Night Film(41)

“Because if he had, he’d be severely maimed right now.”

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror, startled by his tone of voice. He was staring out the window, his face gilded by lights of the passing cars. One thing I’d gathered in the past few hours was that his knowledge of Ashley—Ash, he’d called her—was significantly more intense than the casual acquaintance of years ago he’d claimed. He knew her better than he let on, or else he’d once observed her carefully, maybe even from a distance like Devold. I was tempted to press him on it, try and get him to admit he hadn’t been forthcoming, but decided against it—for the time being. He’d probably only glower and become defensive, and that wouldn’t get me anywhere.

I checked the clock on the dashboard: 9:42 P.M.

“So, where am I dropping you two off?” I asked.

Nora turned to me. “We’re not done yet. We still have to go to that hotel, the Waldorf, see if somebody noticed Ashley. He said she was going there. So we should go.”

“Sounds like a plan,” muttered Hopper, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

“It’s a long shot,” I said. “But sure. Let’s check it out.”





23


Like most New Yorkers, I went out of my way to avoid the Waldorf Astoria. It was like a very rich, very large, and mercifully very distant great-aunt who had three rolls of fat under her chin, wore taffeta, and had a personality so bossy you only needed to not see her but hear about her once to have your fill of her for the next fifteen years.

If you decided to venture inside, however, through the Art Deco revolving doors past the businessmen from Milwaukee and the Unitarian Church group, then took a breather before beating your way through the crowd up the carpeted stairs past the line into Starbucks and the woman rolling her carry-on suitcase over your shoes, instantly you were assaulted by the bloated luxury of the place. There were vaulted ceilings. There were palm trees. There were gilt clocks. There was marble. If there was a wedding reception—and there usually was, the bride and groom, Bobby and Marci of Massapequa, Lawn Guyland—the lobby throbbed like a gymnasium on prom night.

Hopper and Nora followed me through the lobby, ducking around an extended family wearing matching Red Sox sweatshirts toward a discreet wooden doorway. It was labeled with a tiny gold plaque, THE WALDORF TOWERS—so tactful its obvious aim was to go unseen.

I strode down the corridor to the elevator banks, stepping inside, Nora and Hopper right behind me.

“You really know your way around here,” said Nora, as I pressed G.

I did, unfortunately.

The Waldorf Astoria was only a distraction from the section of the hotel where the important people stayed, the more exclusive Waldorf Towers, hotel of choice to presidents, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Saudi princes, and various high-rolling Wall Street businessmen when they rendezvoused with their mistresses, which, sadly, was something along the lines of how I knew the place.

I wasn’t proud of it—and I sure as hell didn’t recommend it—but there was a six-month hellish stretch when, shortly after my divorce, I saddled myself with an affair with a married woman. And I met her here, at the Waldorf Towers, a total of sixteen times, though this was only after she’d sent me feedback emails in the bitter tone of an unsatisfied boss informing me the first hotel I’d chosen for our trysts, one I could actually afford, the generic Fitzpatrick Manhattan on Lex—known by its devoted clientele as The Fitz—was too close to her office, the rooms didn’t get enough light, the sheets stank, and the man at reception gave her a funny look after he asked if she needed help with luggage and she announced she didn’t have any, she’d be there for only forty-five minutes.

The elevator doors opened, spilling us into the Waldorf Towers lobby, small, elegant, and totally empty.

The three of us walked around the corner to the reception area, where a young man of Middle Eastern descent stood alone behind the front desk. He was tall, with a narrow build, dark eyes. His nametag read HASHIM.

I briefly introduced myself. “And we were hoping you might help,” I went on. “We’re searching for information on a missing woman. We think she came here sometime in the last month.”

He looked intrigued. He also, thankfully, made no sign of needing to go fetch his manager.

“Mind taking a look at her picture?” I asked.

“Certainly not.” It was a bright, genial voice, gilded with a British accent.

I removed Ashley’s missing-person’s report from my inside coat pocket, folded so only her picture was visible, and handed it to him.

“When was she here?” he asked.

“A few weeks ago.”

He handed it back. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen her before. Of course, it’s hard to tell from the picture. If you like I can make a photocopy and post it in the back, in case any other staff met her or remember her.”

“Nothing was reported out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“Do you videotape the lobby?”

“We do. But that would require a warrant. I assume you’ve contacted police?”

I nodded, and Hashim smiled with flawless five-star sorrow at being unable to help me further—and it was time for us to be on our way.

“She would have been wearing this,” said Nora, pulling Ashley’s coat out of the Whole Foods bag and setting it, folded, on the leather desk pad.