Again, not the best view. I can see him working on it but the image cuts off what he’s actually doing at the station.
“What exactly are we doing?” Ruby asks.
“My job,” I tell it.
Next I go looking for Cin, find her standing at the bar, unsure of what to do after all the commotion. “Hey,” I ask her. “You got a second?”
She smiles a little, like maybe she’s hoping I’ll flirt a bit, but I don’t have time for that. She nods. “Yeah?”
“Did you notice anything weird about that table while you were serving them?”
She shakes her head slowly, unsure of what I’m asking, which is fair, because I’m feeling it out myself. “No, nothing.”
“Did you notice anyone at any of the surrounding tables taking photo or videos?”
“Yeah, there was a big party next to them, celebrating a birthday. They all had their phones out.”
I glance over at the next table, which is abandoned, but I see the trail of people heading out of the restaurant. I go chasing after them and manage to catch a guy in a white silk shirt with a shaved head and an obnoxious gold chain around his thick neck.
“Party over so soon?” I ask.
He smiles a very drunken and lascivious smile and responds in a thick Russian accent. “We are headed back up to my suite for the after-party. You are welcome to join.”
“Thanks, but it’s been too long since I’ve had a tetanus shot. Were you taking any video during your meal?”
He suddenly goes cold. “Why do you ask this?”
“I’m the head of security. As you can see we just had an incident here and for insurance purposes I need to collect as much data as I can. Since you were seated across from that whole incident, I’d like to review whatever footage you might have.”
He takes his phone out of his pocket, but then hesitates.
“Ruby, comp their meal,” I say.
“They ordered four bottles of Dom Pérignon, Reg isn’t going to be happy…”
“Do it.”
After a moment Ruby says, “Done.”
“You’re welcome,” I tell the Russian, then put out my hand. “Phone.”
He shrugs, cues up something on the screen, and hands it to me.
And it’s perfect. He’s filming two people sitting across from him, and they’re singing “Happy Birthday” to someone else seated at the table, doing a horrible job. Between them is a fairly unobstructed view of Warwick. I watch him in the background, gesturing to Drucker and his brother.
“How long is this going to take?” the man asks.
“Shut up,” I tell him.
There.
Just as the people he’s filming are finishing the song, Warwick’s jacket seems to rustle. I stop the video, rewind it, and watch it again, wondering if maybe it’s a trick of the light, or just the way Warwick moves.
No. He’s listening to something that either Drucker or Kolten is saying. He is sitting nearly perfectly still. And his jacket seems to lift for a moment before falling back down against his chest.
Like his pocket was being picked.
“I need a copy of this video,” I tell the Russian.
“I’m not so sure…”
“I just comped your damn meal. Consent to sending me the video.”
He nods, so I hold the phone toward Ruby, who handles the data transfer. Then I give it back to him. “Thanks.”
He takes the phone, crams it in his pocket, and stalks away. I suspect I am no longer invited to his party.
“Warwick’s jacket,” I tell it. “Just after the three-minute mark.”
Ruby pauses, and says, “What are you implying?”
“Doesn’t it seem like his jacket moved? Like someone was reaching inside?”
“January, this is hardly conclusive…”
“Is it common knowledge that Kolten has a peanut allergy?”
Another moment. “Yes. There was a profile in Wired three years ago in which it was cited, along with the fact that he tended to forget his EpiPen, which is why his brother always carries one.”
“Shit.”
I cross to my perch above the lobby and look down. It’s less crowded now, some level of stasis having been achieved. Cameo is back at concierge, Reg is standing by the coffee urn, which seems to have coffee now, because of course it does. As soon as I get down there it’ll be empty again.
A few other guests mill about.
But I’m not looking at them. I’m looking at the space between them.
Looking for the ghosts.
Kolten asked me about them. Yeah, my brain is broken and I’m slipping in time and it allows me to see my dead girlfriend roaming the halls, which means I have to be open to the fact that the universe is a big, complicated place, to which I do not have all the answers. And I know that other people see things in this place too—the rumors of haunting have persisted from day one—so it’s not just me who experiences this stuff.
Figures roaming the hallways. Conversations in empty rooms. The occasional brush or nudge that comes from nowhere.
As much as I want Mbaye to feel like an asshole, like he might have screwed up, the reality is, I know he takes this kind of thing seriously. He wouldn’t have overlooked that.
So yeah. Ghosts. Who else was going to dose Kolten’s food with something that would kill him, and manage to swipe the thing that would save him from his brother’s pocket?
* * *
—
…I’m sitting in bed, feeling the heat radiating off the steam pipe next to me. The smell of garlic and chili paste frying in the kitchen. I want to go downstairs. To be seen, to hear my mother’s voice.
No…
I’m in the gym. The skin on my knuckles is raw because I didn’t bother with hand wraps or gloves. I just needed twenty minutes of beating the shit out of something. It gets the blood flowing to my brain. I can’t just keep throwing back Retronim, which it seems like I’m building a tolerance to. And I can’t even remember if I took one or two today. Ruby says I took one but what if I took a second when it wasn’t looking?
So off to the heavy bag I go. Fighting has always helped center me. My own holistic remedy. Throwing punches and the occasional roundhouse kick is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a meditative state.
Which I always thought made for a pretty good joke. Look at me relax as I try to bust open this heavy bag. But Mena explained that meditation isn’t about sitting in lotus and closing your eyes and humming. It’s about finding your center, your inner peace, and inhabiting that.
That’s what I’m inhabiting.
This is my inner peace.
The pain in my knuckles. The ache in my lungs. The sting on my shins.
And within that pain I can find a little focus.
Unfortunately, there’s a lot to focus on. And before I can settle into that, the door of the studio opens behind me. In the mirrors running along the walls, I see Nik come in. I’m midcombination—jab, jab, cross, hook, uppercut, low roundhouse—so I finish before I turn. All the blows are quick and snappy, which makes me feel good, that he saw me at my best. Because I haven’t been feeling at my best since I woke up.