"So, are we done here, or you got a minute?" LaMoia tested.
She liked the sound of his voice. "I've got a minute," she said casually, trying to sound nonchalant and wondering if she'd pulled it off.
He said, "A businesswoman, name of Oblitz. The one that filed a complaint and then tried to withdraw it, the one I left a message about."
"Who tries to withdraw a complaint?"
"Yeah, I know. I tried to explain that to her. Stenolovski before me. I thought you might tell me why a woman reports a peeper and then tries to back out of it."
"That's a no-brainer: She had a guest."
"Or she's being extorted."
"Maybe, but more likely her friend pressured her to withdraw the complaint or they got there together."
"Yeah? Well, it's set up for four on Monday. The Wthe suspender set, the new one across from the Olympic." He said sarcastically, "She made an opening for me in her busy schedule."
"Good of her."
"We'll crack Hebringer and Randolf wide open with this. You and me. I can feel it. Whadda you think Hill would make of that?" Sheila Hill, their captain, Boldt's immediate superior, had been LaMoia's former lover, a fact that Matthews was not supposed to be aware of. But there wasn't much she and Boldt hid from each other. They had once been lovers themselves something no one was supposed to know, and no one did.
"No one would believe it." She and LaMoia were known to tangle.
"Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."
Hearing his voice brought her a long way out of herself. She wanted to thank him for that but held her tongue.
He asked, "You sure you're okay? Offer of the video still stands."
A LaMoia she didn't know, and frankly didn't trust. Had he run out of women in the department to conquer? Had someone in the locker room put him up to this, challenged him to go after her, because she had steadfastly refused to date anyone on the job? (She didn't count Boldt as a date and never would.) Nearly vl one in the morning, and LaMoia making like it was early evening.
Night tour did that to people.
"I'll do the interview with you," she agreed.
"Well, that's a start."
By the time she hung up, she had almost forgotten about the pair of boot prints.
Two Peas in a Pod
The W's split-level lobby featured twin stairways that led around an island bearing a flower vase and up to the black lacquer reception desk where young people in black clothing and wearing wireless headsets greeted guests with white teeth and tones of way-too-cool-to-get-excited. The halogen lights were set so low that these receptionists seemed to emerge from the haze. Hip-hop pounded from speakers in the ceiling.
LaMoia territory, to be sure. He had the appropriate sarcasm and cynicism down pat.
"Yo, yuppie puppy," he said to the male receptionist, flashing his badge against the request of his interviewee. "April Fools is tomorrow. This is the real thing." He drew a blank expression from the kid with the wet-look hair and the silver stud in his left ear. The kid wanted him to think he saw such shields all the time. But clearly, he did not.
"Hotel guest, Oblitz. She's expecting us."
The black arm-40 percent cashmere-pointed. "There's a house phone to your-"
"Did I ask for a house phone? That headset must do something, right? Hotel guest, Oblitz." He barely hesitated, "Now." Crisp. His voice echoing off the stone. A few heads in the lobby lifted and turned.
The kid moved his mouth like a beached fish.
Matthews spoke into LaMoia's ear. "Such bedside manner."
"Don't criticize what you haven't sampled."
"You really are shameless. Is the whole world a fire hydrant to you, John?"
He flashed her a look that ended it. "A guy's gotta make his mark."
From a distance, she saw the figure of a man enter the hotel, look up toward the registration desk, and then leave as quickly as he'd come. The wrong address, the wrong hotel? she wondered.
Or had that been the man in the boots outside her mudroom window the night before? Had those boots even been outside her window the night before? She wore her paranoia tightly around the neck.
"Room nine-eleven," the rigid receptionist said in his best I want-to-sound-older voice.
Matthews returned to the job at hand.
"Room nine-one-one," LaMoia repeated. Cocking his head to Matthews, he said, "How perfect is that?"
She said, "The word you're looking for is ironic."
"Elevators to your right." The man-child wanted them gone.
"Chill," LaMoia barked, keeping the kid attentive.
Matthews explained, "First, we'd like a look at your registration log for the past three months."
LaMoia added, "And the corresponding billing charges."
Tina Oblitz had the gray power suit going, a shimmering metallic silver blouse, string of freshwater pearls, silver Tourneau, black pumps. Narrow dark eyes that preoccupied themselves with Matthews. To the left of the desk phone lay a sweet little 9mm semiautomatic clipped into a black leather holster designed to be worn in the small of the back. The holster was weathered and sweat-stained, indicating years of wear. The obligatory lap top, mobile phone, and pocket PC sat atop the black enamel desk.
"Plain sight," she said, noticing LaMoia's attention on the handgun. "I didn't want any surprises. Permit's in my purse, if you want to see it."
"Clock?"
"Glock seventeen," she answered.
He'd heard of the model but never seen one. "Weight?"
"Light as a feather. Polymer grip. Magazine holds ten. Used to be seventeen but it was heavier, of course."
"This is not a recent addition to your wardrobe," he said.
"Did I panic when this Peeping Tom showed up and then run out and buy a gun? I don't think so, Detective. I believe in a woman's right to defend herself. In seven years, no shots fired, but it has served its purpose a couple times. It's never more than a few feet away from me."
"Lucky it," he snapped.
"I'm at the firing range once a week. You both know what I'm talking about."
"It's sergeant, not detective. And it's Lieutenant Matthews," he corrected.
"My mistake."
"No," he corrected, his contempt for the executive set obvious, "your mistake was trying to cancel this harassment complaint you filed. Why the back-pedal?"
"You want a seat?" she asked.
"I'd like an answer," he said. LaMoia turned to Matthews. "You want a seat?"
Matthews shook her head, declining.
He looked back at Oblitz. "No, we'll stand."
Tina Oblitz took a corner of the small couch, withdrew a cigarette from a fancy holder that lay on the glass table, lit up, and hogged down that smoke like an addict who'd been away from it for years. Her body consumed it. When she exhaled, hardly anything came out. She looked satisfied, like a boozer after a stiff drink.
She said, "The other detective and I... we discussed this."
"The complaint is still on file, Ms. Oblitz, and seeing as how we've got an active case that could use a lift, your cooperation would be appreciated." He said, "I explained this over the phone. I believe you know that's why we're here."
"I never agreed to two of you."
Matthews said, "The department requires a woman officer be present in any interview or interrogation involving a female." As she said this, as she looked at this woman, something nagged at her and then danced out of her thoughts as Oblitz spoke.
"You're the chaperone?" Oblitz asked sarcastically. "Hope you don't mind my saying so, but you don't look the part."
"I don't mind," Matthews said, unflinchingly. It took a lot to intimidate the gray-suit set. She asked, "Have we met before?"
"Are you sure you won't sit down?" The ember of the cigarette went nearly white with the next inhale.
Whatever it was, it nagged at Matthews again, as elusive and annoying as a mosquito in the dark.