Too Close to Home

Mayor Finley was particularly upbeat. “So, Cutter,” he said. “What’s this I hear about you being a painter?”

I glanced in the mirror. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Just around. That true?”

“I paint,” I said.

“Whaddya paint?”

“Landscapes, mostly. Some wildlife, portraits.”

“Oh shit, that kind of painting,” Finley said. “I was thinking of having you do my kitchen. Let me ask you this. You a good edger? I hate it when the wall color bleeds into the ceiling.” He laughed. “But seriously, what are you doing driving my fat ass around if you’re a painter?”

“Not all artists get to make a living from what they love,” I said. “There reaches a point when you have to accept that you’ve either got it or you don’t.”

I’d never been inclined to open up to him, and this was as close as I’d ever gotten, and Finley must have realized it because he didn’t have a quick comeback. “Yeah, well,” he said, “seriously, you ever want to make a few extra bucks painting my kitchen, the offer’s on the table.”

I looked at him in the mirror. “Sure,” I said.

Before we reached the Holiday Inn, Randall Finley let me know he wanted me to park around back. He didn’t want the black Mercury seen up front. That gave me a hint about what sort of meeting he had planned.

I said fine.

“You talk to Lance today?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“You and him, you don’t get along so good,” the mayor observed. It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t say anything. “You could learn a thing or two from him, you know? He’s got terrific connections. Knows a lot of people. You need something, he can get it for you.”

“He isn’t offering anything I need,” I said, putting on the blinker.

“Need’s got nothing to do with it,” the mayor said. “It’s all about want.”

It was ten o’clock, it had been a long day, and I wanted to go home and see Ellen before she fell asleep. I asked if he wanted me to wait or drive around awhile and come back in, say, an hour?

Finley glanced at his watch. “Forty-five minutes,” he said. Then, hesitantly, “If you have to come and get me, should you happen to see Mrs. Finley drive into the parking lot, for example, I’m having a meeting in room 143. You might have to wait a bit after knocking. Or better yet, call my cell.”

“Yeah,” I said.

It didn’t take Hercule Poirot to figure out what Finley was up to. What I didn’t know was whether this rendezvous was with someone he actually had something going on with, or someone he was paying by the hour. Or by three-quarters of an hour. Chances were she wasn’t some city hall employee. The mayor was mindful of sexual harassment suits. Maybe it was someone trying to get a contract with the city. Or, more likely, someone working on behalf of someone looking for a contract. There was no limit to what some of these consulting firms would do to get a multimillion-dollar deal, and few limits to what the mayor would accept in return.

I drove down the highway a mile to get a decaf coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts, then drove back, taking a spot behind the Holiday Inn, in view of a Dumpster.

After about thirty minutes, my cell rang. I thought it might be Ellen calling to see whether I was ever going to get home. I wanted to talk to her, but at the same time was hoping it wasn’t her. I wasn’t proud to be cooling my heels while my boss got his ashes hauled, and I didn’t want to talk to her about it.

I glanced at the number on the readout, saw that it was His Honor himself calling. “Yeah?” I said.

“Get in here! I’m hurt!”

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“Just get in here! I’m bleeding.”

I was no paramedic, so I said, “You want me to get an ambulance?”

“Jesus Christ no, just get the fuck in here!”

I drove to the front of the hotel, parked on the apron by the main doors, and ran inside. Finley had said he was in room 143, so I took that to mean the first floor. I found a hallway beyond the lobby, ran down it until I got to 143.

There was a girl leaning up against the wall a few feet down the hall. Mid to late teens, I guessed, frizzy blond hair, upturned nose, heavily rouged cheeks that failed to hide a pair of dimples. She was in a strapless top, short skirt, and heels, and gave me a once-over when I knocked on the door.

“Someone’s in there,” she said.

“That’s why I’m knocking,” I said.

“She’s busy,” the girl said. “But I’m available. I’m Linda.”

From the other side of the door came a familiar, if somewhat muffled, voice. “Who is it?” Mayor Finley.

“It’s me,” I said.

He opened the door just enough to let me in, keeping himself hidden as he did so. Once I was inside the room I could see that he was in nothing but polka-dotted boxers, and there was blood soaked into the front of them.

“What the-”

“It’s not my fault.” Another voice, young and female.

The girl was on the floor beyond the foot of the bed, next to a toppled TV and stand. Short skirt, low-cut sweater, straight black hair down to her shoulders. Skinny legs, kind of gangly. Didn’t fill out the sweater. She was working her jaw around, like she was trying to get the feeling back in it.