it came to Second Amendment
Issues.”
Mason, with stars in his eyes from having a camera pointed
at him, jumped at the chance. “One of the most liberal operators on campus.
Always writing something, always inciting something.” Now, I was not Mr.
Conservative by any means, but I looked like Bill Friggin’ Buckley compared to
most of the student body. I had campaigned for Bush, after all. I decided if I
found out I couldn’t prove my innocence, I would drive back to Atlanta and
shoot Rick Mason just to have done something worthwhile.
And then, they hit the lowest blow of all. They found some
goofy article I had written for the school paper, protesting something mild in
which I comically suggested the student body tie the chancellor to the school
library. Of course, they didn’t mention it was humorous, and perhaps they
didn’t understand; lots of people don’t get irony and satire. They said it was
an “incendiary” article and very little else. The grim reaper signed off, and I
was left looking like an unstable loner who believed in the false imprisonment
of various authority figures. God dang it, I looked guilty.
Up to this point, I had been alternately scared, worried,
terrified, miffed, ticked off, and despondent. Now I was mad. In fact, I was
madder than I had ever been before. I was mad at everyone from the police, to
the media, and quite a few in between. That was the moment when I decided to
both get vindicated and acquitted, although I was far from sure how I would
accomplish either.
But I had an idea where to start. I went to the table and
picked up the senator’s black book. At least this would give me an idea of what
kind of resources I would have at my disposal. There were lots of interesting
entries: home phone numbers for very important people, the numbers of two
well-known actresses and a news anchor, and the number for a psychic, all of
which, while interesting, was of no use to me. There were doctors, lawyers,
caterers, and acupuncturists, and I was about to decide that I was out of luck
when something written lightly in pencil caught my eye: Discreet Companions.
There was no address, just a phone number, and below it was
the name Traci on one line, and Candy and Sandy on the next. I wondered if they
were twins—okay, I hoped they were. It was a DC phone number, so I grabbed the
latest phone directory and checked for a listing. There was none. High-class, I
thought.
If this was what I thought it was, besides being perfect
fodder for a news leak, I began to see a plan. If I could get someone here, who
would at least have to hear me out and maybe even believe my story, maybe I
could convince them to run my errands and help try to save my hide. I would be
less than totally honest if I left out that I was also quite enamored with
having a Discreet Companion at my beck and call. But at this point, my friends
were all out of town, and, if they weren’t, I wouldn’t have wanted to call them
anyway, because I knew that was another trap that often got your butt in a
sling in these types of situations.
I dialed the number and got ready with my senator voice.
When a silky maiden answered, I said, “This is the senatah.”
“Which one?” she answered, and I nearly lost it.
“The one,” I said, taking a chance.
“Oh. Mr. Stanky! We haven’t heard from you in a while. How
can I help you?”
“I need a guhl. It’s for my nephew.”
“Same nephew as last time?”
“Different one.”
“The one from California?”
I didn’t want to drag this on, so I said yes.
“Does he still like all those …
nursery rhymes?
”
Believe me, she actually spoke those words in italics.
“Oh, my gosh. Loves ‘em. But he needs a new guhl. Give him
the newest guhl you’ve got. He’s at the Watergate, Room 857. Put it on my tab.”
“No one for you? The twins are available …”
I hadn’t anticipated this. “Um … no. I’ve got an … actress
to accompany me tonight.” Lame, I thought. Lame.
The voice at the other end practically purred. “I’ll send
our newest companion out there immediately. Her name is Desiree.”
That figured. I thanked her and hung up. No matter where she
was coming from or how ready she was, I was sure I would have twenty minutes. I
put on jeans and my T-shirt—better to be casual—and decided how I was going to
handle her entrance.
At first, I thought about standing behind the door and
knocking her out or something of the sort, but then I could imagine what the
headlines would look like if she were to get away. No, there needed to be no
more violence. But I wanted to at least get her in the room before I showed
myself; that way I could force her to stay a minute and listen to what I had to
say. I finally decided to leave the door open just a crack and wait in the
bathroom.
She arrived 23 minutes later. She knocked gently, and I said
come in, and then told her I was in the bathroom and to make herself
comfortable on the bed.
“I brought some costumes,” she said in a lilting, southern
tone.
