Security(30)

The Killer doesn’t put his key in the lock. He wavers, seeming to consider.

Tessa is examining place settings. Again.

Brian is watching her from the kitchen doorway, halfheartedly trying to converse with Justin, who has enlisted Jules to help him finish the rest of the dishes left behind by the sous--chefs’ frantic flambéing. Brian is asking Justin where he used to surf; Justin must have mentioned it.

Jules holds up a finger to her husband and squeezes around Brian. Justin tells Brian, “Laguna. You ever surf?” Jules goes to Delores, who is in the storage closet, presumably dumping the mop bucket (tumbling water can be heard).

“Some,” Brian is saying. “I’m not very good at it.”

Tessa is moving a water glass. She puts a hand to her head as though to soothe an ache.

Brian says, “I’m rotten at it, to be honest,” as Jules squeezes past him again, into the kitchen. She wedges a doorstop and goes to the portable stereo. She turns the volume down—to the level marked with a tiny neon green Post--it—before switching it on.

Delores remains inside the storage room. Her tapping foot is visible. She is doing nothing, which makes her nervous. Jules must have told her to remain in there.

Jules whispers to Brian. She indicates Tessa, who isn’t far from the dance floor. Tessa doesn’t seem to hear the music. But she must. It’s not deafening, but it fills the ballroom. It’s a French tenor over lachrymose accordion. It would remind a child of the dinner scene in Lady and the Tramp.

Brian shakes his head and turns to whisper to Jules. But Jules keeps walking to the dishwasher. She trays the cookware her husband has rinsed, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Brian probably wanted to whisper to Jules that Tessa doesn’t dance. Since he can’t say it, though, since Jules is too far away, he misses the opportunity to give himself a spoken reason to not walk toward Tessa.

Brian walks toward Tessa.

Henri chose Room 1408 because, like every luxury suite on the hotel’s west side, its west wall is entirely glass, offering a view of white sand and bright blue water, and now, a sliver of sun playing Narcissus with the ocean, its last effusive vermillion spilling down the horizon line. The sight is enough to make one sick with longing.

The Killer unlocks Room 1409, on the other side of the hall. He sits on the bed and takes a Ziploc bag from the left hip pocket of his coveralls. The bag contains carrot sticks. The Killer feeds a carrot stick under the chin of his mask. A loud crunch is audible. He takes his phone from his right hip pocket and taps a text message, which makes the Thinker’s phone vibrate six inches from my face. The Thinker grunts, throws an ace he’d hidden up his sleeve for absolutely no discernible reason, and comes to the security counter, where he taps the text message open. It reads: “Tell when chef dun cooking am hungry.” The Thinker is either staring unbelievingly at his phone, or he’s a slow reader. Probably the former. He types a reply—“Fine”—and claws his phone angrily from the security counter.

Brian and Tessa are dancing. He is speaking, and she is listening. She is glancing at the tables. She looks ready to cry. This is the second time today Tessa has looked ready to cry. Most people who know Tessa—even those who know her very, very well—have never seen her cry.

Henri opens the fridge in 1408. The Killer eats another carrot in 1409. The sous--chefs arrive in the break room and hurry to get their coats and open their lockers and take their unlocked belongings, including cell phones. (The sous--chefs only recently began working at the hotel. What with everything else Tessa’s had to do, she hasn’t assigned them padlocks yet. She was reminded, early this afternoon, to assign them padlocks tonight. She forgot.) They use the stairs to get to the first floor because it’s faster than the main elevator. They want to get away from the smell of Franklin, crisped in the fourth dryer; as sous--chefs, they’re more sensitive to aromas than most. They gabble out the hotel’s front doors, their shadows long in the light of the chandelier, blending into the navy blue of early night. They split at their cars. Their headlights give the hedge maze eight large, yellow eyes. They drive out of the lot one at a time.

Brian is not much of a dancer, but neither is Tessa. Jules and Justin are not subtle people; they’re leaning around the kitchen’s door frame like a sitcom cliché. Delores hates men, but she’s smiling, watching Brian and Tessa from the storage closet’s doorway. The ballroom’s chandelier flips on, a sudden and spectacular brightness, making clear how bruiselike the dusk had turned the nineteenth floor. The hotel’s lighting system is designed to sense darkness and illuminate it. Delores, Jules, Justin, Brian, and Tessa all flinch like they’ve been caught doing something unbearably private.

Henri is not cooking anything especially ornate, for him: a potage, for which he slices celery and onion and sautés them in butter before adding spices and heavy cream. He lets it simmer on low. He tenderizes a chicken fillet and butterflies it, stuffing the breach with Emmentaler and a thin slice of ham, and slides it into the oven under foil. He cuts a fresh peach and then speaks threatening French at a handful of cherries, which he pits, halves, and drops into a saucepan with some brandy. He puts the saucepan on the stove. A vivid blue flame licks the pan’s underside as Henri flicks his wrist, quivering the contents, letting them gel but not too much. There’s a brrr from the pocket of his chef’s coat. He removes the pan from the heat, takes out his prohibited cell phone. He answers, which means it could be only one person.