Hotel No Tell Page 22

  “It was important to Leonard. I know that sounds really shallow to you, but he wanted Ph.D. genes. Actually, we paid a little extra for the Ph.D. Well, she was still a candidate, because, you know, the eggs need to be really young, but she had already passed her comps.”

  I sat on the edge of the tub, the cold enamel a relief beneath my sweaty palms. I pressed my forehead against the tile and closed my eyes.

  “Zephyr!” Lucy gasped. “Is that a … gun?”

  Chapter 18

  At 9:05 the next morning, I rode to the eighth floor of 561 Park Avenue. My recording studio was around my neck, my gun was on my waist, Tommy and Pippa were in the car downstairs, Letitia Humphrey and Bobby Turato were backing me up in the lobby, and Richie McIntyre stood by the stairwell entrance, his hand resting lightly on his weapon. I looked at him, he nodded, and I pushed open the oak door to suite 807.

  Inside was a large reception area with leather couches, a low glass coffee table, raw-silk-covered walls, and fresh lilies whose cloying scent nearly knocked me over. A small rock fountain burbled at the far end of the room. The place hummed with quiet wealth, and I could only imagine how uncomfortable it had made Lucy to come here. Between their decision to use Recherché and the move upstate, I was beginning to reevaluate the force of Leonard’s pull within the marriage.

  For the occasion, I had borrowed my mother’s smoke-gray Dior suit. I had put on her pearl studs, swept my hair up in combs, encased my legs in stockings and high heels, and applied makeup with an unpracticed hand. I had feared the result would look like a child playing dress up, but I realized, as I looked in the mirror, that I’d been deceiving myself. The effect was that of … an almost-thirty-one-year-old. A regular grown-up thirty-one-year-old. No less, and maybe a bit more. Tommy had whistled and the others had regarded me with quiet shock. If I’d had more time, I might have indulged a small crisis of identity, but, as it was, a potential bust awaited me.

  As I sized up the front desk, I was grateful for the costume. The heavily painted receptionist—the lava lips and bright spots of red on her cheeks reminded me of a Russian doll—was dressed in a crisp gray pantsuit, and she wore her hair in a shiny bob that had not a single strand out of place. She was designed to make people nervous, and I wondered why these places that made a business out of creating people couldn’t seem to relate comfortably to those of us who already existed.

  I had planned to stride up to her with the confidence of a woman wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit and in possession of two hundred grand to blow on conception. I had planned to request an informational interview and demand a tour of the facilities. But the striding plan would have to wait.

  Leaning over the Matryoshka doll’s desk was a grimy, gray-bearded, saggy-jeaned man with three cameras dangling off him. Matryoshka’s chair was rolled back as far as her carpet protector would permit. A faint look of horror seeped through her mask.

  “No, sir. I cannot let you back there.”

  “But she wants me there. Ask her yourself. She’s paying me to be here!”

  “And I’m being paid to say no to people like—Look, sir, only the partner is permitted in the procedure room.”

  The man slammed his hand on the counter. “She’s going to be extremely angry. And not with me, let me tell you.” Suddenly he brought one of his cameras to his face and snapped a photo of the receptionist. She stood up and backed away.

  “What the hell are you doing? Give me that camera.”

  He laughed gruffly. “Look, lady, I’m the Pembrandt family photographer. I was there when he proposed to her in a hot-air balloon over Provence. I was there to photograph them in bed the morning after their wedding. I photographed all three of their renovations, the last seven Christmas mornings and Valentine’s Day dinners, and I was at Tessa’s birth. And now Mrs. Pembrandt wants me in that room”—he pointed to a door leading off the waiting room—“to photograph the embryo transfer of Junior. It’s extremely important to her. So if you won’t let me, then I will photograph the alternate story. She’ll like that, yeah.…” He nodded to himself as he started taking pictures of the room. I quickly turned my back on him as he spun around, shooting. “Mrs. P. likes when I record the mishaps, too. She’s got an appreciation of narrative—”

  “Sir, stop it! Stop it or I’ll call my boss.”

