The Setup Man by T. T. Monday

Author:T. T. Monday [Monday, T. T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-385-53846-6
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2014-03-10T16:00:00+00:00

26

As I wait for the elevator, I return to thinking about Frankie Herrera. My stomach sours. I feel like a surgeon who has cut into a patient to remove a section of cancerous intestine only to discover, once the guy is laid open, that all the other organs are diseased, too. I’ve read that in a case like that the doctor just sews up the patient and calls a priest.

On the eighth floor, I root in my pockets for the keycard, trying to remember the room number the clubhouse guys gave me at the ballpark. I try a few doors until I get a green light.

Even before I’m inside, I know something is wrong with the room. For one thing, the lights are all on, and the air is thick and wet, like Atlanta in August. The mirror on the closet door is fogged. It might be Bethany. She has surprised me on the road before. Then I see the rest of the room: the drawers have been pulled out of the bureau, the mattresses upended and slashed. I roll open the closet door. Inside, my suitcase has thrown up: clothes and toiletries everywhere, strewn across the carpet like flood debris.

I reach into my pocket to make sure Herrera’s phone is still there. I’ve had hotel rooms searched before; you can’t be too careful. When I’m working a case, I never travel with anything I can’t replace at Target. Anything that can fit in my pocket stays there. Anything else of value—and even items of questionable value, like the investment binder I took from Bam Bam’s office—I leave at the ballpark with my playing gear. That stuff follows me at a distance, hauled to the next park by the clubhouse crew.

I go into the bathroom and turn off the faucet, then sit on the bed and calmly dial Security.

“This is John Adcock,” I say. “I’m going to need another room.”

While I wait, I scroll through Herrera’s texts, looking for a clue. The threatening notes all came from a blocked number. I decide to give the thing to Bethany first chance I get. She’ll know what to do.

Five minutes later, a young man in a police-style brush cut arrives at the door. He is wearing black cargo pants and a black polo shirt with the hotel’s logo on one breast. A walkie-talkie dangles from his hip. “Mr. Adcock?” His eyes grow wide as he looks into the room. He says, “Holy shit,” and then, regaining himself, he thanks me for calling. “Normally when the phone rings on third shift it’s some old lady who can’t figure out how to turn off the TV. But this—whew—this is an actual burglary!”

“Glad to make your night more interesting,” I say. “But this wasn’t a burglary.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Adcock,” the kid says, “I think I know more about crime than you do.”

“Let’s hope not.”

I go to the closet and begin scooping my clothes back into the suitcase. Behind me, the kid fumbles with his walkie-talkie and tells the scratchy voice on the other end that Mr.

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