“You got a favorite floor?” a man with a bolo tie and cowboy hat asks.
“Ballrooms,” I say, studying him carefully. He hits the appropriate button. He’s already pressed 8 for himself.
“You okay there, son?” he quickly asks.
“Yeah. Just great.”
“You sure about that? Looks like you can use a little… commune with the spirits… if you know what I mean.” He throws back an imaginary shot of whiskey.
I nod in agreement. “Just one of those days.”
“Loud and clear; loud and clear.”
The doors slide open on the ballroom level. “Have a good one now,” the man with the cowboy hat says.
“You too,” I mutter, stepping out. Behind me, the doors slam shut. Straight ahead, at the end of the long corridor, I cross over into the Center Tower of the hotel, where there’s an escalator marked “Up to First Floor Ballrooms.” I hop on.
At the top, there must be at least three hundred people, mostly women, milling around the hallway. They all have name tags on their shirts and canvas bags dangling from their arms. Convention-goers. Just in time for lunch.
As fast as I can, I weave my way through the crowd of women smiling, boasting, and waving their arms in excitement. Draped across the wall of the main corridor hangs an enormous banner: “Welcome to the 34th Annual Meeting of the American Federation of Teachers.” Underneath the banner, I spot the hotel directory. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, excuse me,” I say, trying to get there as quickly as possible. Squinting to read the directory, I find the words “Warren Room” followed by an arrow pointing right.
Warren Room. That’s it.
I turn to the right so fast I slam into a woman with a small rhinestone-encrusted chalkboard pinned to her blouse. “Excuse me,” I say, racing past her.
Outside the entrance to the room, a crowd of teachers is gathered around an oversized corkboard that’s resting on a wooden easel. At least a hundred folded-up sheets of paper are tacked to the board-each of them with a different name written on it. Miriam, Marc, Ali, Scott. As I stand there, a flurry of notes are added and retrieved. Anonymous and untraceable. Message board. Warren Room. No doubt about it; this is the place.
As I fight my way through the crowd and toward the board, I’m blocked by a fake redhead who smells like a hairspray bomb went off. Craning my neck to check out the messages, I try to be as systematic as possible. My eyes skim across the notes, scrutinizing names. There it is: Michael. I wedge a fingernail behind the pushpin and pull off the note. Inside, it reads, “Dinner’s bad tonight. How about tomorrow at Grossman’s?” It’s signed Lenore.
Scanning names on the message board, I find it again. Michael. I stick the first note back on the corkboard and pull out this one. “Breakfast is great. Eight it is. See you then, Mary Ellen.”
Frustrated, I jam the note to the board and continue the search.
I find three more notes addressed to Michaels. The only one that’s remotely interesting is one that reads “I shaved for you,” from a woman named Carly.
Maybe he put it under another name, I think as I stare at the board. Starting over in the top left-hand corner, I take another pass, this time looking for something familiar: Nora, Vaughn, Pam, Trey-none of them come up. Desperate, I open one that’s addressed with nothing more than a smiley face. Inside it reads, “Made you look.”
I crumple it in a sweaty fist. Teachers. Biting my bottom lip, I scour the board. All around me, dozens of people are adding and removing notes… This is no time to lose it… I’m sure he’s just being careful… which means there’s something on here that makes sense-
I don’t believe it. There it is, right in the center of the board. The name is written with a pen that looks like it’s running out of ink. In thin, capital letters. L.H. Oswald. The ultimate patsy. That’s me.
I pull the note off as fast as I can and step away from the lunchtime crowd. Rushing down the hallway, I head straight for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. As I alternate between jogging and speed-walking, I unfold the Oswald note one crease at a time. At the top of the page it reads, “How long before you picked up this one?” Always the smart-ass. Right below that it reads “ 1027.” Exactly what I expected. A room number. When I subtract seven, it’s Room 1020.
Inside the elevator, I go straight for the button marked 10. Over and over, my finger attacks it woodpecker-style.
Clamping the elevator’s brass rail in tight fists, I can barely contain myself. Nine floors to go. My eyes are glued to the digital display, and the moment I hear the ping of arrival, I push forward. The doors are still sliding open when I squeeze through and step out on the tenth floor. Almost there, almost there. But as I trace the logical ascent of room numbers to 1020, I feel the hallway closing in. It starts with a sharp pain in my shoulders and works its way up the back of my neck. For better or worse, Vaughn’s going to tell me the truth about Nora. And I’m finally going to get my answer. Of course, I’m not sure what he has, but he said it was worth it. It better be-because I’m counting on taking it straight to Adenauer. No matter how deep it cuts. My stomach starts making noises that are usually reserved for major illnesses. A cold chill slithers up my rib cage and I curse the hotel’s air-conditioning. It’s freezing in here.
Finally, I’m standing in front of Room 1020. I grasp the doorknob, but before I can turn it, I stop. For the past two days, my mind’s been flooded with dozens of questions I couldn’t wait to ask. Now, I don’t know if I want the answers. I mean, how can they possibly help? Can I believe him? Maybe it’s like Adenauer said. Maybe Vaughn can’t be trusted.
I think back to our meeting behind the movie theater. His wrinkled clothes. His tired eyes. And the fear on his face. Over and over, I replay the question: If he was trying to set me up, why would he link his name to me-the one person he knew was going to look like the murderer? I still can’t answer it. So am I ready to take the next step? As with everything lately, I don’t have much choice. I wipe my hand on my pants and knock on the door.
To my surprise, it opens a crack when I hit it. I knock again, opening it a little more. “Vaughn, you in there?” There’re some faint voices, but no one answers.
Down the hallway, I hear the return of the elevator. Someone’s coming. This is no time to be shy. I push open the door. Blinding sunlight pours through the windows at the far end of the room. As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I notice the TV blaring. No wonder he didn’t hear me.
“Whattya doin’? Watching soaps?” I move forward to step into the room, but my foot catches on something and I lose my balance and lurch forward. Putting my hands out to stop my fall, I hit the carpet with a hard thud. And an unnerving squish. My legs are askew, lying over some obstacle.
“What the…?” The whole carpet’s soaked. Sticky. And dark red. My hands are covered in it. I roll back to see what I tripped over. No, not what. Who. Vaughn.
“Oh, God,” I whisper. His mouth is slightly open. Red spit-bubbles collect in the gap between his teeth and his lower lip. Move, move, move! I scramble furiously to get up, pushing myself away from his body, but my hands slip, sending me straight back toward the floor. At the last second, I catch myself on my elbow, with my tie pinned underneath. Now it matches my hands. More blood.
Shutting my eyes, I let my legs do the rest. They scramble their way across Vaughn’s rigid torso, my right knee rubbing against his rib cage. Staggering to my feet, I spin around and get a better look at him lying lengthwise in the entryway. His left forearm is tight against his chest, but his hand’s still reaching upward, frozen in a half-open fist. The bullet hole is in his forehead-off center, above his right eye. It’s a tight wound-dark and crusted. Blood mats his thick black hair to the bone gray carpet. On his face, one eye stares straight forward; the other skews cockeyed to the side. Like Caroline’s. Just like Caroline’s. And all I can think of is the gun inside that utility box by the movie theater. The gun and that damn note-sitting there on Nora’s bed.