Клео Коул - On What Grounds

“What do you mean you; don’t you mean we ?”

Matt’s dark eyebrow lifted, and he crossed his arms. This unfortunately emphasized how beautifully his broad shoulders tapered down to his narrow hips, all of which were handsomely defined by the smooth lines of his exquisitely tailored Armani dinner jacket. “I don’t know. You look pretty hot tonight,” he said. “Seeing you handcuffed in this little Valentino number might be worth it.”

“Fine,” I said, more irritated by my momentary attraction to Matt’s damned irrepressible masculinity than his bawdy little joke, “but if I get caught, I’m cutting a deal. You’re the one who masterminded the operation—the DA’s going to want you, not me.”

“You have been watching too many film noirs.”

“All right, I’m going.”

“Clare—”

“What?”

The teasing laughter left his eyes. “Don’t worry.”

“Too late.”

Darla’s floor seemed to be deserted when I got there. Good, I thought.

I walked down the hallway, which was pleasant but not plush. This was a business-class floor, after all, the floor for the more budget-minded guests. Since Darla Hart seemed to be nearing the bottom of her cash barrel, that made sense. What didn’t make sense was why she chose the Waldorf-Astoria in the first place. Even a “cheap” room in this place could run three to five hundred dollars a night. Why not seek more economical digs?

Well, Clare, I told myself, that’s what you’re here to find out…

I turned a corner in time to see a young Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform stepping out of Darla Hart’s room.

“Hello!” I said, brandishing Madame’s key card as I hurried forward. “Thank you so much for the extra towels.”

I brushed past the maid and stuck my foot in the door.

“This is for your trouble,” I said as I produced a ten-dollar bill. I pressed it into the woman’s hand.

“Good night,” I said.

Slipping past the maid, I entered the room and closed the door behind me. Bolted it, too. Then I peered through the peephole until the woman pocketed her tip and vanished around the corner.

So far, so good. I’d like to thank the Academy for this award…

I dived for the phone and called Matt.

“I’m in,” I said and hung up.

The décor was what I expected of a 2,000-room hotel—what I called “Commercial Colonial Moderne.” Of course, Darla’s “Business Class” room here on the eighth floor was much smaller than Madame’s “Astoria Level” suite up on twenty-six, which had a foyer, a separate bedroom, living area, a wet bar, French doors, a spectacular view of Park Avenue, and access to an executive lounge that served complimentary evening hors d’oeuvres.

Tourists to New York City are often surprised at the small size of hotel rooms even in grand hotels like the Waldorf. But real estate comes at a premium price on Manhattan Island, and spacious living, even in hotels, is a rarity indeed.

Well, I thought, at least it wasn’t Tokyo, where Matt tells me an economy room can be as small as a horizontal phone booth. The Waldorf’s Business Class wasn’t that small, more like 200 square feet, nothing compared to Madame’s 700-square-foot suite upstairs. But it was well appointed, if not up to the lush opulence of the grand lobby.

The furniture consisted of a queen-sized bed with a dark wood headboard. The cream-colored coverlet had been turned down and a foil-wrapped chocolate placed on the fluffy white pillows. There was a nightstand, a matching dresser, an upholstered armchair draped with a floral-print slipcover that reached down to the thick-pile carpet, a large wood-framed mirror, a few lamps, and a desk in the corner.

Darla was pretty neat. There were a few pieces of clothing draped over the armchair (a lovely satin negligee and thigh-high silk stockings) and some shoes next to the bed (Manolo Blahnik Alligator pumps, retail $850), but otherwise the room was well kept. On the desk was a tangerine Mac laptop computer, plugged into the phone jack. That surprised me. Somehow I never pictured Darla Hart as a computer user, but this was, after all, the high-tech yet still-violent twenty-first century; everyone was either getting plugged or plugging in.

A familiar rhythmic knock interrupted my search. Rat-tat-uh-tat-tat. Tat. Tat. I opened the door, and Matt slipped inside. I bolted it again.

“I told you it would be easy,” he said.

“We’re not out of the woods—or the room—yet,” I countered.

It occurred to me that Matteo’s little plan was so foolproof in his mind, he might have used it successfully before. Probably to slip into some other woman’s room, I figured. Three guesses why.

“We don’t have much time,” I announced, opening the drawers and riffling through them. All were full of neatly folded clothing. “Donna Karan, Miuccia Prada, Dolce & Gabbana…” I muttered, “Well, it’s easy to see where her money goes.”

“A laptop!” Matt said, moving to the desk. “Shit, it’s a Mac.”

“I like Macs,” I said. “Need help?”

“No. I can use them. I just don’t like them. We’ve had this discussion.”

“Yes, let’s not go there again. Wouldn’t Darla have a password or something?” I asked, still tossing drawers.

“Maybe,” Matt replied. “But you’d be surprised at how many people don’t bother with—presto!”

I turned. Matt had opened the cover on the computer, pressed the space bar, and the machine had come to life.

“She actually left it running!” Matt said. He couldn’t hide his boyish glee at doing something naughty.

I continued my search while Matt examined the contents of the files on Darla Hart’s computer.

“She’s got a security password set up on her banking program,” Matt said. “No chance I can get in.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I replied. “Judging by her behavior, there are no secrets lurking in Darla’s bank account. It’s empty.”

Behind me, Matt continued tapping the keyboard.

After more searching, I found Darla’s suitcases—monogrammed Louis Vuitton leather with polished brass trim—tucked in the back of the closet. I dragged them out and opened one after the other. The first bag was empty. The second, a small beauty case, contained cosmetics. The lipsticks were all pinks and neutrals and perky pastels that were more appropriate for a much younger woman—or a woman who wanted to look much younger. Ditto the mascara. Darla certainly wasn’t wearing this kind of makeup the day I met her. Could it belong to someone else? Perhaps Anabelle?

I closed the cosmetics bag and opened the third case. Inside I found buried treasure—a wad of papers clipped together with a black metal clamp. I pulled them out.

“I’m going to access her Internet files,” Matt said. “There’s a dedicated line here and it looks like she automated the password to her AOL account.”

I sat on the edge of the chair and paged through the paperwork. One of them—dated just a few months ago—was actually an official court document with the title “Darla Hart vs. The Penn Life Insurance Company.” I turned the pages, wading through the legalese.

As far as I could puzzle out, about eighteen months ago Darla Hart had—or claimed to have had—an on-the-job injury that occurred while she was employed as an “artistic dancer” at a “place of business” called The Wiggle Room in Jacksonville, Florida.

Darla claimed her injury prevented her from working and demanded disability payments. The manager of the establishment, one Victor Vega, disputed her claim and the matter was settled in a court of law.

Not in Darla’s favor, as it turned out. Not only did she lose her case to the insurance company, but the State of Florida denied her disability claim. The last few letters were from her lawyer, demanding payment for legal fees that were in arrears.