LUCY KNOCKS ON the door of room 511. It has a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob, and the TV is loud inside, hoofs pounding, guns firing. It sounds like Rudy is watching a Western. But what he's watching is Rocco.
"Yeah." After a pause, Rudy's voice sounds from inside.
"Down and secure," she uses helicopter talk and scans the hallway as she pulls latex gloves out of a pocket and works her hands into them.
The door opens wide enough for her to slip through, and she closes it behind her. Rudy is also wearing surgical gloves, and turns the lock and dead bolt. Lucy takes off her windbreaker and stares hard at Rocco Caggiano, at his flabby, fat body and his bloodshot eyes. She takes in every detail of the room. Draped over a chair is his black cashmere overcoat, and in a corner on the carpet are a plastic tray and an empty bottle of champagne next to a stainless-steel ice bucket filled with water. It would have taken hours for the ice to completely melt. The bed is king-size, and directly across from it in front of a window with the drapes drawn are a small glass table and two chairs. On the carpet are several British newspapers. He's recently been in England, maybe. But Rocco has never bothered to learn a second language. The papers could have come from anywhere along his route here.
Parked between the table and the bed is a room-service cart with nothing on it but four stainless-steel plate covers. Lucy can't help but think of Rocco's estranged father, Pete Marino, as she eyes a gnawed T-bone, the shredded skin of a baked potato, a plate with one pat of butter left (melted), an empty bread basket and a glass goblet filled with wilted lettuce, cocktail sauce, wedges of lemon and shrimp tails. He so completely devoured a slice of chocolate cake, nothing is left but smears made with Rocco's fingers.
"I gotta go."
"Be my guest."
She hurries into the bathroom. The stench is horrible.
"He sober?" Lucy asks Rudy when she returns.
"Sober enough."
"Must be in the genes."
"What?"
"The way father and son take care of themselves," she says. "But that's all he and Marino have in common." This to Rocco: "Drop by Szczecin to check on a few spare firearms? Maybe some ammunition, explosives, electronics, perfumes and designer clothing? How many phony bills of lading are in your briefcase?"
Rocco glares at her, his attention dropping to her cleavage.
"Keep your goddamn eyes to yourself," Lucy snaps, having forgotten about her appearance. She buttons up and resumes her interrogation. "Probably thousands of them floating around somewhere, right, Rocco?"
He says nothing. Lucy notices vomit on the carpet between his black crocodile loafers.
" 'Bout time you gagged on your own shit, Rocco." She sits on the edge of the bed.
"That a pickle up your sleeve, or you just happy to see me," Rudy says to Lucy without a smile, without taking his eyes off Rocco.
Lucy remembers the tactical baton up the sleeve of her linen blouse, slips it out and sets it on the bedside table. It is warm in the room. She glances at the thermostat, verifying that Rudy turned up the heat to seventy-four degrees. Any higher than that could arouse suspicion. Blowing heat moves the drapes drawn across the window on the other side of the room. The window is large and faces the front of the hotel. Rocco stares at the pistol, his eyes filling with tears.
"My, my," Lucy remarks, "you're quite a crybaby for someone so mean and tough. And by the way, your father doesn't cry." She looks at Rudy. "You ever seen Marino cry?"
"Nope."
"You ever seen him shit in his pants?"
"Nope. Did'cha know that Rocco here had plans to put a bullet in Marino's head on his fishing trip? You know, the one he always takes to Buggs Lake."
Lucy doesn't comment. A flush creeps up her neck. Hopefully, Marino will never know that she and Rudy came here and probably saved his life. Rocco won't be shooting anyone ever again.
"You could have killed your father years ago. Why this August?" Lucy asks him.
She knows when Marino takes his annual fishing trip.
Rocco shrugs. "Instructions."
"From whom?"
"My former client. He has scores to settle."
"Jean-Baptiste," Lucy says. "So the two of you have remained close. That's touching, because he's the reason you're about to die."
"I don't believe you!" Rocco exclaims. "He'd never… He needs me."
"For what?" Rudy asks.
"Outside work," Rocco replies. "I'm still his attorney. He can send me anything he wants. Contact me anytime he wants."
"What does he send you?" Rudy asks.
"Anything. All he's got to do is mark it Legal Mail, and no one can open it. So if he wants letters or shit sent to somebody who obviously ain't a lawyer, he sends it through me."
"The letter I got from him that ratted you out, Rocco, did he send it through you?" Lucy asks.
"No. He's never sent me a letter with your name on it. I never open them. Too risky. If he ever found out." He pauses, his eyes glassy. "I don't believe he sent you a letter!"
"We're here, aren't we?" Rudy says. "So how did that happen if Chan-donne didn't send a letter and tell us everything we need to know?"
Rocco has no answer.
"Why would he want you to kill your father?" Lucy isn't about to forget that subject. "Especially now. What scores to settle?"
"Maybe Jean-Baptiste don't like him. I guess you could consider it a parting shot." Rocco briefly looks smug.
"Mind if I see that for a minute?" Lucy holds out her hand for Rudy's pistol.
He drops out the magazine and clears the round from the chamber. The cartridge bounces on the bed. Lucy picks it up and Rudy gives her the Colt. She walks close to Rocco and pushes the loose cartridge into the magazine with her thumb.
"Your father taught me how to drive," she tells Rocco in a conversational tone. "You ever seen those huge pickup trucks of his? Well, that's what I learned in when I was so little I had to sit on a pillow, even with the seat raised."
She racks back the slide and aims the pistol between his eyes.
"He taught me how to shoot, too."
She squeezes the trigger.
Click.
Rocco jumps violently.
"Oops." Lucy smacks the magazine back inside the handle. "Forgot it wasn't loaded. Get up, Rocco."
"You're cops." His voice trembles in fear and disbelief. "Cops don't kill people. They don't do this!"
"I'm not a cop," Rudy says to Lucy. "Are you a cop?"
"No. I'm not a cop. I don't see a single cop in this room, do you?"
"Some CIA paramilitary operatives. Bet they sent you into Iraq, didn't they? To take out Saddam Hussein. I know what people like you do." "Never been to Iraq, have you?" Lucy says to Rudy. "Not recently."