Photo Finish (9781101537510) Read Online Free PDF Page A

one suite, Lady Helen and young Andrew in another. One evening Berni and Lady Helen decided to go for a sunset drive. An enterprising photographer had bribed one of the guides to let him know if Lady Helen and Berni were ever alone; the helicopter caught up with the Land Rover three miles from the lodge. Berni took off, hurtling the Rover across the veldt, and smashed into a rhinoceros. He and Lady Helen were killed instantly.
    Some moron brought young Andrew to the crash site, and the Herald-Star had used a photograph of the white-faced boy kneeling by his dead mother, cradling her head on his knees.
    I would have to be brain-dead not to know that the boy was my client as a child. And I’d have to be even deader not to figure Hunter Davenport for the photographer in the chopper.
    â€œSo Andrew Banidore hired me to find one of the men who drove his mother to her death. Or who he thinks drove her to her death. And then what? He lay in wait like James Bond to—”
    I stood up so fast, I knocked half the photos off Sherman’s table. When he squawked a protest, I was already out the door. I shouted, “I’ll call you,” over my shoulder and ran down the hall to the street.
    I’d been an idiot. James Bond. The glimpse I thought I’d had of my client on the L platform two days ago. The guy in the car behind me yesterday morning. My client had tracked me while I located Hunter Davenport. When I’d found Davenport for him, my client breathed threatening messages over the phone until he fled the apartment, then chased him to Uptown, where he ran him over.
    V. I. Warshawski, ace detective. Ace imbecile.

VI
    The Trefoil’s tiny lobby was filled with luggage and travelers. The receptionist on duty was settling bills and handing towels and keys to joggers while juggling two phones. I took a towel with a smiled thanks and slipped into the elevator behind two lean, sweat-covered men in shorts and cropped tops.
    On the fifth floor I knelt in front of 508 and probed the keyhole. I was in an agony of tension—if some other guest should come out—the maid—if Andrew Banidore had left and a stranger lay in the bed. The guest doors had nice, sturdy old-fashioned locks, the kind that look impressive on the outside but only have three tumblers. In another two minutes, I was inside the room.
    Lying there in bed, Andrew Banidore looked almost like his mother’s twin. The white-gold hair fell away from his face, which was soft with the slackness of sleep.
    â€œAndrew!” I called sharply from the doorway.
    He stirred and turned over, but a night spent tracking his subject through Uptown had apparently left him exhausted. I went to the bed and shook him roughly.
    When his wistful blue-gray eyes finally blinked open, I said, “He’s not dead. Does that upset you?”
    â€œHe’s not?” His voice was thick with sleep. “But I—” He woke completely and sat up, his face white. “How did you get in here? What are you talking about?”
    â€œYou were too tired when you got in to lock the door, I guess.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ve got five minutes before I call the cops. Better make good use of them.”
    â€œWhat are you going to tell them? How you broke into my hotel room?”
    â€œI’m going to tell them to look for the blue Toyota that hit Hunter Davenport early this morning. If you rented it, that’ll be easy, because you had to show someone a driver’s license. If you stole it, it’ll still have your fingerprints on it.”
    I went to the bureau and rifled through the documents on top. He was traveling on a British passport. He had a first-class ticket on Air France, with an open return date. He had a rental agreement with one of the big chains for a blue Toyota. His wallet held an American driver’s license issued by the state of South Carolina, a variety of credit cards, and two photos of his