Chapter 7

Vanessa and I were out on the town. Nothing fancy, just a girls’ night out. Dinner, maybe a couple of bars first. She was wearing her hair up, pinned in a loose bun that left that elegant neck free. Skinny jeans, red. A plain white tee, tucked in.

I rocked some white retro Capri pants, no camel toe, though. Sorry Walker. A blue tee to match my eyes.

We looked pretty okay.

Then around 9 we were discussing whether to hit the Unicorn for dinner. Maybe that new Thai place in the Northeast. Vanessa and I were each sipping a Bellini, not worrying about alcohol consumption -- we Uber it on our nights out.

We were in a little no-name bar in the furthest reaches of the West Bottoms. Near the Missouri River. The barmaid, excuse me, mixologist, was a genius with a vast repertory of vintage and new concoctions. Amelia Baxter, Vanessa had been gently recruiting her to take over the bar at BEAR’s.

Then the door burst open, there was still a hint of daylight left that summer evening. A gun-wielding burnout, obviously wasted on some opiate or other. His brown hair hadn’t been combed in weeks. Probably around the time he last shaved and brushed his teeth.

Short and skinny, pale white arms. The wind could blow him over. But, the gun. It was a rusty, maybe useless, .38. But ‘maybe’ didn’t stop me from pulling my purse up to my lap and placing my hand around my own .38.

Vanessa put her hand on my arm and smiled at the poor, hapless boy. He looked around 30, but turned out to be 16. Just a couple of years older than Walker. Amelia Baxter had her hands below the bar. I hoped she was dialing 911, not reaching for her own weapon.

Vanessa, moving slowly, carefully, stood up, still smiling. She spoke so faintly, “Hi, I’m Vanessa. This is Winter. Come join us, tell us what’s bothering you.”

He stared, the words not sinking in at first.

I had my pistol out, in my right hand, underneath my purse.

DrugBoy said, “They’re fucking me over again.”

“Oh my. Come here, I want to hear all about it. Maybe we can help you.”

She was doing just what Daddy does in a hostage situation. Staying calm, speaking softly, not over-promising.

He stumbled toward our four-top looking more confused than anything. But at least the gun was pointed at the floor.

“Please sit down. Would you like a drink? How about a nice cold beer?”

I made my own minor contribution, “Yes, please join us. Now who is it who’s fucking you over?”

He’d been in the no-name bar for two and a half minutes by the time the first two police officers arrived. By then DrugBoy had allowed me to gently remove the pistol and place it on the floor. And I returned mine to my purse.

The older of the two uniformed officers saw Amelia point to us. He realized that the immediate threat had passed and put his own pistol back in the holster. His partner didn’t, but the little drama was over.

Vanessa had defused the kid with a smile, with a sympathetic voice, an understanding tone.

God, do I love that woman.

The day after I met with Phillip and Morgan Fleetwood, perhaps from the State Department, I flew business class to Newark. I’d had my second discussion with Phillip earlier that morning. I cabbed it to the W on Lexington in midtown. I’d been able to reserve the same room, Phillip’s room, where he and Cassandra Sanders had dallied.

The W wasn’t anywhere near capacity.

It was around 6 in the evening and I felt sort of semi-important. Back in my college town, all grown up now. On an actual case. With not only a paying client, but one that was a large hedge fund as well. And, perhaps some taxpayer money in the mix too.

I was definitely an adjacent-cool girl.

I spotted one of the hidden cams as I unpacked. It was subtly attached to the switch that turns on one of the lamps beside the bed. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I’d never have seen it.

Not bad, not bad at all. I’d uncovered a clue on my first day in town. Of course I had already known that the sex tape had been shot in this room, so it wasn’t pure deductive brilliance on my part.

I went down to the concierge, “I’d like to speak with someone in Security please.”

Her smile disappeared, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s personal.”

She didn’t like that, didn’t like not knowing. I don’t blame her. I don’t like it either.

