The Undead Kama Sutra by Mario Acevedo Page B

head. Good.
    I told her to fold her arms on her desk, close her eyes, and lay her head down. I kissed the back of her taut, delicious neck. “Be a nice girl and take a nap.”
    I entered Goodman’s office, a cavernous, opulent space. I expected to find a throne. Tall windows along the far wall overlooked palmettos, myrtle, and a green fairway. His desk was to the right and matched the materials and design of the other furnishings in the hotel.
    The nameplate on his desk read: COL. DAN GOODMAN, RET. U.S. ARMY . Laminated diplomas and certificates hung behind his desk. To the left was Goodman’s “me” wall: photos of himself with other people. The photos were of Goodman in various stages of his life, always a group shot with other golfers. In some of the photos he wore a polo shirt or windbreaker with U.S. ARMY written across the front. He shared the lens with dozens of celebrities: entertainment, business, sports, political. It was as if he had served his military career on the pages of People magazine. In one older color print, a boyish Dan Goodman—in the dress uniform of a West Point cadet—received a trophy from Arnold Palmer.
    At the far end of the photos was a framed certificate of his commission as an officer into the regular army. Next to that was a shadow box displaying awards and decorations. Along the top were rank insignia arranged left to right, from second lieutenant to colonel. Under those were his decorations, two of which surprised me: Bronze Star and Purple Heart.
    How did a career duffer end up with a medal for bravery and another for wounds as the result of enemy action? Who had he played against? Did the Taliban field a golf team?
    His cabinets were unlocked. I thumbed through the files and found tournament invitations, resort brochures, invoices for lessons and equipment, nothing out of the ordinary for a golf pro. Instead of a computer, he had a docking station for a laptop, which was missing. I searched his desk drawers and looked for a note, a business card, a scrap of paper, anything that could point the way forward.
    Nothing.
    I set the door lock from the inside and left the office.
    Jamison snored like a hibernating bear. Her arms dangled to the floor. Both of her feet had twisted out of her pumps and wrinkled the panty hose around her ankles.
    I stroked the top of her head and commanded her to wake up.
    Jamison’s eyes fluttered open. She smacked her lips and straightened in her chair. Her eyes turned toward mine and I gave her a hard stare, to refresh my hypnotic hold.
    “When did Goodman leave for Chicago?”
    “Yesterday.”
    “What’s he doing there?”
    Her eyes blinked lazily. “Consulting.”
    “For whom?”
    “RKW.”
    I knew enough about current events to recognize the initials. RKW stood for Rockville Kamza Worthington, the military and security subsidiary of Cress Tech International. Cress Tech built oil wells, highways, shipyards, bridges, airports, pretty much any project measured in the billions of government dollars. The running joke on late-night TV was that the White House was the marketing branch of Cress Tech.
    “What was Goodman consulting for?”
    “Government work.”
    “What kind of government work?”
    “I don’t know.”
    I had to trust Jamison. Victims couldn’t lie under hypnosis. “Where’s he staying?”
    Another “I don’t know.”
    “You have an itinerary?”
    Jamison turned her eyes to her computer monitor. She tapped robotically on the keyboard.
    Goodman’s calendar came on the screen. This week he was in Chicago. Last week…
    I brought my face closer to the monitor to make sure I read the calendar correctly.
    Last week Goodman was in Key West, Florida. And last week Marissa Albert arrived in Key West and disappeared.
    I knew what to do next. I was going to Chicago.

Chapter
17
    I made airline reservations for Chicago, but as I hate layovers, the earliest direct flight wouldn’t leave until the next morning. Still, it beat driving. I