Free Last to Fold by David Duffy Page B

floor to one side, was a third full. Could be another one there. I didn’t look but walked straight to the elevators, the backpack over my shoulder for all to see, and punched 3. I transferred the SIG to my waistband during the ride.
    The door opened in a small waiting area. Empty corridors ran in both directions. Room 312 was to the right. Door ajar, as promised. I pushed it open and stopped. No movement. No sound, other than the hum of hotel machinery and a TV somewhere down the hall.
    Inside the door, a narrow hall extended past a closet and bathroom on the left into the room itself, which was filled with a king-sized bed, a desk, and a chair. Standard hotel design.
    I had just put the backpack on the bed when I heard a noise. I started to turn, but a blow landed on the back of my head. Something hard, knocking me forward, onto the bed. I held myself up, which was a mistake because it got me another crack on the skull. I fell to the floor, woozy but conscious and alert enough to pretend I was out cold. A foot poked my side a couple of times. I refused to move and tried to keep my breathing slow and steady.
    A male voice, speaking Ukrainian, said, “Watch him while I get the money.”
    I heard the sounds of the backpack being emptied. The same voice spoke again.
    “Jerk-fuck thinks he smart. Look at this.”
    The other man said, “Shit. You think that’s—”
    “Not now, fool! Search him. Get his keys—and anything else.”
    The other man bent over me. Vodka on his breath. I felt his hands in my jacket pocket. When he tried to push me over, I pulled the SIG from my back and stuck it in his face.
    “Back off.”
    The man pulled away fast, afraid. The other man said, “Shit!” and bolted for the door, carrying a blue backpack.
    “Looks like it’s you and me, pal.” I made a show of raising the gun.
    “No … I … Please…”
    He backed slowly away, as if any sudden movement would cause me to fire.
    “Get out,” I hissed.
    He was gone in an instant, leaving a Raven MP-25, a true junk gun, on the bed.
    I hefted the pistol and ejected the clip. Full, but the safety was on. He’d probably hit me with the butt. I felt the back of my head. Some swelling near the base of the skull, a little blood, not too much. These guys were amateurs, and incompetent ones at that, but the fact that they were Ukrainians was one more coincidence I didn’t like.
    The red backpack was on the floor, empty. The transponder was next to it. I sat on the bed long enough for my head to clear, then took the plastic liner from the ice bucket and filled it at the ice machine on my way downstairs. The lobby bar was still busy. No Eva. No one under the age of thirty. I wasn’t surprised, but I wanted to be able to tell Bernie I was thorough.
    I returned to the elevator. The Sheraton had ten floors, eight with guest rooms. The top two were labeled CLUB LEVEL and required a special key. I assumed the Ukrainians wouldn’t have sprung for those. Thirty-eight rooms to a floor, two hundred thirty to check. I started on eight and worked my way down, knocking on every door. Business was slow, and fewer than a hundred rooms were occupied. I asked for Eva wherever someone answered. Most responded, “Wrong room” or “Not here.” I interrupted two couples in the throes of passion. The first woman screamed, “My husband!” The second man told me to “Fuck off!” Three other women threatened to call security. One guy invited me to join the poker game he was running in his suite. The whole process took just over half an hour.
    Eva wasn’t there, just as I’d expected. Never had been. Time for Plan B. The Ukrainians might know where she was. More likely, I’d have to find a way to get them to spill who they were working for. Along the way, of course, I’d retrieve the money and discourage whoever needed discouraging from trying to put another bite on the Mulhollands. Priorities.
    No one near my car. The Ukrainians were long gone—or so they