I sat in a comfy leather chair while she cupped her hand around a phone and murmured softly. A couple of minutes later a middle-aged woman in a two-piece beige suit came up to me and held her hand out, “Mrs. Graves.”

I stood and shook hands, “Winter Jennings.” I showed her my ID which she examined carefully. Didn’t seem very impressed though. A hick private dick from a hick town.

“How may I help you?”

“Where can we talk in private?”

The security office was through an unobtrusive door beside the check-in counter. Down a bright corridor, through two more doors. Into the belly of the beast.

We sat, Mrs. Graves behind her desk, me in front of it. She was a little past 50, a few solid pounds over what she probably would like to weigh. A nameplate on the desk read Pamela Graves.

There wasn’t a way for me to do this without divulging Phillip’s name eventually. I had to trust this woman’s discretion. Of course I was holding a pretty good hand. The room the hotel had rented me had been the scene of an illegal sex tape. And at least one cam was still there.

I said, “Five days ago my client stayed here. Met a woman, took her up to his room.”

Pamela shook her head, “We try to keep prostitutes away. It just isn’t possible.”

“No, this woman isn’t a whore. She was a guest too.”

Pamela decided to keep quiet and listen. A stratagem I should employ more often.

“He checked out the next morning. My client. The desk clerk handed him a DVD that had been hand-delivered. It was a sex tape. Shot the night before in his hotel room.”

Pamela opened her mouth, then closed it. I need to practice that.

“I’m in that same room, 806, and at least one hidden cam is still there.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Shit shit shit.”

Ah, a human New Yorker. Maybe I should tell her about John Jay. Two city girls bonding.

“Pamela, may I call you Pamela?”

Nod.

“We both want the same thing. To keep this as quiet as we can. Me, for my client. You. Well, obvious reasons.”

Another nod.

“So, I hope we can do a little horse trading. I bet I know of another room where you’ll find some hidden cams. At least one cam.”

“Where? Which room, I mean.”

“In a minute. I’d like a look at one day of your security tapes. The 14th. During the day and into the night, especially around 10, 10:30, 11.”

“Impossible.”

I used my Pamela technique and sat there quietly. Let her think about her options. Or, rather, my options.

I could do outrage. Innocent country girl comes to the big city. Is shocked, perhaps psychologically scarred. Expensive therapy. Mega publicity. Lawyers.

And, in fact she had no idea the type of wolverine attorneys a company like OneBank could unleash on the hotel chain. But I just sat quietly, girl detective, calm, confident.

Pamela said, “Why?” Why did I want to see the tapes.

“It’s a long shot, but I may have a lead on who planted the cams. Made the sex tape. In fact, let’s start with a tight time frame. My client and his new friend had dinner in Heartbeat around 10.”

“That’s about when they close.”

“It was a quick dinner, just one course.” I showed her the Amex receipt. There. Phillip’s name is now in play.

Pamela studied it, “Okay.”

“He left, went up to his room to get a business card. One other person on the elevator. He got off at the eighth floor too. Walked past Phillip’s room. My client’s room.”

“I see.”

“Phillip came down and he and ... his companion finished the bottle of wine they had with dinner.”

“So you actually think this ... elevator stranger somehow finessed his way into a guest’s room, planted the cam, and ... and did what?”

“I think he was a guest here and went back to his room and watched Phillip fuck that woman.”

Next, and Pamela was right to insist, we went up to my room, 806. I showed her the cam. Of course I could have planted it myself and this could all be some scam on my part. But it didn’t feel that way to her.

She found two more, one in a smoke detector, the third in a bathroom light fixture.

Pamela sighed, “What’s the other room number?”

“Wherever Cassandra Sanders stayed on the 14th.”

A quick scroll on her cell and we were back in the elevator heading up to 10. To 1017. Which, unfortunately was occupied. A room service dinner tray was on the floor, outside the door.