Will checked the time stamp. 22:14:12. He’d been sleeping on the couch with Sara.
“She has a keycard,” Amanda said, just as the woman swiped the card across the pad, the same as Bob McGuire had done. She pressed the button for the nineteenth floor. The doors closed. The woman faced the front of the car, showing the security camera the top of her hat, the back of her slinky, matching white dress. The elevator doors were solid wood. There was no mirrored reflection.
Amanda asked, “Did the lobby cameras pick up her face?”
“No,” Faith said. “She’s a pro. She knew where the cameras were.” The woman got off the elevator. The doors closed. The car was empty again. “She stayed up here for half an hour before coming down again. I checked with APD vice. They say that’s about the right amount of time.”
Amanda said, “She’s lucky she got away with her life.”
Faith fast-forwarded the video again, then slowed it when the elevator doors opened. The woman entered the same as before, head tilted down, hat covering her face. She didn’t need the keycard to go to the lobby. Her finger pressed the button. Again, she faced the doors, but this time, she reached up and adjusted her hat.
Will said, “Her fingernails weren’t painted before.”
“Exactly,” Faith agreed. “I checked it four times before I came up here.”
Will stared at the woman’s hands. The nails were painted red, undoubtedly in Bombshell Max Factor Ultra Lucent. According to the crime scene report, it was his father’s preferred color. Will said, “There’s no nail polish by the bed. Just manicure stuff.”
Faith suggested, “Maybe she brought her own?”
“That doesn’t seem likely,” Amanda told them. “He liked to control things.”
Sara offered, “I’ll check the other room.”
Amanda told Faith, “Security says the girl’s been in the hotel before. I want you to comb every second of video they have. Her face has to be on camera somewhere.”
Faith left the room.
Amanda pulled a latex glove out of her purse. She didn’t put it on, but used it as a barrier between her fingers as she opened the drawers on the desk. Pens. Paper. No Max Factor nail polish with the distinctive pointy white cap.
Amanda said, “This doesn’t take two people.”
Will checked the galley kitchen. Two keycards were on the counter. One was solid black, the other had a picture of a treadmill on it, probably for the gym. There was a stack of crisp bills. Will didn’t touch the money, which he guessed to be around five hundred dollars, all in twenties.
“Anything?” Amanda asked.
Will went behind the wet bar. Swizzle sticks. Napkins. A martini shaker. A Bible with an envelope stuck between the pages. The book was old. The leather cover was worn off the corners, showing the cardboard underneath.
He told Amanda, “I need your glove.”
“What is it?” She didn’t hand him the glove. Instead, she wiped her palm on her skirt, then forced her hand into the latex. She opened the Bible.
The envelope lay flat against the page. It had obviously been in there for a while. The paper was old. The ink had worn off the round logo in the corner. The typewritten address had grayed with time.
Amanda started to close the Bible, but Will stopped her.
He leaned down, squinting hard to make out the address. Will had seen his father’s name enough times to recognize the words. “Atlanta Jail” came just as easily. He’d used one or both in almost every report he’d ever written. The postmark was faded, but the date was clear. August 15, 1975.
He said, “This was mailed a month after I was born.”
“So it appears.”
“It’s from a law firm.” He recognized the scales of justice.
“Herman Centrello,” she supplied.
His father’s defense attorney. The man was a gun for hire. He was also the reason they were here. It was the threat of Centrello’s superior courtroom performance that persuaded the Atlanta city prosecutor to offer the plea bargain of life with the possibility of parole.
Will said, “Open it.”
In fifteen years, Will had only once seen Amanda’s composure crack, and even then, it was more like a fissure. For a split second, she showed something akin to dread. And then just as quickly, the emotion was gone.
The envelope was glued into the spine. She had to turn it over like a page. The glue along the flap had dried long ago. She used her thumb and forefinger to press open the envelope. Will looked inside.
No letter. No note. Just faded ink where some of the words had rubbed off.
Amanda said, “Apparently, it’s nothing more than a bookmark.”
“Then why did he keep it all these years?”
“No luck.” Sara was back. She told them, “No nail polish in the bathroom or the bedroom. I found his diabetic kit. His syringes are in a plastic disposal box. We’ll have to have the lab cut it open, but from what I could tell, there’s nothing in there that doesn’t belong.”
“Thank you, Dr. Linton.” Amanda closed the Bible. She took out her BlackBerry again. “Will?”
He didn’t know what else to do but continue searching the bar. He used the edge of his shoe to open the bottom cabinets. More glasses. Two ice buckets. The minibar was unlocked. Will used the toe of his shoe again. The fridge was full of vials of insulin, but nothing else. He let the door close.
There were at least two dozen liquor bottles on the shelves behind the bar. The mirror backing showed Will’s reflection. He didn’t look at himself, didn’t want to fall down that rabbit hole of comparing himself to his father. He studied the colored labels instead, the shape of the bottles, the amber and gold liquids.
Which was why he noticed that one of the bottles listed at a slight angle. There was something underneath, shimming it to the side.
He told Amanda, “Pick up this bottle.” For once, she didn’t ask him why. She took the bottle off the shelf. “It’s a key.”
Sara asked, “Is it for the minibar?”
Will checked the lock on the refrigerator. “No. It’s too big.”
Carefully, Amanda picked up the key by the edges. The head was stepped instead of round or angled. There was a number stamped into the metal.
Will said, “That’s for a Schlage factory lock.”
Amanda sounded perturbed. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It’s a heavy-duty deadbolt.” Will went out into the hallway. The cops were gone, but McGuire was still there. He held a bag of ice to his nose.
Will said, “I’m sorry about before.”
McGuire’s curt nod did not indicate forgiveness.
Will asked, “What door in this hotel opens with an actual metal key?”
He took his time lowering the bag of ice, sniffing back blood. “The keycards—”
Amanda interrupted him, holding up the key. “It’s to a Schlage deadbolt. Heavy duty. What door in your hotel does this open?”
McGuire wasn’t stupid. He got over himself fast. “The only locks like that are in the sub-basement.”
Amanda asked, “What’s down there?”
“The generators. The mechanicals. The elevator shafts.”
Amanda headed toward the elevators. She told McGuire, “Radio your security team. Tell them to meet us down there.”
McGuire jogged to keep up. “The main elevators stop in the lobby. You have to go to the second floor in the service elevator, then use the emergency exit stairs behind the spa.”
Amanda jabbed the button. “What else is on that floor?”
“Treatment rooms, a nail suite, the pool.” The doors opened. He let Amanda on first. “The stairs to the sub-basement are behind the gym.”