“Great,” I said, rolling my eyes. In about three seconds, I
thought, she would go from thinking I was a weirdo to knowing I was a criminal.
I took a deep breath, looked at myself in the mirror to try to give me some
resolve, and walked out into the main part of the suite.
And there, on the bed, sat Tabitha.
Stephanie’s best friend.
Fourteen
I
don’t know who was more surprised.
She looked at me like I was having kittens, and my mouth rested gently on the
floor. I had no idea what I would say or do, but I realized she didn’t either.
As far as she knew, she was now confronted with a homicidal maniac who had
managed to track her down. Her eyes glazed, and she went pale. I could feel my
face turning red, despite the fact I was in charge. I wondered when she would
notice I wasn’t brandishing a gun.
What do you say to the best friend of someone who you have
dated, who you now know to be a lady of the evening, and who believes you have
killed her best friend’s boyfriend? What is the correct opening line? I moved,
so I was standing between her and the door.
She was wearing another black silk designer dress—even more
expensive than the one she had sported the other night—and earrings that were
sparkly and heavy. As she saw me appraising her, Tabitha glared at me and began
to move back toward the head of the bed, eyeing the phone but not moving toward
it. She still didn’t know what I would do. “You can’t get away with this …” she
began.
“I’m not …”
“How did you find me?”
“I didn’t …”
“What are you going to do to me?” She looked me dead in the
eyes, and I could see she was terrified. I wanted to comfort her, but I knew
that would only make her scream.
“Look,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “Look. I just
want you to listen. Can you do that?”
She nodded, relaxing a fraction but still terribly wary.
I didn’t know where to start. I moved toward her, and she
sprang back, quickly searching for any exit. I grabbed the phone and placed it
on the bed by her.
“If at any time you want to call,” I said, “you can call
anyone you want. I just want you to listen, though. Will you do that?” She
nodded again.
I knew the moment she started to call someone I probably
would’ve jumped on top of her and tickled her until she quit, but I wasn’t
about to let her know that. I wanted her to feel as safe as you can in the
presence of someone you believe to be a spree murderer.
She pulled her knees against her chest and sat there, tense
and uncomfortable. I pulled up a chair—still positioning it between her and the
door, and tried to tell her the story from beginning to end, but I jumped
around a lot, forgetting many things and adding them in as I went along. I told
her everything: how I thought Roger had been murdered, the stupid note I wrote,
my shoulder separation, and the ol’ license plate switcheroo. And, when I got
done, I had no idea whether she believed a single word that I had said. She had
listened to everything without a bit of emotion.
I decided to be bold. I walked over and asked her if I could
take the phone away. She stared at it longingly, then nodded. I put it back on
the table and sat back down. She looked at me in that woman’s intuition way
which men hate.
“That’s really far-fetched,” she said, still curled-up and
apprehensive.
“It’s just as far-fetched to believe I did it. The only
expertise I have with guns is that I once shot a neighbor’s car window out with
a BB gun, and I didn’t even mean to do that.”
She smiled. “Get in trouble?”
“I had to pick up walnuts for the rest of the fall.”
She relaxed somewhat, moving to a more comfortable sitting
position but still keeping her arms crossed. I wanted very much to ask her
exactly how she got into a line of work which involved dressing up like Little
Miss Muffet, and I still wanted to know if Stephanie was employed in the same
vocation, but I figured I would be pressing my luck.
We sat there, staring and looking away, for too long. She
finally spoke. “Why in God’s name did you hire a hooker?”
“I didn’t hire a hooker,” I said. “I hired an assistant.”
“What?” she said, springing up. “Oh no! I’m not getting
involved in all of this.”
“You already are, peripherally,” I pointed out.
“No, Stephanie’s involved. Not me. Where’s that phone?” She
scrambled toward it, and I was about to have to jump on top of her and stop it.
But I tried a sigh and a dejected look instead, glancing at her, and then
staring at the floor.
She grabbed the receiver, eyed the keypad, and then finally
put it down.
“God damn,” she said quietly.
After another long and painful silence, I moved to the foot
of the bed. “Look,” I said. “I had no idea it would be you. You are actually
the last—well, the next to last—person in the world I wanted to see—no offense.
I just had Stanky’s black book, and I figured there would be as much chance of
finding a hooker who would believe me and help me than there was of getting the
right cop. At least I could pay a hooker.”