“Oh!” she said, as if the light had finally dawned on her. “Pm on the wrong floor, huh?”
Nodding briefly, the guy pulled the door shut behind him, and then stood there, obviously waiting for her to leave.
Nancy heard the lock click and was glad she’d been prepared. Smiling brightly, she said, “No wonder I couldn’t find three-twelve! Thanks!”
“Mr. Friendly” glared at her again and finally headed for the stairs, so Nancy stood in front of the elevator, pretending to push the button. When she heard the last echo of his footsteps, she rushed back to room 207, fished out her pick, and went to work.
In just a couple of minutes, Nancy was inside Kim’s room.
It was a total disaster. Clothes were everywhere—hanging out of drawers, strewn across the floor, even spilling from the wastepaper basket. Postcards, paperbacks, makeup, and skin lotion were ripped, scattered, or overturned. The sheets were on the floor, and the mattress was half off the bed.
It was not the mess made by someone who was having too good a vacation to bother picking things up. It wasn’t even the mess made by a slob, Nancy thought. It was the kind of mess made by somebody who was looking for something.
Nancy didn’t have to wonder who had searched the room. It must have been handsome “Mr. Friendly,” the stone-faced maintenance man. No wonder he’d given her such a dirty look when he found her lurking outside the room. Obviously he didn’t work for the hotel, but just who did he work for? Ricardo? Rosita?
For a moment, Nancy was tempted to go after him, but then she decided it would be a waste of time. People who trashed hotel rooms didn’t wait around to answer questions. Mr. Friendly was long gone. She hoped.
The thing to do was figure out what he’d been looking for.
Afraid that somebody might be watching the hotel room, Nancy left the shades down and the lights off. The fluorescent bulb in the bathroom was enough to see by. Not even sure where to begin, she started wading through the piles of clothes and paperbacks on the floor. A piece of newspaper caught in her sandal, as she picked it up she noticed the headline of a story about illegal aliens.
The story had been circled in red ink, and Nancy figured Kim had done it. Kim was like that—always interested in the underdog. If I keep my eyes peeled, Nancy thought with a smile, I’ll probably find a letter she wrote to the editor, saying what a rotten situation the illegals are in
But Nancy wasn’t getting anywhere. She tossed the paper toward the wastebasket and headed for the bathroom. Medicine cabinets were such obvious hiding places, maybe Mr. Friendly hadn’t bothered to look there.
No luck. The “maintenance” man had pulled out every jar, bottle, and lube, and left them piled in the sink. Even the toothbrushes were out of their holders, lying like two pickup sticks on the fake marble vanity top.
Nancy was halfway out the bathroom when it hit her—two toothbrushes. She walked back in and took another look. Right, two of them—one blue and obviously well used, the other red, without a single bent bristle.
Kim didn’t have a roommate, she reminded herself. Or did she? Nancy looked more carefully at the countertop. One bottle each of shampoo and conditioner. One tube of toothpaste, one can of deodorant. Two hairbrushes, one full of light brown strands, the other with several strands of long black hair caught in it.
Okay, Nancy thought. Kim might have bought a second toothbrush, but there was no way she could have used that other hairbrush. And if she hadn’t come to Florida with a roommate, then she’d invited some girl to stay with her once she got there.
Nancy walked back into the main room, looking for more evidence of that roommate, and she found it in the wastepaper basket. A skirt and blouse—cotton, homemade, no labels, muddy, and wrinkled. They must have been pretty once, but Nancy knew they didn’t belong to Kim. For one thing, they weren’t her style. Kim would never have worn them. For another, Kim hated sewing; she’d wait until every last button had fallen off a blouse before picking up a needle and thread.