We'll Always Have Parrots(93)

I moved a little closer so I could hear.

“And as for you,” the officer said, turning to the hotel manager, “you should have called us Friday, as soon as you knew you had a problem.”

“Go ahead,” the manager said. “Fine me, throw me in jail—I don’t care. Just get those things out of my lobby, will you?”

“We’re working on it,” the officer said, and began writing again.

“I want you to arrest them!” someone shouted nearby.

We turned to see the man from the health department talking to a uniformed officer.

“I understand, sir,” the officer said. “But unless you can give us a better description—there must be fifty people here wearing space suits and carrying ray guns.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this!” the health department man shouted, storming off into the crowd.

“Where’s Foley?” someone said behind me.

I turned to answer, and then realized that a passing cop was speaking into his radio.

“Roger,” he said. “Tell Foley we secured the suspect’s car. Had all his stuff in it—looks like he was about to make a run for it.”

“Well, that answers another of my questions,” I said, as the cop strolled out of earshot.

“And what was that?” Michael asked.

“How Steele knew to come after me in the hotel when everyone else had evacuated,” I said. “I bet he wasn’t coming after me at all—he was coming to pick up his stuff from the booth.”

“I’m sure Foley’s happy you prevented his escape,” Michael said.

“Yes, I’m sure everyone’s happy,” I said.

“Almost everyone,” Michael said, pointing back toward the hotel entrance. The police were bringing Alaric Steele outside, and a police cruiser, lights flashing, was slowly making its way through the crowd surrounding the hotel’s front door.

“There goes Ichabod Dilley,” Michael said.

“No,” I said. “There goes Alaric Steele. It turns out Ichabod Dilley died a long time ago after all.”

I moved a little closer, so I could see his face, but the public mask was back on. Steele might look down on actors, but he had a little talent in that direction himself. He moved a little slowly—probably still groggy from the tranquilizer dart—but he stood with his head high, his back straight, and an expression of noble, resigned suffering on his face. He towered over the two uniformed officers on either side, looking like a patient Gulliver among the Lilliputians—couldn’t Loudoun County find any reasonably large officers to escort him?

Ichabod Dilley the younger hovered behind his uncle—trying to be helpful, apparently, or at least feeling he ought to show a little family solidarity. Though from the way he shrank when Steele glanced his way, I suspected his loyalty hadn’t met with the grateful response he probably expected. Steele merely pretended to ignore him.

As I watched, I felt a brief pang. Of what I wasn’t quite sure. Regret, perhaps, that someone so talented had so foolishly wasted his life. Or maybe self-doubt—I’d gotten to like Steele, thought I knew him, only to have him completely fool me and turn out to be a crazy killer. And I felt anger, definitely. Lots of anger.

I sighed.

“Feeling sorry for him?” Michael asked.

“No, just mad at myself for not seeing through the louse sooner,” I said.

“He put on a good act,” Michael said. “I’m just hoping they don’t broadcast his trial on Court TV. If they do, he’ll get proposals and propositions from dozens of impressionable women who can’t see past the handsome exterior to the warped mind inside.”

“Well, maybe the videotape will help,” I suggested.

“What, the part where he’s doing his Cyrano de Bergerac number up and down the stage in boots and that linen shirt with the long, flowing sleeves women seem to like so much?” Michael said. I glanced up to see that he was staring at Steele with a rather fierce frown on his face.

“Well, no; but maybe they caught a shot of him with the tranquilizer dart in his rump,” I said. “Or maybe—what’s that?”

That was the sound of glass shattering, as a luggage cart burst through one of the plate glass windows to the left of the hotel entrance. In the wake of the luggage cart, a throng of monkeys and parrots spilled out of the newly created opening and scattered. The parrots mostly fluttered toward the bushes while the monkeys scrambled to the roof.

To my delight, one of the monkeys raced over to Steele and tried to use him as a ladder. Steele brushed it away with his cuffed hands and then tried to kick the poor thing. He missed, and landed a solid kick on his nephew’s shin instead. But the crowd saw where he’d aimed the blow, and the police had to hurry Steele into the waiting police car when the crowd began pelting him with pine cones and empty soda cans.