Chapter 14
"Suzanne."
Roger.
Suzanne is in the open doorway with her back to me and her hand still on the handle. Roger Tate is in the hallway with his clipboard pressed to his chest and his mouth already shaping the first word of whatever he had planned to say.
I step into the doorway beside her.
I take her hand like a man who has every right to defend her when she's standing there, eyes wide, against someone who would break her into pieces if I don't move first.
"Roger."
He looks at the hand.
"Mr. Nightingale — "
"Thank you for coming up early, Suzanne. Sorry to make you start before your shift. The suite needed serious attention after a late meeting last night, and, Roger" — I look at him — "I called the front desk at 5:30 a.m. I asked specifically for Ms. Jenkins. She knows my preferences."
Roger's face twists as if the story he has been writing in his head overnight is being revised in front of him.
"Mr. Nightingale…”
"Suzanne." I don't look at her. "You can go. Thank you for the early start."
She moves.
She does not look back. She walks past Roger in the hallway.
Her uniform is slightly off at the collar, where she didn't get the button right.
Her hair is up. Her ID badge is in her hand.
The service elevator is at the end of the hall, and she walks to it, presses the button, and stands with her back to us until the doors open. She gets on, and the doors close.
Roger is still in the hallway with his mouth open.
I close the distance.
I don't raise my voice. I don't need to.
"Roger."
"Yes, Mr. Nightingale."
"Unless I explicitly request you, you don't come to this floor again."
"I was just…"
"You don't come to this floor. You don't send a memo to this floor. You don't send another housekeeper to ask a question on your behalf about this floor."
"Mr. Nightingale, I have a duty…"
"You have a duty to do what I tell you. That is the duty of every person in this building, Roger. You have forgotten what your job is. I'm reminding you."
He swallows.
His Adam's apple jumps — that little panic-swallow.
"I warned you once about how you speak to her. Have you forgotten, or would you like me to jog your memory?"
“No, I, uh…I remember what you said."
"This is the second strike. The third one will not require an apology. Do you understand the difference between an apology and what comes after one?"
"Mr. Nightingale…"
"Do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I understand."
I shut the door in his face.
I stand in the foyer with my hand still on the handle and the small bright sound of the latch clicking into place, and I let out a breath I did not know I was holding.
That was close. I'll have to buy this hotel by the end of the week just to keep it under control.
I dress in four minutes, getting my shirt buttoned right and grabbing my shoes, wallet, phone, and keys. I run my hand through my hair once in front of the bathroom mirror and decide it does not matter.
I take the service elevator.
I text her on the way down.
Cade
Garage. Five minutes. Bring your sketchbook.
I check my phone and see two missed calls already this morning from Beau and Henry. My stepfather has not called me directly in the past few months. Vivienne has been making the calls, and Vivienne has, by the silence of two days now, given up.
She has not given up technically.
She has handed me to Henry.
I dial the hotel's general manager from the elevator. He picks up on the second ring.
"Mr. Nightingale."
"Jerry."
"Sir."
"I have sensitive footage on the penthouse floor. Yesterday from 9:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., I would like it deleted."
"Mr. Nightingale — "
"No review. No backup. Delete. The Cross Foundation will be making a sizable contribution to your renovation fund this quarter."
"How sizable?"
"Sizable."
"It will be handled within the hour."
"Confirm when done."
"Yes, sir."
I end the call.
I dial Tomas before the elevator hits the parking level.
"Tomas, what do you have for me about the Cresswell? Are they willing to sell?"
"Well, yes, they’re willing. We’d still need to talk to a few more of the family members, but we have a foot in. I have a meeting with them today, so I’m hoping to finalize the agreement. They’re quite sentimental about this."
"Make the sentimental ones an offer they can be sentimental about somewhere else. I need this done today. Push if you have to. Use my tactics. Get the offer on the table today. I want the deal moving by the end of the week."
"Of course, Mr. Nightingale.”
I end the call.
The doors open onto the parking level.
Suzanne is at the car, in her uniform. Her hair is up. She is holding the sketchbook against her chest with both hands.
