Chapter 10

Agent Martin

The elevator is busy, so I take the stairs to the fifth floor of the hotel. There are road crew from the tour rushing around, as if the girl is still here.

Her private floor is surprisingly empty, like they are still honoring her wishes after she’s gone. I see a few executives in suits talking to police, but none of them pay any attention to me.

This floor has already been carefully searched and researched, and everyone is quite positive that this is no joke, and that she is not hiding under a bed or in a closet. Murphy’s bodyguard is sitting on the bed in her room, as if she is going to just waltz in here, back to him like nothing happened.

“Mr. Morrow?” I ask. The sight of this brute makes me sick to my stomach. He is one of those all-muscle/no-brain guys and has done a total of 13 years in various prisons for various degrees of assault. He was hired by the record company for his act-first manner of dealing with problems. They didn’t want the chance of anyone hurting their precious commodity. The projected numbers indicated they could afford broken hands, arms, and occasional jaws of over-zealous paparazzi more than they could afford losing Miss Murphy or having her hurt in any way. Of course, when Murphy met up with Lazarus, there was nothing that Morrow could do to stop it.

“Yes?” he asks. He looks shocked and worried, and maybe even a little sad. About five minutes before I came in, the tour manager had been reaming Morrow out over the event. Morrow knew just how much danger his job was in, and that if Murphy didn’t show up soon, his services would no longer be needed. He was also threatened with being sued with everything from breach of contract to aiding and abetting a kidnaping.

“I’m Special Agent John Martin,” I say, flashing my badge to him. My words make him turn white and very nearly shit himself. “Relax,” I say, pocketing the badge. “I’m just here to ask you a couple questions about Miss Murphy.” I’m pretty sure that no one here can provide me with the information I need, but with Morrow as dumb and frightened as he is, I don’t think I need to worry about him nosing around about me too much.

“I’ll tell you anything I can,” he says, a little too desperately.

“Good, good,” I respond. “This shouldn’t take too long.” I take the notebook from the inner pocket of my trench coat and open it to a page I’ve already scribbled on. “Now, I have reason to believe that Miss Murphy left with a man named Anton Lazarus. Have you heard her mention that name before?”

“You know who she’s with already? How’d you find that?”

“I can’t disclose my sources,” I snap. “Please, answer the question. Has she mentioned that name before?”

He thinks for a moment and starts to slowly shake his head. “No,” he says, lacking confidence. “No, I don’t believe I’ve heard that name before.” He looks up at me, his brown eyes pleading. “Is this man dangerous?”

I nod. “Mr. Lazarus is to be considered extremely dangerous.” My eyes narrow. “No one knows what you’ve done,” I whisper harshly. “Not even Miss Murphy.”

He looks at me, horrified. “I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I shake my head. “The way you sneak in her room at night, the way you fondle yourself while watching her sleep. You’re lucky she’s never woken up, because I assure you it would not go like it does in your fantasies.” I raise my eyebrows. “Care to tell me about the camera in the bathroom?”

“This is ridiculous!” he cries, though his eyes are betraying his righteous indignation.

“Mr. Morrow, have you considered how valuable those pictures would be if Miss Murphy turns up dead?” He starts to rise, but I put him back on the bed with a hand on his shoulder. “If I killed you dead here and now, someone would find those pictures. The police would be too busy to ask many questions about why you died. If anything, they’d hold you responsible. Someone would find a way to call your death suicide.” I lean in close and grin. “I’d make sure they had a difficult job.” I sit on the bed beside him, too close for his comfort. “I don’t have time for that now though, so let’s have a talk. Has Mis Murphy made any mention of going somewhere lately?”

He shakes his head. “She talks about going home a lot, but that’s about it.”

“And where does she live?”

“Boston.” The fat oaf can’t even look at me.

I light a hand-rolled cigarette from the gold case in my pocket. “I want you to thank me.” I take a big puff off the cigarette.

“Thank you?”

“Something wrong with that?” Puff.

“No sir.”

“You found me on a good day, Mr. Morrow.” Puff. “I’m not usually this forgiving.” I blow a cloud of smoke in Morrow’s face. It swirls around him and makes him cough. I wag a finger at him as a warning. “Don’t forget this, Mr. Morrow. If I wasn’t so pressed for secrecy, you’d be dead right now, so I want you to thank me.”

“Please, I didn’t know,” he whimpers. The last person that threatened him was the cause of his last prison sentence. The victim almost died, but Morrow’s good lawyers got it knocked down to three years when he agreed to a psychiatric evaluation and therapy. Just look at the wonderful jobs a work release program can get you! Now he whimpers before me, hardly able to move.

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