The Big Dirt Nap

sobs.

'I'm sorry for your loss,' I said. 'I know you were friends.' I didn't know anything of the kind but she was obviously distressed and I thought that would make her feel better. Instead, her sobbing escalated into wailing and she glared at me, as if Nick's death was somehow my fault. Hector rescued me from the unspoken accusation.

'C'mon, mami,' he said to her. 'I'll get someone to drive you home.'

This is so not what I thought I'd be doing tonight. I thought I'd be hanging out with an old friend, maybe treating myself to a massage, writing my little story. Not to be.

The first time I'd stood in that elevator, four hours earlier, Nick Vigoriti was handsome, sexy, and alive. The thought gave me the chills. Upstairs, I fumbled with the key again, but happily the green light flashed and I was able to unlock the door. As soon as I walked in, I noticed the smell. And it wasn't me. True, I'd just spent the last hour barfing near a Dumpster, in the same vicinity as a cigar-chomping troglodyte, a homeless guy, and a dead body that—to put it bluntly—was no longer sending out pheromones, but I wasn't what smelled. An unmistakable odor assailed my senses. Smoke. Not a fire—cigarette smoke.

I called out, thinking it might be the maid, or Lucy, who occasionally lit up despite my threatening to stage an intervention if she continued. No answer. I backed out of the room, gently closed the door, and hurried to the house phone near the elevators to call security.

Within minutes, Hector Ruiz reappeared.

'What's the problem, ma'am?'

I have a thing about being called 'ma'am.' I'm just not ready for it. Standing there in my hoodie and flip-flops, I didn't think I looked like a 'ma'am,' either.

'Hector, after all we've been through together, I give you permission to call me Ms. Holliday.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Someone's been in my room.'

'Housekeeping has probably been there, unless you had a Do Not Disturb on your door.'

'I did, but it's not there anymore. Besides, would she be smoking?'

'No, ma'am, Ms. Holliday. Of course not, but it's possible she had a cigarette on her break and the smoke lingered.' Maybe he was right. I thought of the rancid cigar smoke clinging to Bernie Mishkin's hair and clothing. Hector spoke Spanish into his headset and I understood enough to know he was summoning the maid to the room.

'She'll meet us there,' he said.

'I hadn't thought of that possibility; I don't want to get her in trouble.'

'She won't get in trouble. We'll just clear this up.' Hector was all business now, and obviously enjoying his starring role in such an eventful night. It must get boring with nothing to do except strong-arm the occasional drunken suburban suit.

We walked back to my room, arriving at the same time as the maid, who got there so fast she must have been behind one of the staff-only doors on the floor. She was a sleepy coffee-colored woman in a pale gray uniform with white collar and cuffs that reminded me of the little paper frills some people put on their Thanksgiving turkeys. She and Hector had an exchange in Spanish that was way too fast for me to follow. At the end, her eyes welled up with tears, and her neck, behind the ridiculous collar, flushed bright red.

'Look,' I said, 'it's not that big a deal. It's just that it's a no-smoking room. I'm sensitive.'

'She says she was here to turn down the bed about an hour ago—that would have been when we were downstairs—but she doesn't smoke. Let's go in, shall we?'

He opened the door with his passkey and the maid and I followed him into the room sniffing like hounds on the trail. Only I detected anything. Faint, but definitely there.

'I know someone's been in here,' I said.

'Do you want to check to see if anything's missing?' Hector asked, unconvinced.

The laptop was still on the coffee table, and my backpack was on the love seat. I checked my wallet; nothing appeared to be missing.

The maid shrugged and said something to Hector in Spanish, then went over to the bed to straighten the dust ruffle.

'She says, Perhaps it was su esposo, your husband,' Hector translated. I had the feeling he might have left out a few choice words, like crazy gringa.

'Well, then we'd have a small problem since I don't have a husband.'

'The maid says she saw the two of you going into the room earlier.'

What was she talking about? Usually it's the semihysterical woman who claims to have been with someone that no one else has seen—not the other way around.

'Young, dark, macho,' Hector prompted. 'Perhaps a friend?'

'That guy? That was the dead guy, Nick what's-his-name.' Not the smartest thing to say to a man who'd just heard me vehemently deny knowing Nick Vigoriti.

'My key wasn't working. He helped me get into my room. That's all. He didn't come in.' Tired of explaining, tired of being interrogated, I said, 'You're right. Everything's fine.' I sniffed the air and smiled. 'There's no cigarette smoke here. All in my head. I'm sure it's just the strain of the evening's events.' I couldn't wait for them to leave so I could triple-lock the door, rinse the taste of vomit from my mouth, and plunder the minibar. Now I did want an alcoholic drink. And carbs. Who could blame me for indulging in a little stress eating after a night like this?

The maid was still muttering, mostly to herself. She brushed by us to get to her cart outside and then returned to the bed. She smoothed out the turned-down corner of the duvet and placed a chocolate on each of the pillows.

They left with assurances and apologies—hers sincere, his, I wasn't sure about. As I closed the door, the maid continued her monologue.

'Pero nunca olvido las dulces,' she said, shaking her head.

Four

I took a shower, brushed my teeth, then raided the minibar. Pretty much the dictionary definition of doing things ass-backward, but I didn't care. The minibar was almost as empty as my fridge at home. Some high-fat salty snacks sat in a wicker tray on the counter, and inside the minifridge, screw-top wine, beer, and a door full of little nips. I took out a Sam Adams and searched for an opener. None. Probably pinched by the last guest. I rummaged in the black hole of my backpack, spilling my wallet, phone, and the sediment from my bag onto the coffee table, hunting for my Leatherman, but I couldn't find it. Too tired to keep looking, I held the lip of the bottle on the edge of the small refrigerator and slammed the heel of my fist down on the bottle. The top popped off just like it did when I was eighteen. It was nice to know I still had the touch.

I collapsed on the love seat, put my feet on the cheap coffee table, and swigged hard. I found the remote and switched on the television again, wondering if Nick's death had already made the local news. I clicked the channel- up button until I found a station running the story. There was Mishkin tearfully bloviating to a bubbleheaded reporter, so I cranked up the volume. Then the voiceover continued. 'Persons of interest are being questioned in this deadly encounter that has all the earmarks of a drug deal gone terribly wrong,' and then the video cut to me being led through the lobby by Hector! I leaped to my feet, yelling at the screen, 'Person of interest? I know what that means.'

I didn't know which bothered me more, that some incompetent reporter had wrongly referred to me as a 'person of interest' or that I thought I looked dumpy in my low-slung yoga pants. I considered calling Winters to complain but knew she'd only lay the blame on the press, so I didn't waste my breath. This 'person of interest' would be out of town tomorrow and it couldn't come fast enough for me.

I grabbed a pack of Oreos from the minibar and tore the package open with my teeth. That's right, take it out on your own hips.

I tossed the package aside and flopped back down on the love seat, shoveling my belongings back into my backpack.

That's when I noticed that underneath its leather cover my phone's message light was flashing. Not voice mail; another text message from Lucy. Two men. What the hell did that mean?