I cross to her. "Are you okay?"
"No," she says. "But I will be." She holds the sketchbook out.
I take it.
I briefly open it — three pages, the hands, the lobby, and a new one I haven't seen. It’s a woman at a kitchen table, painting a small clay pot.
The line work is softer than the others, the woman not finished, her face turned away from the artist as though the artist couldn't make herself put the face in.
“Your aunt.” I look at the page for a beat longer than I meant to.
“Yeah. My inspiration.”
I close the book. I set it on the roof of the car.
I pull her to me.
I kiss her.
Her hand comes up to my chest, and she kisses me back.
When I pull away, her forehead rests against mine for the length of one breath.
"Try not to worry, okay? I'll see you tonight."
"Okay."
"Suzanne…I…" The words burn the back of my throat. “I need you.”
"I know."
She gives me a smile and turns. She walks to the service elevator, gets on, and does not look back.
I put the sketchbook on the passenger seat and drive to the city.
The lobby of the Nightingale building feels half-awake, like the building itself is still groggy. The atmosphere is muted and unhurried. Rush hour doesn't start till 8:00 a.m. The receptionist stands. The doorman straightens. Neil Sutton is by the elevators with a thermos.
He sees me and sticks his nose up.
Charming.
I don't greet him. I get in the elevator without him.
I go straight to my assistant's desk. Marisol is not in yet. Neither is Tomas. James is already at his desk.
"Mr. Nightingale." He stands when he sees me.
I put the sketchbook on his desk. He looks at it, but doesn’t open it yet. "I want you to make scans of this by noon — every page. When the scans are done, courier the physical book back to my suite at the Cresswell. I want it on my counter. The book itself does not leave my possession."
"Absolutely, Mr. Nightingale."
"Once the scans are ready, send them to three contacts. The small-gallery owner, Eli Brandt. The independent advisor, Naomi Ortiz. The mentor at the Bay Area program, Marcus Lin. You have all three in my contacts?"
"Yes."
"Good. The communication is personal. Discreet.
The artist is working independently and is not affiliated with Nightingale in any way.
The introduction is from me as a courtesy.
There is no commission. There is no expectation.
If they're interested, they reach out to me, and we set up a meeting through me, not through the company. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Nightingale."
"And, James…ensure this is not in the system or in anyone’s inbox, except yours. I trust that's clear."
"Crystal."
"Thank you."
He nods once and slides the book under his elbow as though he has already decided to keep it close and goes back to his screen.
I walk to my office and close the door. I sit down at the desk and look at the chair across from it where Adrian Maddox sat three days ago.
I'll deal with him when I have to. He came to my office to show off.
He came to the sidewalk at Mission to prove a point.
After all these years, he's finally got the tools to bring me down, and he's using them.
It will not be enough. The version of the story he believes he has is not true. He has been waiting his entire life to hear from the man who took his father apart, and that man is sitting at this desk in this office.
I'm going to have to tell him.
Not today.
I open my laptop.
I sign two contracts and take a call from a collector in Berlin and let myself be charming for nine minutes. I drink the coffee James has put on my desk without me asking.
At noon, James knocks.
"Mr. Nightingale."
"Yes?"
"Mr. Brandt has responded."
I look up. "Already?"
He nods. "Forty minutes after I sent the scans."
I sit back.
Eli Brandt has been a friend for half a decade. He has one of the best eyes in the Bay Area and a small, clean gallery in Hayes Valley.
"What did he say?"
James reads from his phone.
Cade. The work is unusual. Rough in the right ways.
I would very much like to meet your artist. As it happens, there is a private viewing at the Cresswell next Thursday.
Davies collection, emerging California painters.
I'll be there. You're invited every year and, as I recall, have declined each time.
If you bring her, I can meet her quietly and professionally without it being a setup. Best, E.
I'm quiet for a long second.
"Confirm with him."
"Yes."
"Put me on the guest list."
"Of course, Mr. Nightingale."
I take out my phone and text him myself.
Cade
She'll be there. Thank you.
I close the laptop and pick up my keys.
I go back to the Cresswell.