Page 33 of A Friend in the Glass

“Not even remotely,” Rufus answered. He punched the Up button, and when the doors opened, he tugged Sam inside and hit 18. “It’s a shame we don’t have a gift basket,” he said thoughtfully. “People always open their door for those chocolate and pecan turtles.”

After that, they rode up in silence. The elevator stopped only once, on 11, where a nervous-looking woman laughed and apologized for hitting the wrong button. When it reached 18, the doors rattled open, and the smell of carpet cleaner and recirculated air rolled into the car.

Sam stepped out and checked the hall in both directions. At one end, a window looked out on the city at night. At the other, a painting—a vase full of flowers—hung on an otherwise blank hall. Sam counted six doors.

“Only six?” he asked.

“It must be one of the rich-people floors.” Rufus sniffed the air. “Yup. Smells like money. Executive suites, I bet.”

“Any guesses which one she went to?”

Rufus glanced in both directions as Sam had, then said, “If I had the money to stay here, I kind of feel like you’re obligated to ask for a room with a view.” He pointed toward the hall with the window.

“That leaves three.”

Sam moved down the hallway. He stopped at the door to the room closest to the elevator and listened. Either the construction and materials were high enough quality to keep him from hearing anything, or the room was currently unoccupied. He moved to the next door, which was located on the opposite side of the hallway. He listened again. This time, the murmur of a television filtered out into the hallway. It sounded like a news channel, the voices steady and even. Behind him, Sam heard the elevator doors rattle shut as the car was called to another floor. He sent up a mental prayer that the woman with the stretchable pants didn’t need to do a demonstration on the eighteenth floor.

The third door—1806—was on the same side of the hallway as the first. Sam listened. A man was talking. The voice had a low, snapping energy, but it didn’t sound familiar. He’d heard Del Jolly speak twice now: at the Conasauga panel, and then at the hotel. Both times, Del had spoken in the varnished, self-assured tones of someone who believed money could smooth out any misunderstanding, and this didn’t sound the same.

Sam retreated to the elevators. One of the cars was still going down. The other was stopped at the lobby. He took out his phone, did a web search for this hotel, and placed the call.

“Savoy-Hell’s Kitchen,” a woman answered. “This is Katrina, how may I help you?”

“Could you connect me with room 1806, please?”

“One moment, please.”

Muzak picked up, and then immediately cut off as the phone began to ring. One, two, three—

“Yes, what?” It was the same snapping irritation Sam had heard through the door.

“Hello, Del?”

“Who?”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to reach Del Jolly.”

“Wrong number.”

The receiver clattered against the cradle, and the call disconnected.

At Rufus’s inquiring look, Sam shook his head. He considered the remaining rooms. Would Del Jolly want the room closest to the elevator? Or was he in the room with the television on? He flipped a coin in his head and pointed to the door closest to the elevator. “So, we knock?”

“I’m bold, but not that bold,” Rufus answered. “Call again and ask for 1802.”

Sam repeated his trick, if that’s what you could call it, with the front desk. This time, the call rang until it bounced back to the front desk. Sam disconnected as Katrina started speaking again.

“Nobody’s home,” he said. “Or, at least, nobody’s answering.”

“More to my liking.” Rufus tugged the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the doorknob of 1806 and held it up. “I can try to break in, if you’re ready for that.”

Sam nodded.

Rufus approached 1802 from an angle, careful to stay out of view of the peephole, in case someonewashome and had simply been feeling uncommunicative. The door to the suite wasn’t entirely flush with the frame—a small bit of space allowing for the deadbolt to be visible. Sticking the heavy-duty plastic hanger against the lock, Rufus gently wiggled it back and forth until the deadbolt clicked, which caused the keycard reader to flash green. He grabbed the knob and pushed the door open while looking toward Sam.

“That actually worked?” Sam murmured, catching the door on his shoulder as he stepped past Rufus. He stopped. The whitehiss of the HVAC system met him; nothing else. Elbowing the door open the rest of the way, Sam took in the room.

Unlike a standard hotel room, the door opened onto a large living space with a seating area, a large television, and a wet bar. A single lamp gave enough light to see that the Savoy’s Nordic design continued here with blond wood and chrome and glass. On the far side of the room, a wall of windows gave a view of the city that Del had undoubtedly paid a pretty penny for, the darkness shattered by the blaze of neon and sodium. A hall stretched off to the left, shadowy where the light from the lamp didn’t reach.

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