4. Chapter Four #2
This hotel uses a numerical keypad rather than a keycard reader. More expensive hotels like to call that added security, as though replacing one vulnerable system with another changes much.
I stop in front of the door and open my handbag.
The tool I remove fits in my palm and looks harmless enough to pass for an oversized battery pack.
I press it against the lock and wake the small screen.
A thin line moves across the display while the device reads what the keypad gives away. I keep my body angled toward the door, shielding my hands from the camera at the far end of the hall.
To anyone else, it looks like I'm just entering numbers into the keypad.
Behind me, something thumps inside the room the housekeeper is servicing.
I glance toward the reflection in the nearest frame.
No movement in the hallway.
The device vibrates once.
The first set of numbers appears.
Wrong.
I reset it and try again.
The housekeeper begins humming under her breath, faint but audible through the open door.
My screen changes.
Four digits.
I enter them.
A red light flashes.
“Come on,” I whisper.
The device recalibrates.
This is taking too long.
The humming stops.
I look toward the cart.
A shadow moves across the open doorway.
The device vibrates again against my palm.
A new code appears.
I enter it beneath the cover of my handbag.
The light turns green.
I catch the handle before the lock can make more than a soft click.
I open the door, step inside, and close it quietly behind me just as the housekeeper walks out of the room.
The room is dark except for daylight spilling around the drawn curtains.
I stay still for a moment, listening in case I got the information on the reservation wrong.
Good. Empty.
I slide the tool back into my bag and look around.
The room is nearly identical to the one below it, according to the plans I studied. Same layout. Same balcony placement. Same view.
Which is the only reason I am here.
I cross to the curtains and pull them apart just enough to inspect the balcony.
A narrow stone divider separates this one from the neighboring room. Below me, fourteen floors above the street, is the balcony belonging to 1419.
Room 1418 lies one balcony over.
I look down at the distance between them.
From the floor plan, it appeared manageable.
From here… Well, it’ll have to be.
I set my handbag on the desk and remove my coat. I rummage for my lockpicking tool and shove it in my pocket.
Outside in the corridor, the housekeeping cart rolls over the carpet.
The sound comes closer.
Then passes.
I wait until it fades before unlocking the balcony door.
Cold air cuts into the room as I step outside and look over the railing.
The hotel’s decorative ledges run between floors, wide enough to provide footing if I am careful and narrow enough to be a very precarious task if I’m not.
I close the balcony door behind me without locking it.
Then I grip the railing and begin climbing down.
The stone ledge catches the toe of my impractical shoe.
I shift my weight slowly, keeping both hands locked around the railing above me. The street is a long way down, all moving cars and people too small to make out clearly.
I do not look again.
My right foot searches until it finds the narrow edge beneath the balcony. I lower myself another few inches, my arms taking most of my weight.
The wind pulls at my blouse and sends a loose strand of hair across my face.
My foot finds the top of the balcony railing below.
I test it before transferring my weight.
Solid.
I lower myself until both feet are balanced on it, then crouch and grip the upper edge of the divider between the balconies.
I climb over the railing and drop onto the balcony of room 1419 with more force than I intended. Pain travels through my ankles, but I stay upright.
One floor down.
One room over.
The balcony for 1418 is separated from me by a stone partition that extends almost to the railing. There is enough space at the outer edge to get around it, provided I am willing to lean over fourteen floors of open air.
I am beginning to question every decision that led me here.
I put one hand on the partition and glance through the glass doors behind me.
The curtains are open. There's an open suitcase on the floor, but luckily, there's no one in the room.
I step onto the lower horizontal rail and brace my shoulder against the stone. My fingers reach around the outside edge of the partition until they catch the railing on the other balcony.
The distance is less than three feet.
It feels much farther.
I tighten my grip and move one foot across.
For a few seconds, my body hangs between the balconies, one shoe balanced on each railing and nothing beneath me but air.
“The money. Think about the money,” I mutter.
My left foot slides.
My stomach drops with it.
I catch myself against the partition, my nails scraping over stone as I force my weight toward 1418.
