Vincent glanced warily at the photo. “I believe so, yes.”
“I need a room next to his. Not across the hall, but right next door.” I rubbed the hundred. “Can you recommend a room number?”
Vincent chewed on that.
“Just recommend a room number,” I repeated.
Vincent’s practiced fingers made the Benjamin vanish. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll see what’s available. What’s your name?”
“Chase. Zachary Chase.”
We walked to the front desk where Vincent slipped behind the counter. The receptionist gave him a sideways glance but was too occupied with another client to interfere.
Vincent began typing, and typing, and typing. Finally, I got an affirming nod. “Normally I’d recommend either 208 or 212 for someone with your needs, but 208 is occupied. Shall I book you into 212, Mister Chase? It will be $400 after taxes. That includes breakfast.”
I pulled out my Visa and said a short prayer. Four hundred dollars would be the most I’d ever paid for a room on my own dime—and I wouldn’t even be sleeping there.
“You’ll find your room on the second floor. The elevator is to your left.” Vincent didn’t bother offering to help with my roller bag, given that I had two inches and twenty pounds on him, and had already tipped.
Room 212 was filled with fine furnishings that rested on spindly hardwood legs, supposedly carved by one of Ben Franklin’s friends. The fabrics were a cream and ochre combination, as was the wallpaper. I counted four pleated lampshades and an equal number of gold-framed colonial prints. Plenty to block my view.
The sight of silk paper on the walls saddened me. Drilling it would feel sacrilegious. Nonetheless, I unzipped my bag and prepared to do just that. It was a very small hole. Virtually unnoticeable.
The location of the doors told me that Tom’s headboard would be back-to-back with my own, separated by the wall, of course. That would be weird, sleeping with the enemy’s head literally inches away—were I to stay.
I surveyed the room and selected the point that would give me the best available angle for seeing a computer screen, whether it was on the desk or in the lap of a man in bed. I repeated the towel and TV trick, then got drilling.
My gizmo showed Tom’s room to be lights-off dark, with no one in bed and no light leaking from the bathroom. Were it not for the black roller bag on the sofa, and a white washcloth on the floor by the door, there would be no sign that the room was rented out. I seriously doubted that Tom was soaking in the dark, and thus concluded that he wasn’t in the room.
I had seen Tom’s car in the valet parking lot, and the chiseled-cheekboned impostor had already dined. Therefore, I concluded that he was either in the bar or at another meeting.
I briefly considered breaking into Tom’s room and rummaging through his bag, but given his presence on the property, I decided that would be too reckless. Besides, in a five-star facility like this, entry would not be easy. I’d probably need to swipe a master key card.
I decided to see if he was in the bar.
I returned to the elevator and pressed the down button. It chimed a moment later. The doors opened, and out stepped Tom.
26
Good Question
RIES WADED INTO THE SURF off Point Dume as the midday sun maximized the colors of the Santa Monica Mountains. The exquisite contrast between the reds, golds, and browns of the hardened lava bluffs and the turquoise, azure, and sapphire waters crashing against them always made him smile. This trek into living art kicked off his favorite climb. Ries tried to make it at least once a month—even after his replacement. That was technically a violation of the rules, but one of no consequence, since he was alone.
Most climbers preferred to do the Dume in the morning, so they could climb in the cool of the shade. But Ries was happy to handle the heat in exchange for optimizing the view—and experiencing one of the world’s most spectacular cliffs in solitude.
Timing wasn’t the only thing that differentiated him from his fellow enthusiasts. Most of them hiked to the top on the landward side and rappelled down before climbing up. No doubt that was easier, safer, and more efficient. But he preferred swimming to the bottom and working without a top rope. In part, this was because top ropes felt to him like cheating. But mainly he just liked meeting life on his own terms, especially when that convergence involved a healthy challenge.
The swim to the boulders at the base of the cliff was no amateur undertaking. You had to stay close enough to the shore to avoid the riptide, but far enough away that the swells wouldn’t slap you against the remorseless rock. It was all part of the thrill.
Ries had always felt that he wasn’t really living if he didn’t occasionally risk dying. It was an ironic juxtaposition that immortality only intensified.
He timed his scramble out of the water and onto the bottom boulders to take assistance from a wave. That was the secret to successful ascents—and most of life for that matter—finding ways to work with nature rather than fight it.
The backpack holding his gear—his helmet, harness, rope, and chalk; his nuts, quickdraws, carabiners, and cams—was waterproof. But the swim had filled his climbing shoes with sand. He removed them one at a time and carefully cleaned each with the assistance of encroaching waves.
Shoes were the secret to rock climbing. Non-climbers had no clue of the magic they held. The way the stiff gummy soles gripped steep rock when he angled his body right still blew his mind. It was just as his instructor had confided the first time they stood at the base of a cliff. Anyone who trusted his shoes and kept his cool could literally walk up walls.
By the time Ries had fitted his footwear and assembled his gear, getting each piece arranged for quick and clean one-handed access, he was dry. He gave his curly sun-bleached hair a quick back-and-forth rubbing, then snugged his helmet, dipped his hands into his bag of chalk, and began the eighty-foot ascent.
The route was rated a 5.10, which meant it was virtually vertical and offered only scant hand and foot holds. Magic shoes and machismo definitely required. Ries knew from experience that it would take him about forty minutes.
Eighty feet doesn’t sound like a lot in a world where buildings now soar above two thousand, but sounding and experiencing are two entirely different matters. When there’s nothing between you and a quick trip to the ground, most will feel that cool kick of adrenaline before they reach ten feet. Take that up to twenty, and every human heart will start to flutter. By thirty, most are paralyzed with panic. At forty, the fright is enough to make the frail pass out.
Ries paused at that forty-foot halfway point to sip water and enjoy the stunning scenery. Precarious though his position probably looked to laymen, and insane as it undoubtedly appeared to his fellow Immortals, Ries was perfectly safe. About every ten feet, he wedged a nut or a cam into a crack and clipped it to his rope. Even if he slipped or passed out or was struck by lightning, he couldn’t fall more than twenty feet before the rope caught. It would stretch out another couple of feet, ending the descent in an experience more like feathering the brakes than slamming them to a full stop. Unpleasant perhaps, but not traumatic. Especially with a helmet.
Much safer than skydiving.
Or stumbling drunk onto a balcony.
Ries didn’t actually know how Camilla had ended up with her skull cracked by patio rocks, but now that the initial shock had worn off, he believed drinking was a safe assumption. They’d all over-imbibed after the tense meeting with the shocking announcement and unexpected vote. And Lisa had further facilitated self-medication by having so much fantastic wine on hand.