“He’s checked out already?”
He frowned and tapped at the computer keyboard again. “We’ve had no one of that name in our system.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.”
“Maybe you spelled it wrong.” I scribbled Martin’s name down on a hotel notepad using the spelling from the paper napkin, which was the same as the spelling I’d googled. I gave it to the manager.
“That’s how I spelled it.”
“Could you try again?”
He held my gaze for a moment.
“Please.”
He humored me. I scanned the lobby, hoping to catch a glimpse of Martin wheeling his luggage through.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Tyler.”
“But I know he was here.”
I saw him sign the bar tab to his room. We had sex in the elevator when we went up to his room.
“I really am sorry.”
I felt blindsided. I stared at the manager. I had been so certain of how this would work. He’d come down in the elevator. I’d give him the cuff link. He’d say he’d been trying to call me, or that he’d had back-to-back meetings, or . . . something. He’d kiss me. We’d go for lunch before he went to catch his plane.
I rummaged in my purse and took out my phone. I showed the manager the screenshot I’d saved of the photo of Martin sitting at his Toronto office desk.
“This man. Have you seen him? Perhaps he registered under another name?”
The manager regarded me oddly, then glanced at my phone. He shook his head. I showed the photo to the two employees.
One said, “Yeah, I think I saw him the other night. In the Mallard Lounge.”
“Who was on bar duty that night—do you remember?”
She frowned, glanced at her manager. He gave a shrug.
“Tony Jarecki,” said the employee. “He works the bar most nights.”
“Bald guy?”
“Yeah.”
I made straight for the Mallard. It was open for breakfast. I found Tony Jarecki sitting behind a desk in a small office off the back of the bar. He looked up from his work, startled to see me.
Without preamble I said, “Did this man come into the bar the other night?” I showed him Martin’s photo.
He studied the image, then glanced up and regarded me in silence for a moment. “Yeah.”
“Was he a hotel guest, registered here, do you know?”
Tony ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking.
“Don’t lie to me,” I said. “I can see you’re going to lie.”
He laughed in an ugly, mirthless way. It made me feel soiled. Mocked. Cheap. I noticed a monitor for a CCTV feed in the corner of the office. A hot, sick feeling suddenly slid through my gut. I wondered if they had CCTV in the elevators. Perhaps Tony and all the other employees had watched me having sex with a stranger. And they were all whispering and laughing behind my back and calling me names.
Fool, fool, fool. Slut, slut, slut.
Stupid, desperate woman opening her legs.
She stabbed her ex, do you know . . .
Hospitalized for a mental breakdown.
I suddenly needed to get out of here.
“For the record,” Tony said, his voice low, his words coming slow, “I was not planning to lie, just considering how much a patron might want to protect his, or her, privacy. I’m sure you appreciated that?”
I swallowed, my face going hot.
He angled his head, his black eyes boring into me.
I said, “If it’s money you want—”
He surged to his feet. “Please get out, Ms. Tyler. I don’t want your money.”
“Yet my father can buy you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I saw him talking to you. I’m sure he paid you.”
“Your father was looking out for you. He’s a good man. He paid me for a service.”
I waved my phone at him. “Was this man in this photo here with another woman? Is that why you think he needs privacy?”
“I think you need to leave, Ms. Tyler.”
From the look on Tony Jarecki’s face I was certain Martin Cresswell-Smith had been in the Mallard with someone else—maybe that woman who’d walked past the elevator. I glanced at the security monitor. I’d bet he was captured on camera with that woman.
“I should get back to my work,” he said.
“Yeah. Yeah, you should.”
I exited the Mallard Lounge and made my way rapidly through the lobby for the hotel exit. I felt everyone was watching me.
I stepped into the cold air and fingered the cuff link in my coat pocket.
Forget it, Ellie. Move on. You made a mistake and you’re embarrassing yourself. Face it, you were just desperate to be wanted, to be needed in that way. It’s over.
I put up my coat collar and leaned into the wind as I stepped off the curb. But even as I headed down the sidewalk with every intention to put it behind me, a deeper, darker, locked-up side of me felt it—something inside had started to go wrong.
THE MURDER TRIAL
Pretrial forensic evaluation session.
“Do you know why you are here, Ellie?”
The psychologist’s voice is smooth. Low. He’s elegant, almost beautiful in an androgynous way. Sallow skin. Hooded eyes. Long, thin face. Long, tapered fingers. His toes are probably long and tapered, too. Lips not too thin, not too full. Soft-looking. He wears a scarf that probably comes from a market in Nepal. He probably went hiking in the Himalayas, took a side trek to visit some monks in Tibet. He has a corner office with windows that go right down to the floor and lots of natural light. Nevertheless I feel trapped, agitated.
“I’m here because you’re a forensic shrink, we’re up against a murder trial, and my legal team needs to know whether I can be put on the witness stand. Because that would be a really big gamble, right? To put someone in my position on the stand? They need to know if I might actually help the case or blow it up in their faces, especially on cross.”
“And what do you think?” the psychologist asks.
“I’m not the one being paid to think, Doctor.”
He regards me. I check my watch. I glance at the door. I’m tightening up with each second that ticks by, afraid he’s
