4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Donna
The Halston Hotel rises above the street in limestone, dark glass, and the kind of wealth that comes from charging more for one night than I paid for my first car.
I slow as I approach, taking in the brass-framed entrance, the uniformed doormen, and the line of expensive cars easing beneath the covered drive. Even the flower arrangements visible through the front windows look as though someone chose each stem carefully.
The hotel wants everyone who walks through its doors to understand two things immediately.
It is expensive.
And it will protect the privacy of anyone who can afford to be there.
That second promise is why I am dressed in a fitted black coat, a pale silk blouse, tailored trousers, and heels I bought years ago for a version of my life that ended badly.
My hair is smooth, my makeup understated, and the handbag over my shoulder costs enough to discourage anyone from asking whether I belong.
At least Lorenzo Conti is paying enough to justify it.
More than enough.
When Julian sent over the agreement, I read the amount twice. Then I checked the decimal point, checked it again, and called him to make sure he had not made a mistake.
He had laughed.
Julian does not laugh often, which told me everything I needed to know about the Contis.
The initial payment alone covers several months of rent, business expenses, and enough advertising to make my empty calendar less embarrassing. By the end of the job, I might be able to afford an office where the radiator does not threaten to shake itself apart every twenty minutes.
Maybe even one with a back room large enough for Mocha and me to stand in at the same time.
A doorman opens the door before I reach it.
“Good afternoon.”
I smile as I pass. “Thank you.”
The lobby is warm and hushed, with soft music playing somewhere above the low murmur of conversation. Nothing here clatters. Luggage wheels glide over the marble. Phones remain on silent. Even the staff speak as if raised voices would lower the property value.
I take a few unhurried steps inside and pause near a wide arrangement of white flowers.
My first look is broad.
Front desk to the left. Concierge beyond it. Elevators toward the rear, partly hidden by a seating area arranged around a long fireplace. A bar opens on the opposite side of the lobby. Two hallways branch away from the public space, one toward conference rooms and another marked for restrooms.
Cameras cover the entrance, the desk, and the elevator bank. I spot another near the bar.
All visible once I know where to look, though each has been placed carefully enough to blend into the architecture.
I pull out my phone and glance at the screen as if checking a message while I study the staff.
Three people work behind the front desk.
One is young and visibly new, watching the others before answering questions.
One is efficient enough to be useless to me.
The third is a woman in her forties with an immaculate dark bob and the professional, pleasant expression of someone who has spent years catering to wealthy guests.
She will remember everything and volunteer nothing.
I move toward the bar instead.
It is open despite the hour, though only a few tables are occupied. I choose a stool with a view of both the lobby and the entrance to the elevators.
The bartender approaches.
“What can I get you?”
“Sparkling water with lime.”
“Of course.”
While he prepares it, I set my phone on the bar and look toward the lobby.
“Busy morning?” I ask with the air of someone just passing time briefly.
“It comes and goes. Are you meeting someone?”
I pick up my phone, as if checking the time.
“Yes, but I may be early.”
“Of course. Are they staying with us?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like someone to contact the room?”
I smile as though the offer is thoughtful rather than exactly what I hoped to avoid.
“Oh, that's all right. I don’t mind. She likes to take her time anyway. I'll just enjoy my drink.”
His expression warms with polite recognition. Everyone knows someone like that.
“You know I almost stayed here last night myself,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’m glad I didn’t.”
That earns me a glance.
“Why is that?”
I add just enough discomfort to my voice to make it seem as though I dislike gossip but cannot resist it.
“There were quite a few police cars outside when I pulled up.”
His expression closes. Not enough that someone who wasn't looking for it would notice.
Interesting.
“I hope no one was hurt,” I say, concerned.
“Nothing like that, ma'am,” he assures me.
“Oh good. I’m glad,” I say, relieved.
I take a sip and let the silence stretch.
The mistake most people make when questioning someone is filling every pause. Silence makes people uncomfortable. They often rush to correct whatever impression they think you have formed.
The bartender wipes a section of the counter that is already spotless.
He's itching to speak. I can feel it.
His eyes flick toward the front desk.
“A guest had a medical emergency. It was handled quietly,” he says at last.
