Marisha Pessl - Night Film

Like most New Yorkers, I went out of my way to avoid the Waldorf Astoria. It was like a very rich, very large, and mercifully very distant great-aunt who had three rolls of fat under her chin, wore taffeta, and had a personality so bossy you only needed to not see her but hear about her once to have your fill of her for the next fifteen years.

If you decided to venture inside, however, through the Art Deco revolving doors past the businessmen from Milwaukee and the Unitarian Church group, then took a breather before beating your way through the crowd up the carpeted stairs past the line into Starbucks and the woman rolling her carry-on suitcase over your shoes, instantly you were assaulted by the bloated luxury of the place. There were vaulted ceilings. There were palm trees. There were gilt clocks. There was marble. If there was a wedding reception — and there usually was, the bride and groom, Bobby and Marci of Massapequa, Lawn Guyland —the lobby throbbed like a gymnasium on prom night.

Hopper and Nora followed me through the lobby, ducking around an extended family wearing matching Red Sox sweatshirts toward a discreet wooden doorway. It was labeled with a tiny gold plaque, THE WALDORF TOWERS — so tactful its obvious aim was to go unseen.

I strode down the corridor to the elevator banks, stepping inside, Nora and Hopper right behind me.

“You really know your way around here,” said Nora, as I pressed G.

I did , unfortunately.

The Waldorf Astoria was only a distraction from the section of the hotel where the important people stayed, the more exclusive Waldorf Towers, hotel of choice to presidents, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Saudi princes, and various high-rolling Wall Street businessmen when they rendezvoused with their mistresses, which, sadly, was something along the lines of how I knew the place.

I wasn’t proud of it — and I sure as hell didn’t recommend it — but there was a six-month hellish stretch when, shortly after my divorce, I saddled myself with an affair with a married woman. And I met her here, at the Waldorf Towers, a total of sixteen times, though this was only after she’d sent me feedback emails in the bitter tone of an unsatisfied boss informing me the first hotel I’d chosen for our trysts, one I could actually afford, the generic Fitzpatrick Manhattan on Lex — known by its devoted clientele as The Fitz —was too close to her office, the rooms didn’t get enough light, the sheets stank, and the man at reception gave her a funny look after he asked if she needed help with luggage and she announced she didn’t have any, she’d be there for only forty-five minutes.

The elevator doors opened, spilling us into the Waldorf Towers lobby, small, elegant, and totally empty.

The three of us walked around the corner to the reception area, where a young man of Middle Eastern descent stood alone behind the front desk. He was tall, with a narrow build, dark eyes. His nametag read HASHIM.

I briefly introduced myself. “And we were hoping you might help,” I went on. “We’re searching for information on a missing woman. We think she came here sometime in the last month.”

He looked intrigued. He also, thankfully, made no sign of needing to go fetch his manager.

“Mind taking a look at her picture?” I asked.

“Certainly not.” It was a bright, genial voice, gilded with a British accent.

I removed Ashley’s missing-person’s report from my inside coat pocket, folded so only her picture was visible, and handed it to him.

“When was she here?” he asked.

“A few weeks ago.”

He handed it back. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen her before. Of course, it’s hard to tell from the picture. If you like I can make a photocopy and post it in the back, in case any other staff met her or remember her.”

“Nothing was reported out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“Do you videotape the lobby?”

“We do. But that would require a warrant. I assume you’ve contacted police?”

I nodded, and Hashim smiled with flawless five-star sorrow at being unable to help me further —and it was time for us to be on our way.

“She would have been wearing this, ” said Nora, pulling Ashley’s coat out of the Whole Foods bag and setting it, folded, on the leather desk pad.

He looked down at it and was about to shake his head when something about the coat visibly stopped him.

“You recognize it,” I said.

He looked puzzled. “ No. It’s just, a member of housekeeping reported an incident. It was a while back. But I think it did have something to do with a person in a red coat. The reason I remember is the matter came up again this morning, when the same housekeeper refused to clean one of the floors. It caused a disruption because we’re at capacity.”

Hashim, looking up, noticed all three of us were leaning with great intensity over the desk.

He took a step back, alarmed.

“Why don’t you leave a number and my supervisor can speak with you?”

“We don’t have time for a supervisor,” said Hopper, jostling Nora as he moved closer to Hashim. “With a missing person, every minute counts. We need to talk to the housekeeper. I know it’d mean you bending a few rules, but …” He smiled. “We’d appreciate it.”

It’d been my suggestion back in the car to allege that Ashley was missing, not dead; the missing, I’d found, prompted a greater sense of haste and willingness to help. This strategy seemed to work. Or perhaps it was just Hopper’s looks cranked up and turned blazingly onto the man, because Hashim stared at Hopper, a few seconds too long. And I saw the brief yet brazen look of male desire flash on his face, unmistakable as an oil tanker blinking a light at another ship. The man picked up the phone and, tucking the receiver under his chin, swiftly dialed a number.

“Sarah. Hashim at the front desk. Guadalupe Sanchez. That episode she reported a few weeks back. Wasn’t there something about a red coat? Isn’t that what— oh. ” He fell silent, listening. “Is she still on duty tonight?” He listened. “Twenty-nine. All right, thank you.”

He hung up.

“Come with me,” he said with a curt smile at Hopper.

We followed Hashim into an elevator, where he inserted a white keycard into the slot and pressed 29 .

We rose in silence, though quite a few times Hashim glanced swiftly at Hopper, who was staring down at his Converse sneakers. I wasn’t sure what was going on in this silent communication, but it was working; the doors opened, and Hashim exited briskly, making his way down the cream-colored hallway.

A housekeeping cart was parked at the end. We made our way toward it, Nora hanging back to inspect the few black-and-white photographs hanging on the wall, pictures of Frank Sinatra and Queen Elizabeth.

Reaching the cart, Hashim knocked sharply on the door marked 29T, slightly ajar.

“Miss Sanchez?”

He pushed it open. We filed after him into a suite’s empty sitting room: blue couches, blue carpet, an extravagant mural painted on the walls, featuring Greek columns and a blue-skinned goddess.

Hashim stepped through a kitchen alcove, the three of us following.

It led into a bedroom where a petite silver-haired woman was in the process of making up the bed. She was Hispanic, wearing a sea-gray housekeeping dress. She didn’t react because she was listening to music — a mint-green iPod strapped to her arm.

She moved around the bed, tucking the sheet, and spotted us.