Waverly didn’t go to her apartment when she landed, just in case Bristol was laying in wait. She couldn’t rule out the possibility that his trip to Denver was orchestrated, knowing the whole time she was watching and would follow. It would be brilliant, actually. Luring her out of town would split her from Su-Moon plus get her away from whatever evidence was still in San Francisco that she hadn’t yet found. More importantly, by luring her to Denver as opposed to some other city, he’d know where she’d be staying. It would be easier to kill someone in an apartment than a hotel.
The money Shelby Tilt gave her was almost gone.
Denver was hot.
The sky was packed with sunshine.
From an airport payphone, she called Emmanuelle LeFavre at the Clemont and got patched through to the woman’s room. The phone rang but no one answered.
“Would you like to leave a message?”
“No. She’s still registered there though, right?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
She took a cab into the city and checked into the Ambassador Motel on Larimer Street under the name Marilyn White. For 25 cents she got the key to room 212, which turned out to be a smoke-stained cube with a squeaky bed and a cracked window. She checked the hot water to see if it worked.
It did.
So did the door lock.
She headed outside to a phone booth, opened the yellow pages and started calling the most expensive hotels. Bristol and his little spankee woman, it turned out, were staying at the Brown Palace.
“Would you like me to ring their room?”
“No, that’s okay. What room are they in?”
A beat.
“Four-sixteen.”
“Four-sixteen.”
“Right.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell them anyone called. I’m going to surprise them later.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, you’re a peach.”
The man chuckled.
“Then peaches smoke cigars.”
Waverly pulled up an image, one that made the corner of her mouth turn up.
“What’s your name?”
“Jake.”
“You have a good day, Jake.”
“You too, whoever you are.”
Waverly had been inside the Brown Palace on only a few occasions-all for work, never for pleasure. It was historic and opulent, full of dark wood, important conversations and pockets stuffed with money. She wouldn’t fit in, not dressed the way she was.
She headed over to 16th Street and bought a black dress, matching high heels and fresh lingerie, then took a shower back at the hotel, towel-dried her hair, fluffed it out with her hands and painted her face.
There.
The room had only one mirror, a small book-sized deal over the bathroom sink. She checked herself out as much as it allowed and found the reflection passable, assuming she kept moving and put on airs.
Then she headed down the dark, cinderblock stairwell.
The man at the front desk-a study of grease framed in a white sleeveless undershirt-was impressed.
“You changed,” he said.
She sensed trouble.
“Nice of you to notice.”
“I can stop up later if you want.” He smiled, pulled a half empty bottle of wine out from under the counter and waved it seductively. “Me and my friend, that is. Room 212, see, I remembered. I don’t remember everyone’s, so take it as a compliment.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
His face tightened.
“Okay, but your loss.”
“Have a nice evening.”
“I’ll see you around.”
Outside the city smelled like a combination of exhaust fumes, French-fries and bar carpet. Seventeenth Street was two blocks north; the financial district was five or six blocks to the right. That’s where the Brown Palace was-a cab ride for someone with money, within walking distance otherwise.
For her it was a walk.
She spotted a street vendor and stopped long enough to buy a hot dog and an RC.
The streets buzzed.
The workday just ended.
Everyone was scampering to get home or to the bars or wherever it was they were headed.
The Brown Palace appeared up ahead.
Waverly wiped grease off her mouth with the back of her hand and headed for it.
She didn’t have a plan, at least nothing conscious. All she knew is that she had to make contact with the spanked woman.
That was first and foremost.
That was the priority.
She told herself it was mostly to warn her.
In reality though it was just as much to convert her, to solicit her help, to get inside Bristol’s world without him knowing it.
She walked past a doorman dressed in a monkey-suit who gave her a curious look, then pushed through heavy revolving doors before he could say anything.
The smell of money assaulted her.
Bristol wasn’t in the lobby.
She walked to the elevators like she owned the place, pressed the Up button and stepped inside when the doors opened. Her hand went towards the floor buttons and almost pressed 4. Then she drew an image of the doors opening ten seconds later with Bristol standing right there.
It would be better to press 3.
Get off at 3 then take the stairs up to 4.
Then what?
She still wasn’t sure.
Press her ear to Bristol’s door and see if he was in?
Try to get a maid to open the door if he wasn’t?
Then, just like that, a saner plan came to her. She stepped out of the elevator, headed across the lobby and walked up to the man at the registration desk.
“Are you the cigar-smoking peach?”
He smiled.
“That’s me. It’s nice to put a face to a voice.”
