Paying Back Jack by Christopher G. Moore

few final seconds of consciousness—what had gone through her mind, knowing that she was going to die, knowing that nothing she could do, say, or think could save her? His stomach churned, and he turned away. He hated heights and couldn’t understand why people spent huge sums of money to climb mountains only to fall into a crevice or die of frostbite. How anyone could sum the courage to jump off a balcony fell in the same category of wonderment. He pulled away from the railing, feeling shaken. Turning his back to the ocean view, he tried to clear his mind of the flood of disturbances racing through it. Then he walked from the balcony into the sitting room. The suite was cookie-cutter identical to his own.
    The sheets of the bed had been neatly pulled back and the pillows bunched into a pile at the center with a book nearby. It was a self-help book on relationships with a smiling, confident woman on the cover who looked like a beauty-contest winner.
    Colonel Pratt closed the balcony door and walked across the room. He took photographs of the table, the closet, and the bed. “Early thismorning, I went to the house where Nongluck’s parents live. They were still asleep when I arrived. They invited me inside. I told them about their daughter’s death. The mother broke down and cried, but the father didn’t look surprised. He said she’d had problems in her personal life. Of course, what they meant was she had a problem with a boyfriend. The mother confirmed that a series of boyfriends had caused her nothing but anguish. She wailed that she’d killed herself over a man, but she didn’t say who he was. That can wait for later.”
    â€œWas there any connection between the family and Apichart?”
    Colonel Pratt shook his head. “They’d never heard of him.”
    Calvino, frustrated by the answer, walked into the bathroom and examined, without touching, Nongluck’s shampoo, soap, and cosmetics, neatly arranged in rows along with the standard hotel toiletry items. A bottle of Opium perfume was open. That seemed strange. A woman as tidy as Nongluck wouldn’t be leaving her prized perfume open to the elements. He called to Colonel Pratt, who’d been taking more photographs.
    When the Colonel stepped inside the bathroom, Calvino was on his knees looking at the bathtub. “You’ll need to get the hairs out of the drain. Hairs and skin from the sink, too. And check the lid on the toilet. It was up when I came in. Women always keep the lid down. They shouldn’t flush the toilet until lab guys have swabbed down the inside. And look at the perfume bottle. It’s open. She doesn’t strike me as someone who’d leave it like that.”
    â€œWhere did you come up with all of this?” asked Colonel Pratt.
    Calvino smiled, looked over his shoulder. “I study investigative techniques.”
    â€œSounds like you saw that program on National Geographic about bathtub murders.”
    Calvino’s cheeks flushed two shades short of a red light. “It was a good show. Mao and Noriega watched it with me last night.”
    A couple of seconds passed before Pratt registered that Calvino was talking about the two policemen who had stayed overnight in the room. He’d been joking about the TV forensic show; Calvino apparently hadn’t taken it as such.
    â€œYou watched that bathtub murder investigation with the police?”
    Calvino nodded as if it was the most natural way to spend time with two cops. “During a commercial break, Mao went into my bathroom and swabbed it down.”
    â€œIn this case, a woman died. The police want to know why. The local politicians may try to make something of it.”
    The election campaign had made Pratt cautious about what was possible. The daily cycle of mudslinging, lies, rumors, and vilification had exhausted him. Everyone was treading water, waiting to see who won.
    â€œI’d like to have talked to