The Flight Attendant(39)

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When she was dressed, her hair dry and her makeup on, she sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the hotel room. She had never stolen anything from a hotel for herself, but over the years she had taken things for her sister and her nephew and niece. Sometimes she tried to rationalize the thefts: the hotel was overpriced, the stuff was junk anyway, and (of course) everyone else took the soap. She could recall bringing her sister a beautiful black bathrobe from France (which she had actually stolen from the dirty hamper of a maid service cart in the hallway), exotic throw pillows from Vietnam, fancy wooden coat hangers from San Francisco, a Wedgwood blue coffee service from Italy (which was on the corridor floor outside another guest’s hotel room), very fluffy towels from Miami, and a brass magazine stand from Germany. For the kids she was most likely to pilfer little decorative sculptures or small but interesting prints or paintings or photos that weren’t bolted to the wall. (When she took a photograph or a print, she would always steal it the moment she checked in, calling down right away to the front desk to report the blank spot above the bed or beside the armoire.) She’d brought them images of lighthouses and skyscrapers and the iconic architectural landmarks of Paris and Sydney and Rome. In her hotel rooms, she’d found them trinkets and paperweights of dragons (Hanoi), Vikings (Stockholm), and ballerinas (Moscow).

Did her sister suspect the gifts were stolen? Perhaps. But Cassie always insisted that she had paid for them, in some cases swearing that the objects were sold at the hotel gift shop. She always cleaned them, boxed them, and wrapped them when she was back in New York.

She wasn’t searching for gifts for anyone in particular right now, but she noticed a small replica of a famous statue of the mythical twins Romulus and Remus as infants, nursing from the wolf that saved them. It was on a side table, atop the leather-bound guest directory and a magazine for tourists about Rome, and she realized that once upon a time it had been half of a pair of bookends. She stood up and lifted it. The bookend was maybe six inches long and six inches wide, and made of copper. It was hollow, but filled with sand. Her nephew was about to start sixth grade, and she had a vague memory of studying the Greek and Roman myths when she was that age. She associated Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt, with her beautiful young teacher for sixth grade: Diana Dezzerides. She thought Tim would get a charge out of the sculpture once he had been properly introduced to the great myths. It would be a Christmas present. She would tell Rosemary that she had discovered it in an antique store, and because it was only half the set, she had gotten it for a song. The key would be to find something equally as idiosyncratic for her niece.

The idea of slipping the copper bookend into her suitcase gave her a small rush. The truth was that she didn’t loot like this to punish the hotel or because it was the only way she could afford to bring her family gifts; she didn’t even really try and convince herself that it wasn’t all that different from stealing the soap, because she knew it was. Like almost everything else she did, it was crossing a line that most people wouldn’t. She did it because it thrilled her. It was just that simple. She did it because it was, like so much else that made her happy, dangerous and self-destructive and just a little bit sick.



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The hotel bar was quiet in the middle of a weekday afternoon, but it was cozy and dark and warm without being hot. Most people preferred to drink outside in the sunlit piazza, and so Cassie had the place to herself. She brought her paperback with her, though she was never one of those single women who minded eating or drinking—certainly not drinking—alone. She didn’t bring the book as a prop or a buffer against intrusion. She thought she might actually see if “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” would offer any spiritual insight into the death of Alex Sokolov. She doubted it, but she’d read a little more of “Happy Ever After” upstairs in her hotel room and found that the story had been a welcome diversion from the maelstrom of her real life. She was starting to like Masha: she was starting to like her a lot.

The bartender was a slim young guy with reddish-brown hair he slicked back and a trim mustache. His eyes were moonstone, and the uniform here was a white shirt and blue vest that happened to match those eyes perfectly. He smiled at her and she ordered a Negroni, and then took it with her to a leather booth in the back, choosing the one beside a replica of a classic sculpture of Mercury and beneath a Tiffany lamp with a stained-glass shade. She made sure there was cell service before she got comfortable. Then she took a long swallow, savoring the burn of the gin, and sucked for a long moment on the orange peel. When the glass was half empty, she sat back and called Megan. Her friend picked up quickly.

“My overseas plan is fine for texting, but not great for talking,” she told Megan, “so we should get right to it.”

“See, if you had small children, you’d have a great plan for talking. But if you had teenagers, like me, you wouldn’t: the last thing you want is to deal with your daughters’ dramas overseas. I’m in the same boat as you.”

“Your kids are terrific.”

“They’re hormonal beasts who love me madly one day and want me locked in the attic the next.”

“I read your texts. Are you alone? Can you talk?”

“Yeah, now is fine. The beasts are out,” Megan said. Then: “Look, I saw the photos. We’ve all seen the photos. It is you, isn’t it?”