My heart began to pound. If this was not the right guest, the truth would soon surface. “I understand, and we appreciate your help. Now, according to our supplemental registration records, we show that you arrived last night from Santa Teresa, California, on American Airlines flight 508, is that correct?”
There was a silence.
“Excuse me, Ms. Hudson. Is that correct?”
Her tone was wary. “Yes.”
“And your arrival time was approximately one forty-five a.m.?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you have any difficulty reaching the hotel shuttle service when you called from baggage claim?”
“No. I just picked up the phone and dialed.”
“Was the shuttle service prompt?”
“I guess. It took about fifteen minutes, but that seemed okay.”
“I see. Was the driver courteous and helpful?”
“He was fine.”
“How would you rate the check-in procedure? Excellent, very good, adequate, or poor?”
“I’d say excellent. I mean, I didn’t have any problems or anything.” She was really getting into this now, trying to be objective but fair in her response.
“We’re glad to hear that. And what is the anticipated length of your stay?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll be here at least one more night, but I don’t know much beyond that. You want me to notify you as soon as I find out?”
“That won’t be necessary. We’re happy to have you with us for as long as it suits. Now if I could just ask you to confirm your room number, that’s all we’ll need.”
“I’m in 1236.”
“Perfect — 1236 corresponds with our records. And that completes the survey. We appreciate your patience, Ms. Hudson, and we hope you enjoy your stay. If we can be of any further service, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”
Now all I needed was a way to get into her room.
I did a second tour of the lobby, this time looking for access to the back side of the house. I was interested in the freight elevators, service stairs, any unmarked door, or any door labeled Staff. I found one that said Employees Only. I pushed my way in and descended a short flight of concrete stairs to a door marked No Admittance. They must not have been serious because the door was unlocked and I walked right in.
Every hotel has its public face: clean, carpeted, upholstered, glossy, paneled, and polished. The actual running of a hotel is done on much less glamorous terms. The corridor I stepped into had plain concrete walls and a floor of brown vinyl tile. The air here was much warmer and smelled like machinery, cooked food, and old mops. The ceilings were high and lined with pipes, thick cables, and heating ducts. I could hear the clatter of dishes, but the acoustics made it difficult to determine the source.
I checked in both directions. To my left, wide metal doors had been rolled up and I could see the loading zone. Big trucks were backed up against the loading docks and security cameras were mounted in the corners, mechanical eyes observing anyone who passed within range. I didn’t want my presence noted, so I turned around and walked the other way.
I moved on down the corridor and turned a corner into the first of several kitchens that opened off one another like a maze. Six ice machines were lined up along the wall in front of me. I counted twenty rolling metal food carts with racks for trays. The floors were freshly washed, glistening with water and smelling of disinfectant. I walked with care, passing big stainless-steel mixing bowls, soup vats, and industrial dishwashers billowing steam. Occasionally, a food service worker, in a white apron and a hairnet, would glance up at me with interest, but no one seemed to question my presence down there. A black woman was chopping green peppers. A white man was encasing one of the rolling carts with plastic sheeting to protect the food. There were big room-size ovens and stainless-steel refrigerators larger than the morgue at St. Terry’s Hospital. More workers in white aprons, hairnets, and plastic gloves were washing salad greens, arranging them on plates that had been laid out on the stainless-steel counter.
I stuck my head into a big storage room the size of a National Guard armory, where there were cartons of ketchup bottles; cases of mustard, olives, pickles; shelves filled with packaged bread; racks of croissants, homemade tarts, cheesecakes, pies, rolls. Plastic bins were filled with fresh produce. The air was saturated with strong smells: cut onions, simmering tomato sauce, cabbage, celery, citrus, yeast; layer upon layer of cooking and cleaning odors. There was something unpleasant about the suffusion of scents, and I was keenly aware of my olfactory nerves conducting a confused array of data to ancient parts of my brain. It was a relief to come out on the far side of the complex. The temperature in the air dropped, and the scents were suddenly as clean as a forest’s. I found the main corridor and took a right.
Ahead of me, a regular choo-choo train of linen carts was lined up against the wall. The canvas sides were yellow and bulged with the mountains of soiled sheets and towels. I set off, walking with great purpose, glancing into every room I passed. I paused in the door to the hotel laundry: a vast room filled with wall-mounted washing machines, most of which were much taller than I. A moving track was suspended from the ceiling and enormous mesh bags of linens swung around the curve on a series of hooks. Somewhere I could hear massive dryers at work. The air was dense with the smell of damp cotton and detergent. Two women in uniform were working in tandem with a machine whose function seemed to be the pressing and folding of hotel sheets. The women’s motions were repetitious, taking sheets out as the machine finished its twofold process. Each packet was refolded and stacked to one side, with no margin for error as the machine pushed the next newly pressed sheet into range.
I continued down the corridor, slowing my pace. This time I passed a little half door with a narrow shelf that formed a small counter. The sign above the door said Employee Linens. Well, well, well. I paused, looking in on what must have been the laundry facility for employee uniforms. As in a dry cleaning establishment, several hundred matching cotton uniforms had been cleaned and pressed and hung on a mechanical conveyor awaiting pickup by the staff. I leaned across the Dutch door, peering through a thick forest of cleaners’ bags. There didn’t appear to be anyone in attendance.
“Hello?”
No answer.
I turned the knob and opened the half door, easing in. I sorted through uniforms in rapid succession. Each uniform seemed to consist of a short red cotton skirt with a red tunic worn over it. Impossible to guess what sizes they were. A paper pinned to each hanger gave the first name of the wearer: Lucy, Guadalupe, Historia, Juanita, Lateesha, Mary, Gloria, Nettie. On and on the names went. I selected three at random and eased out again, closing the door behind me.
“Can I help you?”
I jumped, nearly bumping into the hefty white woman in a red uniform who was standing right behind me in the corridor. My mind went completely blank.
The woman’s nostrils flared like she could smell deception. “What are you doing with those uniforms?” I could practically see up her nose, and it was not a pretty picture. Her name tag read Mrs. Spitz, Linen Service Supervisor.
“Ah. Good question, Mrs. Spitz. I was just looking for you. I’m Jillian Brace’s assistant up in Sales and Marketing.” With my free hand, I reached in my blazer pocket and pulled out a business card, which I flashed at her.
She snatched the card and studied it, squinting. “This says Burnham J. Pauley. What’s going on here?” She had a big face, and every feature on it seemed to quiver with suspicion.
“Well,” I said. “Gosh. I’m glad you asked. Because. As a matter of fact, Corporate is considering new uniforms. For security reasons. And Mr. Pauley told Ms. Brace to show him a sample of what we had on hand.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” she snapped. “We just got those uniforms, as Corporate well knows. Besides, that’s not proper procedure, and I’m sick of it. I told Mr. Tompkins at our last department meeting, this is my operation and I mean to keep it that way. You wait right here. I’m going to call him this minute. I will not have anyone from Corporate interfering in my business.” Even her breath smelled indignant. Her eyes swung back to mine. “What’s your name?”
“Vikki Biggs.”
“Where’s your name tag?”
“Upstairs.”
She pointed a finger at me. “Don’t you move. I intend to get to the bottom of this. Corporate has a nerve sending anyone down here like this. What’s Miss Brace’s extension?”