I guess murder is a medical emergency now. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I lean in, matching his subtle yet ‘dignified’ gossipy vibe.
I turn the glass between my fingers. “That is what a place like this is good at, I suppose.”
“We try not to let private matters affect the other guests.”
“Of course, I understand,” I say, sympathy oozing out of me. “Was she alone? I hope not.”
“Oh, well, I'm really not supposed to say,” he says.
“Of course not,” I say, lowering my voice as if it’s our little secret. “I completely understand.”
He's dying to tell me what he knows.
He wipes the counter for another moment before he leans in again.
“I heard, he says, his voice so low I have to lean in as well to hear him, “that she brought a man back here with her. And he left alone, if you know what I mean.”
Slut-shaming asshole.
But I widen my eyes as if I just received a juicy piece of gossip.
“Do they think he hurt her or something?” I ask.
He lifts his hands, palms out as if keeping them clean.
“All I know is they came in together, and he was all charm. Handsome guy. And he left alone a couple hours later.”
“Wait, you saw him leave?” I ask and lower my voice even more. “Alone?”
The bartender nods, as if sharing hot goss. “Umhmm.”
I make a note to check what time the bar closed that night and what time the bartender left.
If he was here when Alessio left, there might be an eyewitness after all.
“Did the woman call the cops on him or something?”
“Well, the bar was closed by the time the cops showed up, so I was gone. But the next morning, they told me that the cops had just shown up and demanded entrance into her room.”
But how did they know? How would the cops know to show up and go to her room at 2:00 in the morning if no one called them?
I make another note to check the 911 call records.
I sit back and mouth, “Oh my gosh!”
He gives a small nod, pleased to have shocked me.
I look around then back at him. “I oughta get myself a job in a hotel,” I say, laughing a little. “Seems like you guys see it all.”
“Hotels never sleep,” he confirms.
“I believe it.” I glance at my phone and let my expression shift into mild annoyance. “Speaking of people who take their time, I should probably go see what is keeping my friend.”
He smiles knowingly. “Might be wise.”
“I’ve given her enough grace for one afternoon.”
I take one last sip, set the glass down, and pull cash from my bag. I leave enough beneath it to make his eyebrows lift.
“That’s very generous,” he says.
“You made the wait entertaining.”
His smile widens. “Anytime.”
“I may hold you to that.”
I slide off the stool and pick up my bag.
“Good luck finding your friend,” he says.
“Thank you. At this point, I may need it.”
He laughs as I turn toward the elevators, and I can feel him watching me go without any reason to wonder why.
The room number Julian gave me is 1418. North side of the hotel.
I slow my walk enough to pull up behind a family of four as they approach the elevators. The father is juggling two suitcases while the mother keeps one child from wandering toward the fireplaces. I fall into step several feet behind them, phone to my ear.
The father presses the button, and the elevator doors open.
I move with the group.
The mother glances at me, then at the phone.
I give her a distracted smile and continue a conversation that does not exist.
“Yes, I’m coming up now.”
The doors close.
The father presses twelve.
I press fifteen.
No one questions it.
Money is useful. Looking as though you have money is sometimes nearly as effective.
The elevator rises.
At twelve, the family steps out. I wait until the doors close again before lowering my phone.
The fifteenth floor is quieter than the lobby, which both suits and doesn’t suit me.
A discreet plaque points left for rooms 1501 through 1512 and right for 1513 through 1526.
I turn right.
The hallway curves gently. Framed abstract prints hang between the doors. Small cameras are mounted near each end of the corridor, positioned to capture anyone entering or leaving the elevator area.
My destination is halfway down.
At the far end of the corridor, a housekeeping cart sits outside an open room. A woman in a gray uniform is replacing towels inside.
I keep walking.
The housekeeper glances out as I pass, then disappears into the room again.
Room 1519 is two doors beyond the cart.
I do not look at it as I go by.
I continue to the end of the corridor, stop beside a framed print, and take out my phone as though I have received a message. The dark glass covering the artwork gives me a narrow reflection of the hallway behind me.
The housekeeper steps out, reaches into her cart, and carries a clean set of sheets inside.
The room door remains propped open.
She has at least a few minutes left in that room.
Probably less.
I turn and walk back at the same easy pace.