Norman was a salesman, and he was on the road most of the time in strange towns where he had no companionship. He had discovered Irma years ago, and she was all the female company he needed. His stupid salesmen friends traveled around the country picking up sluts and professional whores, but Norman had the last laugh.
Irma would never give him a disease.
On the floor above, in Suite 725, Pat Murphy's family had just come back from dinner. Tim Murphy, twelve, was standing on the balcony overlooking the park. "Tomorrow can we climb up to the top of the monument, Daddy?" he begged. "Please?"
His younger brother said, "No. I want to go to the Smithsonian Institute."
"Institution," his father corrected him.
"Whatever. I want to go."
It was the first time the children had been in the nation's capital, although their father spent more than half of every year there. Pat Murphy was a successful lobbyist and had access to some of the most important people in Washington.
His father had been the mayor of a small town in Ohio, and Pat had grown up fascinated by politics. His best friend had been a boy named Joey. They had gone through school together, had gone to the same summer camps, and had shared everything. They were best friends in the truest sense of the phrase. That had all changed one holiday when Joey's parents were away and Joey was staying with the Murphys. In the middle of the night, Joey had come to Pat's room and climbed into his bed. "Pat," he whispered. "Wake up."
Pat's eyes had flown open. "What? What's the matter?"
"I'm lonely," Joey whispered. "I need you."
Pat Murphy was confused. "What for?"
"Don't you understand? I love you. I want you." And he had kissed Pat on the lips.
And the horrible realization had dawned that Joey was a homosexual. Pat was sickened by it. He refused ever to speak to Joey again.
Pat Murphy loathed homosexuals. They were freaks, faggots, fairies, cursed by God, trying to seduce innocent children. He turned his hatred and disgust into a lifelong campaign, voting for anti-homosexual candidates and lecturing about the evils and dangers of homosexuality.
In the past, he had always come to Washington alone, but this time his wife had stubbornly insisted that he bring her and the children.
"We want to see what your life here is like," she said. And Pat had finally given in.
He looked at his wife and children now and thought, It's one of the last times I'll ever see them. How could I have ever made such a stupid mistake? Well, it's almost over now. His family had such grand plans for tomorrow. But there would be no tomorrow. In the morning, before they were awake, he would be on his way to Brazil.
Alan was waiting for him.
In Suite 825, the Imperial Suite, there was total silence. Breathe, he told himself. You must breathe...slower, slower.... He was at the edge of panic. He looked at the slim, naked body of the young girl on the floor and thought, It wasn't my fault. She slipped.
Her head had split open where she had fallen against the sharp edge of the wrought-iron table, and blood was oozing from her forehead. He had felt her wrist. There was no pulse. It was incredible. One moment she had been so alive, and the next moment...
I've got to get out of here. Now! He turned away from the body and hurriedly began to dress. This would not be just another scandal. This would be a scandal that rocked the world. They must never trace me to this suite. When he finished dressing, he went into the bathroom, moistened a towel, and began polishing the surfaces of every place he might have touched.
When he was finally sure he had left no fingerprints to mark his presence, he took one last look around. Her purse! He picked up the girl's purse from the couch, and walked to the far end of the apartment, where the private elevator waited.
He stepped inside, trying hard to control his breathing. He pressed G, and a few seconds later, the elevator door opened and he was in the garage. It was deserted. He started toward his car, then, suddenly remembering, hurried back to the elevator. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingerprints from the elevator buttons. He stood in the shadows, looking around again to make sure he was still alone. Finally satisfied, he walked over to his car, opened the door, and sat behind the wheel. After a moment, he turned on the ignition and drove out of the garage.
It was a Filipina maid who found the dead girl's body sprawled on the floor.
"O Dios ko, kawawa naman iyong babae!" She made the sign of the cross and hurried out of the room, screaming for help.
Three minutes later, Jeremy Robinson and Thom Peters, the hotel's head of security, were in the Imperial Suite staring down at the naked body of the girl.
"Jesus," Thom said. "She can't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old." He turned to the manager. "We'd better call the police."
"Wait!" Police. Newspapers. Publicity. For one wild moment, Robinson wondered whether it would be possible to spirit the girl's body out of the hotel. "I suppose so," he finally said reluctantly.
Thom Peters took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up the telephone.
"What are you doing?" Robinson demanded. "This isn't a crime scene. It was an accident."
"We don't know that yet, do we?" Peters said.
He dialed a number and waited. "Homicide."
Detective Nick Reese looked like the paperback version of a street-smart cop. He was tall and brawny, with a broken nose that was a memento from an early boxing career. He had paid his dues by starting as an officer in Washington's Metropolitan Police Department and had slowly worked his way through the ranks: Master Patrol Officer, Sergeant, Lieutenant. He had been promoted from Detective D2 to Detective D1, and in the past ten years had solved more cases than anyone else in the department.