  He and I both snapped to attention.

  “Oh no, call your boss? Oh please, no, not that.” He returned to shooting, taking pictures of the waterfall and the otherwise empty waiting room.

  Matryoshka picked up her phone and spoke in sharp, hushed tones. She hung up and addressed me.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” she asked, locking her eyes onto mine, anxious for a life raft back to the civility to which she was accustomed.

  “Hey, what about me?” demanded the family photographer, hitching up his jeans.

  “You,” Matryoshka said coldly, “will have to wait. May I help you?” she repeated. I was grateful to the ornery photographer for offering a sharp contrast to me: Any suspicion I might have aroused by my unannounced arrival had been quieted by his performance. The painted receptionist and I were now sisters, and I milked our new bond.

  “Yes, thank you so much,” I gushed politely. “I’m afraid I’m here without an appointment, but my friend Lucy Toklas insisted you wouldn’t mind. I’m just looking for an informational interview, perhaps a tour, and I found myself with a free morning. Is there any chance …?” I smiled delicately at her.

  “Of course, of course, I remember Ms. Toklas.” Matryoshka immediately started jabbing at her keyboard and peering at her screen. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting just half an hour, I can have one of the counselors sit down with you.”

  “Oh, terrific.” If I’d had white gloves I would now be peeling them off finger by finger. “And with whom will I be meeting?” I added lightly as I sat down.

  “You’ll meet with Sander.”

  At that moment, Paulina pushed through the door that connected the back rooms to the reception area. The photographer snapped her picture. I was torn between wanting to make sure I got a clear shot of her on my own camera and wanting to hide behind a magazine to buy myself time, so I half-stood, half-turned, and found myself in a bizarre crouch that looked like I was trying not to pee on myself.

  Of all the elements that had been refusing to come together on this case, now, now, the most concrete evidence of a scam of epic proportions was throwing itself into my arms, and I was paralyzed. Of all the scenarios the team had envisioned at ten o’clock the night before, during an emergency meeting post-non-Oscar party, this was not one of them. No one had predicted Paulina herself would be here.

  “Sir, just what do you think you’re—” She caught sight of me and froze, but only for an instant. The features that had seemed so inviting the day before hardened, transforming her face into a sinister, nearly unrecognizable mask.

  “Please come with me, sir.” I tried to catch her eye, but she would not stop looking at the photographer, who tossed the receptionist a triumphant look and followed Paulina back through the door. It whooshed and clicked closed.

  I tried to swallow. I could practically hear my team shrieking over their radios downstairs.

  “Unbelievable!” squeaked Matryoshka. “She has never, ever … This is most unusual, I assure you. We have strict guidelines about who may go back there. I hope you’ll excuse this disruption. Really. We pride ourselves on being extremely … Well, this is just very unusual.”

  “Oh, now, don’t you worry,” I said shakily, and perched on the edge of the sofa, trying to figure out what to do next. I wished I had an earpiece.

  A minute ticked by in silence while I pretended to look at a magazine. I had Paulina cornered. She’d be eager to get me into her office to keep me from making a scene. I’d confront her with our suspicions and get her reaction—either confession or denial—on tape, and then, because her presence here and at Summa was sufficient, I’d arrest her.

  Holy shit
. I didn’t have handcuffs on me, had never made an arrest solo, and my mind froze, drawing a blank as to what I was supposed to do next. Sweat erupted from places I didn’t know could sweat. Calm down, Zephyr. Think. Think. At the very least, I reassured myself, Pippa was on the phone dispatching officers to the courthouse with a search-warrant request. And maybe, just maybe, Tommy or Richie would burst in with cuffs, reeling off Miranda warnings. Matryoshka had no idea how much activity had been set in motion.

  As it turned out, neither did I.

  Another minute passed. This was not how I pictured my first career-making bust. My fingers had become so sweaty that the pages of the magazine grew soggy in my hands.

  I stood up and approached the desk apologetically.

  “Actually, excuse me? Would it be possible to meet with Paulina instead of Sander? I’ve heard such wonderful things about her.”

