No one bars you from an upscale hotel as long as you’re properly dressed. I had the cab swing by my apartment and wait while I put on my wheat–colored pantsuit and some makeup. The midsummer heat continued as June inched into July; the rayon rubbed unpleasantly against my cuts and bruises, but the bellman inside the Trianon’s entrance accepted the envelope and a ten with a respectful promise to see that it was taken up to Ms. Dowell’s suite at once. I sat in an alcove off the main lobby, flipping idly through newspapers, but although the bellman assured me he’d hand–delivered my packet, no message came down for me.
Short of checking into the hotel, there wasn’t any way I could get upstairs without Lacey’s summons: the Trianon had someone stationed between the desk and the elevators to monitor traffic. I watched a discreet pantomime take place between the front–desk staff and the monitor, subtle nods allowing the blessed to pass into paradise. If I wanted to get upstairs, Lacey had to call me.
I read pages of Washington scandal, which I usually avoid; I read about the bodies hauled off the sidewalks after the weekend’s drive–bys—which I also usually skip—and even the sad ending of an unidentified man in his late thirties who’d been pulled out of the water at Belmont Harbor, but no word came for me from on high. I was starting to feel frustrated, which made my sore muscles ache more ferociously.
Maybe after another night’s rest a different way of probing at Frenada and Global would come to me, but for now all I had energy for was collecting my car—which I hoped was still sitting three blocks from Frenada’s headquarters. As I pushed myself out of the padded armchair, someone I recognized sailed through the revolving door like the Merrimac descending on a wooden frigate. Alex Fisher had such a head of steam that she ignored the doorman holding the side door wide for her. She also ignored a younger woman who was running to catch up with her.
“I can’t wait around for you,” Alex snapped in a ringing voice.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fisher, I was paying the cab.” The young woman panted; she was pasty–faced and out of shape, probably from too many late nights dining on pizza while waiting for commands from the studio.
I had slipped behind a pillar to watch, but Alex was so wrapped up in her own business that not even a marching band could have distracted her. When the hall monitor tried to detain her, Alex jerked away and pushed the elevator call button. I was admiring her forthright tactics when Frank Siekevitz suddenly appeared at her side.
I couldn’t hear what the security director said, but Alex announced that Lacey Dowell was expecting her, this was urgent, and would he get out of the way. Frank murmured something else, his posture so deprecating that I cringed. The hall monitor used a phone, and in another minute Alex and her satellite were allowed to pass.
I sat back down, hoping Lacey might decide I could help her after all, but when Alex and her attendant reappeared, no one had asked for me. I couldn’t resist following Alex outside.
“Vic!” Her greeting was half surprise, half venom. “I thought you—what are you doing here?”
So Lacey hadn’t told her I’d written to her: interesting. “Yeah, I know, I was supposed to be dead or in jail or something, but here I am. Lacey doing okay?”
“If you’re trying to see her, you can’t.” Alex waved off a doorman offering her a taxi.
“She’s not the only guest at the Trianon. I was having tea with my aunt. She’s a permanent resident.”
“You don’t have an aunt who can afford this place.”
“You haven’t read the LifeStory report on me very thoroughly, Sandy,” I chided her. “As a matter of fact I do have a rich aunt. Actually, I have a rich uncle. He’s very big in the food industry. And his wife could afford to live here if she wanted to. By the way, where did you get the cocaine you planted on me?”
Alex became aware of her satellite, who was frowning in an effort to follow our conversation. She gave an unconvincing laugh and said she didn’t know what I was talking about.
“It has that Hollywood feel to it, the kind of thing Gene Hackman would turn up in French Connection Three. Did you get Teddy Trant to talk to his screenwriters, have them come up with an absurd plotline, then turn it over to Baladine and his tame goons to act out?”
“Vic, why didn’t you take that assignment I dug up for you? It would have saved everyone a lot of grief.” Her green eyes were dark in the twilight.
“Was it a bribe or a distraction?” I asked.
“There are worse things on the planet than bribes. I didn’t remember you as so uncompromising in law school.”
“No, that was you back then,” I agreed. “Hot politics and stubborn intransigence. If you weren’t part of the solution you were part of the problem. Although maybe in that regard you haven’t changed so much.”
She bit her lower lip, swollen from collagen injections. “Well, you were always stubborn, that’s for damned sure. But you weren’t ever right about everything. As you’ll find out now if you don’t back off. Felicity, can you get a cab over here? We have a lot of work to do tonight.”
Felicity scuttled over to the doorman, who blew grandly on his whistle. The lead car in the taxi line pulled forward.
“Back off? From what?”