[Mr.X]: 171.Death of a Rose.Chapter 1

What was that smell? That sickly sweet scent of entropic change. Like dying roses; sweet to the point of disgust and tinged with a flavor of rottenness. It didn't matter really, he supposed, as he stepped over the wooden threshold into the Hotel Virgilio and out of the drenching rain that now poured from the dark and clouded New York sky. His long black trench coat dripped beads of water and felt stickingly cold against his body. The supple leather gloves clung over his hands, one holding a small silver attaché case and other holding a black duffle bag low over the ground.

The lobby of the hotel was constructed of mixed white marble walls with pillars of the same material spaced around the central area supporting the high arched ceiling with its inset stained glass dome centered exactly above the middle of the room and lit by a large and elaborate chandelier. The place was richly decorated with dark glazed wood and carefully positioned plants and sculptures. A large staircase stood across from the glass-paneled entrance doors, ending in a landing and then branching off with two more flights to either side. The floors were carpeted in a rich red and gold pattern. To the right of the doors was a long curved reception desk paneled in the same dark wood as the rest of the room.

This extravagant place was filled with the same bustle of people it was filled with every evening. Immaculately dressed business men striding about with confident shark smiles and knife-edged tongues, voluptuous women dressed in low cut, figure hugging outfits that left very little to the imagination, white shirted security guards with peaked black caps and snugly holstered sidearms, valets and other hotel functionaries dressed in crisp red and gold suits that would have blended with the carpet if they had lain down, and everywhere there was the low buzz of private talk. This was a house of invisible sin. For behind every smile, every word, and every gesture there was a hidden meaning, be it threat, offer or lie. Here was a place of high society that hid corruption in plain sight like so many scarlet letters.

He took it all in. Drinking in the details, letting himself slip and drift from one place to the next: Security carried 9mm Colt Government 1911 pistols, there were security cameras placed in most ceiling corners, valets held keys specific to their floors, the man with the black tie had just closed a business deal for $20 million dollars, the woman in blue was cheating on her husband. The list went on, each detail being catalogued in his photographic memory and stored; like the cards of a rolodex.

He blended with the crowd, his designer coat and leather gloves oozing the sophistication that permeated every corner of this building. He could feel eyes judging him as his leather shoes thumped softly on the carpet floor while he weaved deftly through the knots of people towards reception desk.

As he approached the desk a receptionist bustled out of the backroom and met him at the desk. “Hello sir, welcome to the Hotel Virgilio how may I help you?” she asked, her voice cool and disinterested despite her warm seeming demeanor. “I have a reservation for two days under the name Richardson.” came the man’s equally disinterested reply. The woman nodded and turned to her computer screen. She punched up the reservations and let her eyes scan the listing. “Mr. John Richardson?” She said inquiringly without taking her eyes from the screen. “That’s right.” Was his a deadpan response. “Ok sir I’ll just get you to sign some things and then you’ll be on your way.” She said, pulling a set of forms from under the desk and placing them in front of him. The bureaucracy of the hotel was completed in short order and she handed him a thin plastic key card and gave him instructions on how to reach his room. “Would you like someone to help carry your bags?” She asked. “No.” was his terse reply. With that he hefted up his bag and moved off.

He rode the elevator to the third floor and took the left hallway as the woman had instructed. He swiped the card at room 313 and waited a split second as the lock cycled and the red light flashed green. He pushed through the door and entered but not before taking note of the camera watching him from its perch in the ceiling corner. The room was lavishly furnished like the rest of the hotel. The floor was carpeted in the same red and gold theme as lobby. The walls were of a smooth crème that glowed a soft golden hue with the light of wall mounted fixtures. A large double bed of clean white linen dominated the opposite end of the room, and nearby a study desk of dark glazed wood sat across from the two couches and glass table that occupied the space between the bed and the wall corner that made up the bathroom. Behind the bed were large glass windows that took up the centre two-thirds of the opposite wall from the door. A glass door resembling the windows led out too the balcony was set just to the right of the bed.

The man walked inside and dropped his bag and case on the bed. He slipped off his shoes and removed his coat and gloves, revealing a plain black suit underneath. He unpacked a small set of clothes from his bag and hung them in the small built in wall closet along with his coat. He walked into the bathroom via the door in the hallway and checked himself in the mirror.

A man in his mid-twenties stared back at him. Bright blue eyes caught the reflected light and shone back at him. A chiseled jaw line was flecked with several days of stubble. Dark brown hair was cut in an incredibly neat fashion, just slightly overhanging his rough features. He stared at his reflection for a time, then reaching up with a hand he ran the tips of his fingers down one cheek and under his chin before slipping softly down his neck to stop just above his suit collar. His doppelganger followed; its gaze a reflection of his own questioning eyes. Then a whisper “Who am I?” The question hung in the too temperate air, rebounding back into his ears and crawling along the ridges of his spine like a chill.

He straightened up and blinked. His image did the same, unchanging without his will. His reverie broken he glanced about at the white tiled bathroom. Then, walking to the large marble shower stall he stripped off his suit and hung it on a clothes peg, revealing his lean, muscular frame. He proceeded to shower himself thoroughly with cold water before stepping out and toweling off. He walked back out into the main room with a towel about his waist and changed into a set of casual clothes from the closet. Then taking his attaché case he placed in on the desk, stopping only to sweep the glossy room service menu out of the way. He grabbed a thin device out of his duffel bag. It was a simple unassuming metal stick with an infrared port on one end. This he slotted into an opening near the case’s handle. There was a soft beep and the locks clicked open. He pushed the case open.

Inside lay a variety of items; a thin black laptop computer, a PDA, a large manila envelope and other assorted papers, the majority of which had no real value other than concealment. No, here was something much more pertinent to his task. He lifted the laptop out of its foam crib and placed it on the desk. Then feeling around the crib edges he peeled back the bottom of the opening. There lay the cold black steel of gun.