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.
* * *
? ?
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?”
And instantly Cassie understood her mistake: she shouldn’t have called Megan back. She should only have phoned Ani. Yes, she and Megan had known each other for years, but in the end Cassie was now going to have to ask Megan to perjure herself. She wasn’t quite at that place yet, however—she was still too sober. But the crux of the problem was really very simple: she had told Megan one thing in Dubai and Derek Mayes another at the diner in New York. So far she had told the FBI nothing. If she was to accomplish anything right now, she should see if there was a way to reconcile her two stories and get Megan and Derek on the same page. She swallowed the last of her Negroni, and the bartender, as if he were telepathic, emerged from behind that great, wonderful balustrade of a bar and was at her side, asking if she wanted another drink. She nodded enthusiastically.
“What photos?” she asked Megan, stalling for time by playing dumb.
“You haven’t seen them? You really haven’t seen them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Cassie could hear the woman’s great sigh of exasperation through the phone. “There are two photos on the web of a woman who looks like you and is wearing a scarf that might be the one you bought when we landed in Dubai. You know, at the airport? The photos are from the hotel in Dubai where the guy from two C was killed. The hedge fund guy. In one picture, she’s with the dude; in the other, she’s alone. Jada is sure it’s you. Shane is absolutely positive.”
“And you?” Cassie asked. She wished Alex Sokolov were more than the guy from 2C or the hedge fund guy. He deserved better. “What do you think?”
“Tell me, were you with him? I know you didn’t kill him. But were you with him? Just tell me that. The FBI has been calling. I’m supposed to meet with them today and I need to know what you want me to say.”
What you want me to say. The words echoed in Cassie’s mind.
“I guess the FBI will be calling me, too, when I get back,” she said, instead of mentioning that she already had a message from an agent herself. She watched the bartender preparing her drink, and tried to will him to hurry up. She needed to ratchet up the pain medication.
“Yeah. I guess,” said Megan, her tone equal parts frustration and derision.
“I’m glad I’m in Italy. Where are you this month?”
“Berlin. The seven-thirty flight tonight.”
“I like that flight.”
“You’re not answering my question. Should I read something into that?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then what’s going on? What’s really going on?”
The bartender returned with her drink and when he placed it on the table, she had an urge to reach out and touch his long, beautiful fingers. Instead she murmured her thanks and plucked the orange peel from the rim, tossing it unceremoniously onto the table beside her small paperback book. Then she drank it down at least an inch and a half. “Here’s what I want you to do,” she began.
“Go on.”
“I want you to forget I ever told you that I picked up a guy at the hotel bar in Dubai. I want you to forget we ever spoke that morning in my hotel room before we left the city. As far as anyone knows, I never left my hotel room that night. I didn’t even order up room service. That’s all.”
There was a long pause and Cassie used the opportunity to drink some more. Her stomach was empty. She knew she would be feeling better soon.
“So you want me to lie,” said Megan.
“I doubt it will ever come to that.”
“It will.”
“Then, yes. Please.”
“Can you tell me anything more?”
“Oh, Megan, I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. I just don’t want you to get sucked into this. Assume I really did hook up with a guy from our hotel. Why not just believe that, okay?”
“Because you’re a spy.”