The Detachment - Barry Eisler [41]
When I was sure Shorrock was beyond recovery, I laid him flat on the floor and quickly went through his pockets. All he was carrying was his room key and the camera I’d placed in his room. He must have refused to turn the latter over when Dox told him he’d have to retrieve the thumb drive from the bathroom. Probably he thought he was maintaining some leverage. It didn’t matter. The main thing was, we had it back now, and wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding it in his room and raising suspicions. And having his key was useful, too, in case the times of his coming and going might be stored on it. I didn’t expect that anyone would be investigating, but the less evidence, the better. I took a thousand dollars from one of my pockets and put it in one of Shorrock’s. Probably no one would look into his immediate pre-death ATM withdrawal, but if anyone did, it would look strange if the money weren’t on him.
I examined his fingertips to ensure he hadn’t managed to scrape any skin or hair off me while he was struggling—I hadn’t felt anything, but adrenaline masks pain and it wasn’t impossible that he’d managed to scratch my scalp or pull some hair. I found nothing. I took the sports tape from the blazer pocket and wrapped it sticky side-out around both hands, then methodically patted down the floor under and around Shorrock. The Wynn’s cleaning people must have been pros, because I came up with only a bit of lint and a few strands of pubic and head hair. I had no way of knowing whether any of it came from me, but now it wouldn’t matter. I turned Shorrock over and patted down his back, too, where my face had touched him. A few new hairs, probably his. But again, now a moot point regardless. I unwound the tape carefully over the toilet, balled it up, and pocketed it again. Then I flushed the toilet, eliminating any matter that had fallen into it unseen.
I was almost done. I paused, taking a moment to think, to double check my progress against a mental checklist. Everything was in order. Just one last thing.
I undid Shorrock’s belt, pulled his pants and briefs down to his ankles, and wrestled him into a sitting position on the toilet. Then I stepped back, extending an arm to keep him upright as long as possible. When I withdrew my arm, Shorrock slumped forward and to the right, landing face down on the floor next to the toilet. I knew I hadn’t left a mark on his face or otherwise, but even if I had, the minor damage caused by a fall from the toilet would be adequate explanation. As for the death itself, it would look like some sort of cardiac event—a problem in the plumbing, possibly, or perhaps something electrical. There might be an autopsy: he was prominent enough for that, and there was the anomaly and irony of someone so fitness-obsessed perishing from an apparent heart attack. But when they found nothing, a body devoid of evidence of what had happened or why, wise physicians would stroke their chins and opine about the Brugada syndrome and the long QT syndrome, and potential abnormalities in sodium and potassium channels, and lethal arrhythmias hitting with the destructiveness and unpredictability of rogue waves, all in the same solemn tones that were once the exclusive province of monks invoking the mysteries of the will of God.
I gripped the top of the marble stall divider and listened intently for a moment. Nothing. I pulled myself up, rotated over the edge, and lowered myself to the stall on the other side. I heard someone else come in, so I latched the door and waited, using the extra moment to run through my mental checklist again and ensure I was overlooking nothing. When I heard the latest patron leave, I moved out, pocketing the gloves en route.
I saw Dox sitting at a slot machine outside, watching the entrance, and dipped my head once to let him know it was