Amanda and I went separate directions. She returned to the White aisle, and I stopped into the Flush newsstand and scanned the articles about Lydia. I would have bought copies, but with my wallet still in Yarvi’s booth, I was broke.
Which I realized again when I tried to take the Deuce. The driver raised his eyebrows at my attire and turned me away.
By the time I arrived at The Left Bank, it was after six. I was hot, my feet were swollen, and I wanted comfort food. Sadly, for everything Las Vegas boasted in their advertising campaigns, they lacked pretzels, my snack food of choice.
I stumbled to the front desk. “Meees Keeed,” Jacque said. “How can I help you today?” His eyes shifted back and forth between my face and my (Amanda’s) robe.
“I lost my keycard,” I said.
“Your room on ze sixth floor?”
“No, I’m in the Napoleon Room.” He looked confused. “It’s a long story.”
He tapped the keyboard a few times. “My system shows you checked out this morning,” he said. “You do not have a current reservation.”
“Oh yes, I do. I don’t check out for another three days.” Do not panic. “Can you look up Nick Taylor?”
“Non, there is no Nick Taylor in our system either.” He smiled. “Would you like me to see what we have available?”
“What about Marc Rico?”
“I cannot give out personal information about our guests, Meees Keeed,” he said.
I’d had just about enough of secrets and lies and people pretending to be something they weren’t. I wanted to relax. And to sample at least half of the twenty-two versions of mac and cheese from the room service menu. And to change into real clothes, not a (very soft!) robe from Amanda’s collection.
I leaned forward until I was as close to Jacques as the marble counter would allow. “I know that you know that I know Marc Rico and Nick Taylor and if you don’t tell me where they are in the next five minutes, I’m going to create a scene right here in the lobby.”
His eyes widened, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Allow me to ring Mr. Reeeco.”
I stood upright and attempted a smile. I’d left this morning with my doubts about Marc’s past and present, but it appeared as though he held the key to my immediate future.
“Mr. Reeeco, I have a Samantha Keeed here at ze front desk. She asked me to ring your room—oui. I see. Of course. I will tell her. Thank you, Mr. Reeeco.”
Jacques hung up. “Meees Keeed—” I glared at him. “Mr. Reeeco made arrangements to move your bill under his account.” He picked up a keycard and recoded it. “As a guest of Mr. Reeeco, you are entitled to complimentary use of our amenities, including ze Left Bank Spa.” He glanced at my robe again. “If there eees anything else you need, please let me know. I am sorry for ze inconvenience.”
Why the sudden attitude change? Jacques already knew I knew Marc from the very first time I tried to check in. Pretending to be surprised by Marc’s generosity was suspicious. If just knowing Marc was the reason for Jacques’ attitude change, I should have been getting this treatment all along.
I took the keycard and left. There was something fake about Jacques, and it wasn’t just his accent.
The Napoleon room was unoccupied. I set the new keycard on my end table and went directly to the bathroom for a shower. Once clean, I dressed in my black capri pants, a loose black tunic with a halter neckline, and a pale pink brooch shaped like the sun in the center of the neckline. I styled my hair, did a full face of makeup, and added earrings and bracelets.
In the time it took me to do all that, Nick didn’t return. After another ten minutes of wiping off the red lipstick left over from my stint on stage and replacing it with a more subdued mauve shade that matched the brooch, I called down to the front desk.
“Mr. Rico, how can I help you?” answered a female voice.
“This isn’t Mr. Rico. It’s Miss Kidd. Samantha Kidd.”
“Ah. Mr. Rico’s guest. How may I help you?”
“Why did you think I was Mr. Rico?”
“Your room number flashed up on the screen, and the screen indicates that the room is booked to Mr. Rico.”
“You know all that from one phone call?”
“It is our job to take care of our best clients,” she said. “Mr. Rico is very special to us and we want to keep him happy. As his guests, that applies to you as well. Is there something special you would like me to arrange? Dinner reservations? A show?”
“Do you have access to today’s newspaper?”
“Of course. I’ll have the Las Vegas Sun sent right up.”
“Yes, and, um, do you have any others? The less legitimate ones?”
She paused. “I’ll have an assortment of Las Vegas daily newspapers sent to your room.”
I thanked her and hung up. My next call was to room service. A little mac and cheese wouldn’t spoil my appetite should Nick want dinner.
It wasn’t long after the papers arrived that I confirmed my earlier suspicion. The same photo that I’d seen in the trashy newspaper at Intimate Mode appeared in every paper that ran the notice of Lydia’s death. I called the Las Vegas Sun, the most reputable of the bunch.
“Hi. I’m calling about the photo of the lingerie model you ran in today’s paper. I noticed the same photo appeared in other publications. Do you have contact information?”
“Hold, please,” said a bored voice. Jazzy music filled the headset. While I waited, I spread the various newspapers out on the bed.
When the story on me from the Ribbon Eagle/Times was picked up by the AP wire, there had been one accompanying photo. The original “Local Girl Does Good” puff piece had been pitched with the terms that the photo shoot be a staged day of me at work, styling a page for Tradava’s upcoming catalog. The intent was that the merchandise—and the store—would get double exposure.
As it turned out, the pictures from the shoot were confiscated as evidence in an investigation. The lone photo that appeared with the article had been taken by the delivery van driver from Tradava. He’d wanted something to show his family. The reprint rights had paid him more than his Tradava severance package, and an unflattering view of me goofing around in front of a rack of samples had landed in over a hundred newspapers across the country.
I learned two things from that experience: when newspapers want a photo to accompany a news piece, they have standard payment terms for acquisition. And to collect on those payment terms, the photographer had to sign a release. So even if the photo credit was withheld upon request in print, the newspaper would have documentation to prove they’d fulfilled their end of the bargain.
“Hello?” said the bored voice.
“I’m here,” I said.
“Yeah, you wanted to know about the photo of Lydia Moss?”
“Yes, please.”
“The paper acquired full rights. It’s ours now. You want to reprint it like everybody else?”
“No, I’m looking for the photographer.”
“‘Alain Remie’ is the name on the contract. I can’t give out more than that.”
I was stunned. “That’s all I need. Thank you.”
As I hung up, I couldn’t help consider the third thing I’d learned from my experience at Tradava: when a camera is aimed at you, smile. It was a good thing no cameras were aimed my direction because this information was anything but cheerful.
Alain Remie was the hotel manager who had shown up with the police the day I’d reported Lydia’s body.