  Matryoshka smiled at me, still relieved the disruption was over.

  “Well, I don’t see why not! I’m sure she could spare a few minutes for a friend of Lucy’s.” She put the phone to her ear and pressed a button. “Hmm, she must be on a call.”

  I sat back down, barely able to swallow. I watched the clock. After a minute, I stood up and approached again.

  “Would you mind trying again?”

  This time the smile was not quite as big, but she dialed.

  “No answer?” I asked.

  “Let me go check.”

  I began to follow her.

  “You wait here.”

  I waited until the door was nearly closed, then caught it and followed Matryoshka as she turned down a short corridor. I peeked around the corner and watched her tap on a door whose brass plate said Examining Room. After a quick conference with someone inside, she frowned and moved on to another door that was slightly ajar: Office. I tiptoed after her.

  The photographer was in there, reclining in a chair and idly shooting pictures of anything that caught his eye: a collection of figurines, a framed MBA from Columbia, a spiky aloe plant. He appeared to be alone.

  “Where is Paulina?” Matryoshka demanded, certain that the cameraman had disposed of her boss.

  He shrugged and snapped a picture of her.

  “Is there an emergency stairwell back here?” I asked.

  Matryoshka whirled around, hand clutched to her heart. “What are you doing here? Please return to the waiting room!” Her world was once again topsy-turvy.

  “Well, is there?” I demanded.

  Furiously, she pointed down the hall to an exit sign above a door.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God. She fled!” I yelled into my chest, as if Pippa and Tommy couldn’t already hear every breath I was taking. “She fled!” I ran down the hall and threw myself against the door. I looked down the well to the bottom. Nothing. No one. “Dammit!”

  I circled down flight after flight as fast as I could and reached the first floor, certain I was going to throw up. I never used to get dizzy—wasn’t loss of equilibrium a sign of aging? I ran outside and found myself facing an alley. Pippa and Tommy were parked around the side of the building, on 63rd Street, but without benefit of an avenue or traffic moving in a known direction, I was momentarily stumped. I blindly followed the alley and emerged onto a side street. I spotted an awning and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m on Sixty-second. I’m in front of 127 East Sixty-second. Crimson awning on the north side. If anyone’s still here …?”

  I looked up and down the street. After a minute, the town car came screeching around the corner.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I moaned, climbing into the backseat.

  “I can’t believe we didn’t cover the fire exit,” Pippa grunted, as much to herself as to me and Tommy, who, for once, was silent. “What an utter, monumental lapse. White collar and we assume they won’t put on trainers and run. Idiots. Idiots!”

  She pulled away from the curb with tires screeching.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Bellevue. Let’s try to catch at least one suspect, yes?”

  I sat back in the seat and pressed my fingers to my eyes.

  “Zephyr, think. Where does Paulina live? Where might she be going? What the hell is her last name?”

  “I only met her yesterday,” I nearly sobbed. “I don’t know! No, wait.” I thought of the diploma I’d just glimpsed. “ ‘G,’ ” I concluded lamely. “It begins with a ‘G.’ ”

  “Oh, blast it, she’d likely use an alias anyway. Let’s alert the airports with a physical description and press Jeremy Wedge as hard as we can.”

  I watched the city whiz past, feeling like a misbehaved child perched in the backseat. Peering through the windows of the taxis that surrounded us, I briefly wondered what was unfolding in all those other backseats. People on their way to funerals? Coming home from signing divorce papers? On their way to being diagnosed with a fatal disease? Anyone else out there who’d just botched the most important moment of her budding career? Anyone else minutes from being fired? Forget fired. I’d completely bungled my apprenticeship, which meant I’d never sit for the licensing exam the following spring. I wasn’t even angry at Paulina. She was doing her job, being the criminal. It had been my job to catch her.

  Med school: fail. Law school: fail. Law enforcement: fail. Zephyr: fail. What I wanted was to crawl into Gregory’s arms and stay there for a little bit of eternity. But I couldn’t do that, either.

