We got back onto the expressway, but instead of driving all the way back into the city, took the highway that skirted the city’s north side and went past the airport.
“Let me ask you this,” I said. “All that shit about his dead sister and weird mother aside, what kind of guy has a Barbie collection like that?”
Trimble must have waited a good ten seconds before he responded. “Fucking nutjob, that’s what,” he said.
We drove awhile longer, neither of us saying anything. Then Trimble said, “Have you been to see Lawrence, in the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
Trimble paused. “How is he?”
“He’s bad.”
And then the car went quiet again.
Nearly half an hour after we left the Mayhew house, we pulled into the parking lot of the airport Ramada. I pointed out the time to Trimble, and he put in a call to Bullock as required to protect Angie. The hotel was dead, no cars going in or out, no one in the lobby. We parked around the side, but it was after midnight, and every access was locked except the main doors out front.
“Just walk in like you own the place, like you’re a guest here,” Trimble said. “Head straight for the elevators.”
We walked through the lobby, the two employees behind the desk paying no attention to us. Once we were at the bank of elevators, we were out of their sight, and Trimble said, “He’s in room 1023. At least he better be.”
The doors opened and we stepped inside. Trimble found the button marked “10” and tapped it with his index finger. The doors parted, and Trimble scanned the markers indicating where the rooms were. Suites 1020 to 1034 were down the left hall, so we bore left.
We stood in front of 1023 and Trimble rapped on the door. “Mr. Mayhew?” he called out, friendly like. He rapped a bit harder. “Mr. Mayhew?” He stood right up close to the door, so if Eddie looked through the peephole, he’d wouldn’t see much more than a couple of nostrils.
We heard some stirring inside, then a muffled voice at the door. “Hello?”
“Mr. Mayhew?”
“Yes? Yes? Who is it? Yes?”
“I’m from the front desk. We thought we should tell you, there were some suspicious-looking men asking for you, and we thought you should know.”
“Oh God, oh my God, oh, oh, oh my God,” he said.
“We don’t like to see our guests have any trouble, so we told them you’d already checked out.”
“Oh God, really? You really did that? Oh, thank you so much. Thank you. Oh God, thank you so much.”
“No problem, sir.”
“What did they look like? Did you see them? Did you see what they looked like? I mean, I guess you did, if they were here. You saw them?”
Trimble looked me up and down, glanced at himself. “Two men, white, one in a suit, the other more casually dressed.”
“And they left? They’re gone? They’ve gone away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh my God, that’s good. That’s good. Listen, stay there a moment, I’d like to give you something. Just stay there a sec, I’m getting you a tip.”
“Oh, really, that’s not necessary,” Trimble said.
“No no, just give me a minute, I’ll get you something for your trouble, you did a wonderful thing, a terrific thing,” he said, his voice fading back into the room. Trimble got ready. He took a step back from the door, so he’d be able to take a run at it. Then we heard the deadbolt slip back, the chain slide off its track, and then the door began to open.
“And if they come back, there’s more where this came from—”
Trimble hit the door like a freight train, propelling Eddie back into the room and onto the floor. The door must have caught his toes, at least on one foot, because he was already holding them in both hands, screaming, as we came in.
Trimble had his gun out and pressed up against Eddie’s forehead. “Stop your whimpering.”
“My toes, man! Oh my God, my toes! They’re all broken! You’ve broken my toes!”
“We’ll call a toe truck,” Trimble said, glancing at me and grinning. “I haven’t used that joke since I was six.”
Eddie eyes were squeezed shut, and he was rocking back and forth on his butt, still holding on to his foot. He was wearing nothing but a pair of green boxers with a tear in the crotch, and I looked away, not really interested in a peek at his luggage. He was thin and kind of bony, his back was splattered with pimples and blotches, and his short, curly hair was wet, like he’d been in the shower recently.
“Come on, Eddie, pull it together,” Trimble said. “We got a lot to talk about.”
He opened his eyes, looked at Trimble, then at me. He recognized me, but couldn’t remember exactly who I was.
I helped him out. “We met yesterday, at the auction.”
Mayhew could figure out why Trimble was here, but my presence was a mystery. “What, what are you doing here? Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m doing a feature on a day in the life of a bad cop, and Detective Trimble here kindly allowed me to tag along.”