Part 15 (1/2)
”Ein Ring!” Beckerrepeated as the door slammed shut.
David Becker stood a long moment in the well-furnished hallway.A replica of a Salvador Dali hung nearby. ”Fitting.”Becker groaned. Surrealism. I'm trapped in an absurddream. He'd woken up that morning in his own bed but hadsomehow ended up in Spain breaking into a stranger's hotelroom on a quest for some magical ring.
Strathmore's stern voice pulled him back to reality: Youmust find that ring.
Becker took a deep breath and blocked out the words. He wantedto go home. He looked back to the door marked 301. His ticket homewas just on the other side-a gold ring. All he had to do wasget it.
He exhaled purposefully. Then he strode back to suite 301 andknocked loudly on the door. It was time to play hardball.
The German yanked open the door and was about to protest, butBecker cut him off.
He flashed his Maryland squash club ID andbarked, ”Polizei!” Then Becker pushed his way into theroom and threw on the lights.
Wheeling, the German squinted in shock. ”Wasmachst-”
”Silence!” Becker switched to English. ”Do youhave a prost.i.tute in this room?”
Becker peered around theroom. It was as plush as any hotel room he'd ever seen.
Roses,champagne, a huge canopy bed. Rocio was nowhere to be seen.The bathroom door was closed. ”Prost.i.tuiert?” The German glanced uneasily at theclosed bathroom door. He was larger than Becker had imagined. Hishairy chest began right under his triple chin and sloped outward tohis colossal gut. The drawstring of his white terry-cloth AlfonsoXIII bathrobe barely reached around his waist.
Becker stared up at the giant with his most intimidating look.”What is your name?”
A look of panic rippled across the German's corpulent face.”Was willst du? What do you want?”
”I am with the tourist relations branch of the SpanishGuardia here in Seville. Do you have a prost.i.tute in thisroom?”
The German glanced nervously at the bathroom door. He hesitated.”Ja,” he finally admitted.
”Do you know this is illegal in Spain?”
”Nein,” the German lied. ”I did not know.I'll send her home right now.”
”I'm afraid it's too late for that,” Beckersaid with authority. He strolled casually into the room. ”Ihave a proposition for you.”
”Ein Vorschlag?” The German gasped. ”Aproposition?”
”Yes. I can take you to headquarters right now ...”Becker paused dramatically and cracked his knuckles.
”Or what?” the German asked, his eyes widening infear.
”Or we make a deal.”
”What kind of deal?” The German had heard storiesabout the corruption in the Spanish Guardia Civil.
”You have something I want,” Becker said.
”Yes, of course!” the German effused, forcing a smile.He went immediately to the wallet on his dresser. ”Howmuch?”
Becker let his jaw drop in mock indignation. ”Are youtrying to bribe an officer of the law?” he bellowed.
”No! Of course not! I just thought ...” The obeseman quickly set down his wallet. ”I .
. . I ...” He wastotally fl.u.s.tered. He collapsed on the corner of the bed and wrunghis hands. The bed groaned under his weight. ”I'msorry.”
Becker pulled a rose from the vase in the center of the room andcasually smelled it before letting it fall to the floor. He spunsuddenly. ”What can you tell me about the murder?” The German went white. ”Mord? Murder?”
”Yes. The Asian man this morning? In the park? It was ana.s.sa.s.sination- Ermordung.” Becker loved the German wordfor a.s.sa.s.sination. Ermordung. It was so chilling.
”Ermordung? He ... he was ... ?”
”Yes.”
”But ... but that's impossible,” the Germanchoked. ”I was there. He had a heart attack. I saw it. n.o.blood. No bullets.”
Becker shook his head condescendingly. ”Things are notalways as they seem.”
The German went whiter still.
Becker gave an inward smile. The lie had served its purpose. Thepoor German was sweating profusely.
”Wh-wh-at do you want?” he stammered. ”I knownothing.”
Becker began pacing. ”The murdered man was wearing a goldring. I need it.”
”I-I don't have it.”
Becker sighed patronizingly and motioned to the bathroom door.”And Rocio?
Dewdrop?”
The man went from white to purple. ”You know Dewdrop?”He wiped the sweat from his fleshy forehead and drenched histerry-cloth sleeve. He was about to speak when the bathroom doorswung open.
Both men looked up.
Rocio Eva Granada stood in the doorway. A vision. Longflowing red hair, perfect Iberian skin, deep-brown eyes, a highsmooth forehead. She wore a white terry-cloth robe that matched theGerman's. The tie was drawn snugly over her wide hips, and theneck fell loosely open to reveal her tanned cleavage. She steppedinto the bedroom, the picture of confidence.
”May I help you?” she asked in throaty English.
Becker gazed across the room at the stunning woman before himand did not blink. ”I need the ring,” he said coldly.