The night attendant was a black former Marine sergeant called Tino Hill. He’d known Blake from the old days, when Hill had been an FBI spotter on a monthly retainer to keep an eye out for bad people with their faces on posters.
Blake, Teddy, Ferguson, and Hannah stood in the back office, the door slightly ajar. Dillon was seated at the table, the makeup box open, looking at himself in a small glass while he coated his face, first with a green-white base, then streaked it with false blood.
He turned. “Will I do?”
“You look horrible,” Hannah told him.
“Good. Let’s see what happens.”
“Are you sure about this?” Johnson asked.
“I think Judas will want confirmation.”
The outer bell rang. Johnson peered through the slightly open door. “That’s him, the driver. Do as I told you, Tino.”
Tino went out. “Can I help you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Gold said. “My cousin was supposed to meet me outside the Charlton Hotel and he didn’t come and someone told me there was a shooting.”
“Just wait a minute.”
Tino went back inside, nodded to Dillon, opened a door and led the way into an air-cooled room with several surgical tables containing bodies, three of which were naked, the rest draped with sheets.
“Ready for the pathologists in the morning,” he said. “Okay, Mr. Dillon, up you go.”
Dillon lay on a vacant table and Tino covered him with a sheet, went out, nodded to the others, and confronted Gold.
“Now let’s see.” He looked in his register. “You say near the Charlton?”
“That’s right.”
“What was your cousin’s name?”
“Dillon.” Gold almost whispered it.
“Hey, that’s the victim of the shooting at the Charlton garage. They just brought him in. Will you identify him?”
“If I must.”
“Okay. This way, and if you feel like vomiting, run for the green door.”
In the receiving room, Gold paused, shocked particularly by the sight of the naked dead bodies. “Don’t look good, do they?” Tino said. “Comes to us all. Mind you, look at the size of the dick on the one at the end. I sure as hell believe he had a good time.”
Gold breathed deeply. Tino slipped the sheet, revealing Dillon’s face only. His eyes were fixed and staring. He looked truly dreadful and Gold did indeed run for the green door, where he found himself in a lavatory, and was thoroughly sick.
When he came out, Tino led him through to the front desk. “Can I have your details, sir? The police will need them.”
“I’m too distressed now,” Gold said. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” and he hurried out.
In the back room, Blake switched off his mobile. “I’ve got an unmarked car to follow him. We’ll leave him in place, naturally. If we didn’t, Judas would be unhappy, but I’d like to know who he is for future reference.”
“And the shooter,” Teddy said, “he gets away with it, too? A bastard like that.”
“I know, Teddy, but guys like that could get it on the street any night.”
Dillon came in, sat down, took cleansing cream from the makeup kit, got rid of the grunge on his face, then washed at a sink in the corner.
He smiled as he toweled it off. “Frightened the bastard to death.”
Blake’s phone rang. He listened, then said, “Thanks, owe you a favor.” He looked at them. “My friend at criminal procedures. He recognized the shooter at once, one Nelson Harker. The driver’s face was obscure. Harker is a number-one hit man, who frightens the hell out of people so much, no one will ever testify. He lives on Flower Street.”
“Will you visit him?” Hannah asked.
“One of these days. We’ll see. Let’s get back to the hotel. I’ll drop you off, then go home and pack. Ireland next stop.”
His mobile sounded again on the way to the hotel and he answered. When he switched it off, he said, “My man followed our unknown to an apartment block in Georgetown. Mark Gold is his name. My secretary, Alice Quarmby, checked him on our computer, and guess what? He’s a Senior Computer Operator at the Defense Department, a very bright young man. His brother, also American, emigrated to Israel. He was killed in some Hamas rocket attack on the kibbutz where he worked.”