“Did you do the cameras on twelve?”
“No. I’ve lost my Internet connection. Do you want to wait?”
“No.”
Without a lookout on the floor, I was playing Russian roulette darting in and out of Dorsey’s suite. The sooner I was out of this building, the better.
I took a regular elevator to twelve and marched along the hall to Dorsey’s room. Rapped three times loudly. No answer.
“Room service,” I called in what I judged to be the proper volume.
When I received no answer I took a deep breath and used the master key.
The door opened, and I surveyed the room before I entered. Indeed, Dorsey had popped for a small suite, with a sitting room with wet bar, a bedroom with a king-sized bed, and a bath off the small hallway leading between them.
I stepped in, pulled the door shut, and stood poised, ready for anything. When nothing happened, I did the tour. The place was empty.
Wasting no time, I put a bug behind the head of Dorsey’s bed and one under the counter of the wet bar. I had to short Royston two bugs to have these for Dorsey. He would have felt slighted if he knew, but I hoped he never would.
I had just placed the bug under the bar when someone knocked on the door. “Maid!”
Before I could get to it the door clicked, then opened.
Thank heavens it wasn’t Isabel from Puerto Rico. “Oh,” she said. “So sorry. Turndown service.”
“I’m just leaving, thank you,” I said, and left carrying the attache case.
In the hallway I stole a chocolate chip cookie from her cart and pocketed it for later. We thieves have no morals.
A couple was waiting by the elevator. I joined them, then followed them into the elevator for the trip down.
“Where are you from?” the lady asked. She was in her sixties, a dried-up wizened thing wearing a choker of plastic pearls.
“California, originally.” See, I can tell the truth on occasion.
“We’re from Arkansas. My husband is a Southern Baptist minister.”
He beamed at me. I smiled at him.
“What religion are you, young man?” she asked seriously.
The tone of her voice must have irritated me a little. As the door opened at the main lobby, I said, “I’m a nudist,” and made my escape.
“A Buddhist!” she exclaimed. Behind me I heard her ask her husband, the Southern Baptist, “Did he say he was a Buddhist?”
Scanning for Dorsey, walking confidently, assuredly, I headed for the side entrance where I had entered the building. I was five feet from the door and a clean getaway when who should come through it but Dorsey O’Shea! Through a side door, no less! What was the world coming to?
“Tommy Carmellini! Of all people! My God, what are you doing here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A man followed Dorsey through the door. He was maybe mid-thirties, with collar-length blow-dried hair and wearing an expensive silk suit cut in the Italian style.
I ignored her question and exclaimed, “I thought you were yachting in the Med!”
“It didn’t work out, so I came home.”
“I see.” I turned toward the man. “And you are?”
“Just a friend,” Dorsey stated firmly. She turned to him. “Carlo, I’m so sorry, but I need to talk to Tommy. Perhaps later. Would that be okay?”
Carlo was no fool. When you hang with rich girls you must get used to being brushed off when a better deal arrives unexpectedly.
‘Of course, darling. Call me.” He squeezed her hand and was out the door before I could blink twice.
One would think he did exits professionally,” I observed as Dorsey led me across the lobby to an empty couch far removed from the bar and piano player.
She sat down as close to me as she could get — thigh to thigh— took my hand, and looked me straight in the eyes. “What are you doing here, Tommy?”
I looked straight back into her deep brown orbs and said, “They’re having a political convention in New York in the age of terror to make a statement to the world. The feds have pulled in security people from all over.” Notice that I didn’t say that I was one of the security people, I merely implied it. For a spur-of-the-moment falsehood, I thought this was one of my better efforts.
“But what about—?”
“Over. Finished. Highly classified and buried.”
“Oh.” She examined my hand as if seeing it for the first time, then a knee, then the carpet. “Oh, my.”
“These things happen.”
“Then I’ll never be questioned about that man?”
“I doubt it, but really, I wouldn’t know. If you are, I suspect that you’ll have to sign a secrecy agreement.”
“I see. Very convenient for me.”
“Yes. Isn’t it?”
“Of course, it was strictly self-defense. You and that other woman were witnesses, and he was armed. After all, he had just broken into the house to do God knows what. I didn’t do anything illegal. And I would be delighted to tell anyone about it.”
“As I said, the whole thing is classified. I suggest you not mention it to anyone or, indeed, you will be visited by the FBI.”
“I certainly don’t need to tell anyone anything. That was one of those episodes best forgotten.”
“You got that right.”
“Difficult to forget, though.”
This was my cue. She was still holding my hand, so I covered hers with my free hand and squeezed gently. “Have you had dinner?”
“Why, no. Have you?”
“I was just on my way. This place is packed. There’s no way we will get into one of these hotel restaurants without reservations.”
“I have a reservation.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m sure they held it. It’s at Gallagher’s on West Fifty- second.” I had heard of it. Gallagher’s was a classy beanery where the political honchos liked to hang out. Getting a table at this hour was probably impossible unless you knew the maftre d’ or were willing to slip him two or three photos of Jackson. “Would you like to eat there?” she continued. “Or perhaps someplace more intimate?”
Uh-oh. That was an invitation if ever I heard one.
She made the decision for us, as I knew she would. “I know a little neighborhood place in the Eighties that shouldn’t be crowded,” she said. “Not too many people know of it, but the food is delicious and we can visit and talk. Let’s go there.”
Looked as if I was going to be the main course for Dorsey this evening. Too bad for Carlo.
“So,” I said as we walked out the front entrance of the hotel, “why are you in New York?”
“Haven’t you heard? The convention is going to nominate a woman for the vice presidency.”
“I didn’t know you cared about politics.”
“Tommy, I like to be where the action is, and this week that’s New York. Can’t you feel the electricity in the air? Nothing will ever be the same. No woman who could afford to be here would dare miss this.”
That evening Callie Grafton joined her husband on the porch of their beach house after dinner. Jake put down