Then both feet land on the other side.
I grip the railing until my breathing settles.
The curtains inside room 1418 are drawn, but I sense no movement inside.
I step down onto the balcony and approach the glass door.
A strip of police tape is visible across the main entrance on the other side of the room, but nothing covers the balcony doors. The handle does not move when I test it.
Locked.
I expected that.
I crouch near the lower corner and take my lockpicking tool out of my pocket. The balcony lock is simpler than the one upstairs, built to keep guests safe rather than keep someone determined out.
I work by feel, keeping my body below the level of the glass.
A click sounds inside the frame.
I stop and listen.
Nothing.
I ease the door open just far enough to slip through, then close it behind me.
The room is colder than the one upstairs.
It smells faintly of disinfectant, but the chemical scent does not entirely cover what happened here. Something heavier and metallic remains beneath it, absorbed into the carpet and furniture.
I stand beside the curtains and let my eyes adjust.
The police have already searched.
Drawers are open. The bedding has been stripped back. Small numbered markers are gone, but pale adhesive squares remain on the floor and furniture where they had been placed. A section of carpet beside the bed is darker than the rest.
I take my phone from my bag and check the time.
I have no idea how long I have before someone decides to check the room again.
I begin with the entrance.
From the bedroom, the front door is partially hidden by the short wall separating the sleeping area from the sitting room.
I picture what he told Lorenzo.
She was alive when he left.
Putting her dress back on.
Planning to see him again.
I move carefully through the room, stepping only where the carpet already shows signs of traffic from investigators.
A hotel tablet sits on the console beside the television. Its screen is dark. The power cord hangs loose behind it.
I photograph it.
The bedside clock shows the correct time. I photograph that too, then the lighting controls, the thermostat, and the electronic lock on the inside of the entrance.
Every system in this room keeps time in one way or another.
The camera footage says Alessio left at 1:30.
Something else may say differently.
I crouch near the console.
The wall behind it is lightly scuffed, as though the furniture was moved and pushed back. It could have happened during the police search. It could have happened before.
I look underneath.
Nothing except dust and the tablet’s disconnected cord.
In the bedroom, one drawer remains half open. Empty hangers are pushed to one side of the closet. The bathroom counter has been cleared except for two wrapped hotel glasses.
The police took what they thought mattered.
That does not mean they understood what mattered.
I return to the sitting room and look toward the ceiling.
A camera would be too much to hope for, and the Halston would never admit to recording inside guest rooms even if it did.
But the lock has an access history.
The tablet may have activity logs.
The lights and curtains may have been adjusted after Alessio left.
Someone came into this room after him.
The question is whether they used the door. Or…
I turn toward the balcony.
The glass reflects part of the room behind me.
For a second, something near the lower edge catches my attention.
I move closer.
A faint smear marks the outside of the glass near the handle, lower than anyone would naturally place a hand while opening the door.
I crouch.
The mark is narrow, almost vertical, and partially wiped away.
It may be nothing.
I photograph it anyway.
Then I notice the curtain.
One side hangs properly. The other has been pulled slightly off its track near the top, leaving the fabric gathered unevenly.
I step back and follow the line of it.
Someone could have grabbed it.
Or pushed through it in a hurry.
My pulse picks up.
The problem with hotel crime scenes is that anything could have happened at any time. Nothing in here is guaranteed to have happened last night. One of the guests could have pulled the curtain a little too hard.
I move to the balcony anyway and study the neighboring partitions, the ledges between floors, the same route I just used.
It's possible, as I just demonstrated.
Someone else may have thought so too.
A sound comes from the hallway.
A door opening.
Voices.
I freeze.
I cross the suite quickly and position myself beside the entry wall, out of sight from anyone who opens the door.
But no one does. The footsteps move away, and the hallway falls silent again.
I take the rest of my photographs quickly, then return to the glass doors of the balcony.
Going back the way I came is the only option.
I open the balcony door and step into the wind.
This time, I know exactly how far down the street is.
That does not help.
I sigh before I step out.