  As the tears threatened to roll, my cellphone rang. The hotel’s main number. The last thing I had time or tolerance for at this moment was Asa and his solipsistic trivialities, but if there was any chance it was Ballard, I had to take the call.

  I breathed in a big, snotty breath. “Hello,” I sniffled.

  “Zephyr, my acupuncturist has an opening in an hour and a half. Is there any way you could cover?”

  I thought about hanging up on him, but then I considered my imminent unemployment and began to laugh hysterically. Maybe I could get a permanent job as a concierge at the Greenwich Village Hotel.

  “No, Asa, there is absolutely no way, not in a million years, that I can cover for you today.”

  “You don’t have to laugh about it. I was only asking.” He paused. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Asa said to someone at the desk, and then to me again: “Excuse me for bothering you with my chronic pain. I said I’ll be with you in a moment. God,” he muttered.

  In the background, I could hear the familiar tones of an irritated guest.

  “I told you, I’ll be with you in a mo—Jeremy? No, Jeremy’s not here right now. I have no idea when—”

  “Asa!” I shrieked into the phone, bolting upright. Pippa and Tommy whipped their heads around. “For the love of God, please, Asa, for once in your life, play it cool. Is the woman you’re talking to about five foot six, dark features, dark hair, well dressed? Wearing …” I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my deficient powers of observation to rise to the occasion. All I could see were wraps and swaths and scarves. “Well, I don’t know how to explain what she’s wearing.” Pippa shook her head slightly in disbelief as even more of my shortcomings were brought to light.

  “Well, she’s wearing a blond wig that doesn’t suit her,” he whispered. “I don’t know whom she thinks she’s fooling.”

  In the background, again, I heard what was definitely Paulina’s voice. At least one of my five senses was operative.

  “Asa,” I said, my mouth dry. “Keep her there. Whatever you do, keep her there. Tell her that you just heard Jeremy is on his way over. He’s been released from the hospital and he’s headed to the hotel.”

  “That’s great! I’m so glad he’s better!”

  “Excellent, keep it up. Give her a free lunch in the restaurant, offer her a tour of the rooms—whatever you do, keep her there. Please? Can you do that?”

  “Is she famous?” Asa whispered as Tommy opened the window and stuck a turret light on the roof. Pippa turned on the siren, swung a right off h
er eastbound route, and hurtled south.

  “What?”

  “Long-lost sister?”

  “You know who she is, Asa? She’s an undercover scout for Revlon.”

  He gasped. “What does that even mean?” he breathed.

  Hell if I knew. “Just keep her there, okay?”

  “You can count on me, Zephyr.”

  Chapter 19

  By five-thirty that evening, I officially liked beer. I was starting on my third Red Stripe, courtesy of the White Horse Tavern and a dozen SIC colleagues who continued to buy rounds even as they mocked me. It was a kind of love I was quickly coming to accept and even enjoy.

  “She’s yellin’, ‘Oh my god oh my god she fled,’ ” Tommy O. told the group in a whiny voice that didn’t come close to resembling mine, even under the most dire circumstances.

  “That is not what I sounded like,” I protested, putting both hands on the tabletop to steady myself.

  Tommy R. whipped out a small recorder and entertained the group with my earlier panic, captured perfectly by the necklace he’d created. “Oh, that’s exactly what you sounded like, Zepha.” He grinned and then assumed a thoughtful pose. “Hey, Mikey,” he said to the lumbering detective beside him. “How many times you ever drawn your weapon?”

  “On my wife?”

  Laughs all around.

  “Nah, nah, in your entire career. In your twenty years on the force and then at the S.I.C., how many times?”

  I let my head drop to the table. It was sticky. The table, but now my head, too.

  “Uh, lemme see.” Mikey matched his faux-reflective tone. “In twenty-five years, I’ve drawn three times. Fired it once.”

  “Three times, huh? So, Zepha, you’ve had your weapon, what …?”

  “Four days,” I muttered to the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “Four days,” I grunted, as everyone started cracking up.

  Pippa had pulled up in front of the hotel entrance and I’d jumped out before she stopped. This time, at least, we had radioed ahead and were confident every single exit was covered.