lucky I'm actually an LA cop, you're lucky to have a friend like Sergeant Shaw to pull strings for you, and you're lucky to be alive."
Macklin sat up slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain that squeezed his entire body with excruciating pressure.
"Someone pissed on me?"
Ortiz nodded. "Be glad. Otherwise, we might not have found you until there was nearly nothing left to find."
"I'm going to kill the motherfuckers who did this to me." Macklin turned his head to the bedside table. He saw the jug of water and the empty glass beside it. While Macklin was still deciding whether he wanted to try and get the water for himself, Ortiz stood up and poured Macklin a glass, holding it to Macklin's lips.
Macklin jerked his head away and took the glass from Ortiz's hand, spilling some of the water on himself in the process.
"Thanks," Macklin said, taking a sip.
"You're welcome." Ortiz sighed and sat down on the bed again.
"Tell me about Mort." Macklin swallowed all the water, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
"Suderson was found in his hotel room by a maid," Ortiz said. "We think a woman broke his neck while he was performing oral sex on her."
Macklin's eyes flew open. "What?"
"His face was soaked with vaginal discharge and there's evidence that extreme pressure was applied to either side of his head, " Ortiz said. "The position of his body when we found him clearly shows that he was on his knees at the time of his death. In addition, the traces of vaginal fluid we've found on the bedsheets and the carpet support the scenario."
Ortiz looked away so Macklin couldn't see the smile he could no longer hold back. "We don't think he was an accidental victim of unrestrained, overly enthusiastic orgasmic response. It was murder."
"A grotesquely appropriate way to kill him," Macklin observed. "Too appropriate."
Ortiz looked back at Macklin. "Who killed him?"
"You tell me," Macklin said. "I came down here to identify the body."
"And you almost became a corpse yourself." Ortiz stood up and paced. "C'mon, Mr. Macklin, let's not play games."
"Ortiz, I don't know anything. I'm more confused than you are."
Ortiz stopped and stared at Macklin as if the truth would suddenly appear in print on Macklin's forehead. "No, you aren't."
Macklin toyed with saying "yes, I am," but thought better of it. There was nothing to be gained by needling the man and everything to lose. He knew Ortiz could make life even less pleasant than it was now. I did kill two men, he thought, and they could hold me forever on that. Or they could disclose to the press that I was the guy who did it.
"What about the woman. Do you have any leads on her?" Macklin asked.
"A description from people at the pool where Suderson met her," Ortiz said. "Unfortunately, it's difficult to identify someone only from descriptions of her buttocks and breasts. Suderson, however, they all remembered."
Macklin couldn't help grinning. Mort never was very subtle, even in death.
"We've got passenger lists for all the outgoing flights since Suderson's murder, including the flight you . . . ah . . . disrupted," Ortiz said. "You're going to go through them and see if any name jogs your memory."
"Okay, go get them."
Ortiz was surprised. He thought Macklin would claim to be too weak, or in too much pain, to be helpful. Ortiz walked to the door, opened it a crack, and stuck his head into the corridor.
"Mendoza," he yelled, "bring me the lists."
Ortiz returned to Macklin's bed holding a sheaf of computer printouts and laid them on Macklin's lap. Macklin lifted the scroll and began scanning the names.
Alberts, Penelope . . . Ames, Trisha . . . Arness, Frances.Banks, Helen . . .
"This whole thing makes no sense at all to me," Ortiz said. "What did these unknown assailants gain by abducting you?"
. . . Bender, Karen . . . Biagas, Loraine . . . Boucher, Laura . . . Byrd, Betty . . . Cabrera, Lucy . . .
"They went to a lot of trouble and risk to do it, too,"
Macklin sat up slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain that squeezed his entire body with excruciating pressure.
"Someone pissed on me?"
Ortiz nodded. "Be glad. Otherwise, we might not have found you until there was nearly nothing left to find."
"I'm going to kill the motherfuckers who did this to me." Macklin turned his head to the bedside table. He saw the jug of water and the empty glass beside it. While Macklin was still deciding whether he wanted to try and get the water for himself, Ortiz stood up and poured Macklin a glass, holding it to Macklin's lips.
Macklin jerked his head away and took the glass from Ortiz's hand, spilling some of the water on himself in the process.
"Thanks," Macklin said, taking a sip.
"You're welcome." Ortiz sighed and sat down on the bed again.
"Tell me about Mort." Macklin swallowed all the water, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
"Suderson was found in his hotel room by a maid," Ortiz said. "We think a woman broke his neck while he was performing oral sex on her."
Macklin's eyes flew open. "What?"
"His face was soaked with vaginal discharge and there's evidence that extreme pressure was applied to either side of his head, " Ortiz said. "The position of his body when we found him clearly shows that he was on his knees at the time of his death. In addition, the traces of vaginal fluid we've found on the bedsheets and the carpet support the scenario."
Ortiz looked away so Macklin couldn't see the smile he could no longer hold back. "We don't think he was an accidental victim of unrestrained, overly enthusiastic orgasmic response. It was murder."
"A grotesquely appropriate way to kill him," Macklin observed. "Too appropriate."
Ortiz looked back at Macklin. "Who killed him?"
"You tell me," Macklin said. "I came down here to identify the body."
"And you almost became a corpse yourself." Ortiz stood up and paced. "C'mon, Mr. Macklin, let's not play games."
"Ortiz, I don't know anything. I'm more confused than you are."
Ortiz stopped and stared at Macklin as if the truth would suddenly appear in print on Macklin's forehead. "No, you aren't."
Macklin toyed with saying "yes, I am," but thought better of it. There was nothing to be gained by needling the man and everything to lose. He knew Ortiz could make life even less pleasant than it was now. I did kill two men, he thought, and they could hold me forever on that. Or they could disclose to the press that I was the guy who did it.
"What about the woman. Do you have any leads on her?" Macklin asked.
"A description from people at the pool where Suderson met her," Ortiz said. "Unfortunately, it's difficult to identify someone only from descriptions of her buttocks and breasts. Suderson, however, they all remembered."
Macklin couldn't help grinning. Mort never was very subtle, even in death.
"We've got passenger lists for all the outgoing flights since Suderson's murder, including the flight you . . . ah . . . disrupted," Ortiz said. "You're going to go through them and see if any name jogs your memory."
"Okay, go get them."
Ortiz was surprised. He thought Macklin would claim to be too weak, or in too much pain, to be helpful. Ortiz walked to the door, opened it a crack, and stuck his head into the corridor.
"Mendoza," he yelled, "bring me the lists."
Ortiz returned to Macklin's bed holding a sheaf of computer printouts and laid them on Macklin's lap. Macklin lifted the scroll and began scanning the names.
Alberts, Penelope . . . Ames, Trisha . . . Arness, Frances.Banks, Helen . . .
"This whole thing makes no sense at all to me," Ortiz said. "What did these unknown assailants gain by abducting you?"
. . . Bender, Karen . . . Biagas, Loraine . . . Boucher, Laura . . . Byrd, Betty . . . Cabrera, Lucy . . .
"They went to a lot of trouble and risk to do it, too,"
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