The twenty-one-story White Star hotel in downtown Chicago occupied the corner of Michigan Avenue and Balboa. A five-star establishment first built in 1909, it fell into disrepair over time but was eventually restored with many of its original architectural details, including elegant sconces, chandeliers, and brass fittings. Its setting in the Loop made it a desirable location, and it boasted of being the “Hotel for Presidents” for much of its history, which Georgia thought was oddly appropriate. It had also been designated a historical landmark, but its biggest attraction, at least for Georgia, was its unrestricted view across the street to Grant Park. The roof of this hotel was where Jarvis killed Dena Baldwin.
She entered the lobby mid-afternoon. It wasn’t a busy time, but enough people were milling around that she didn’t think she would be remembered. Two uniformed employees managed reservations and checkouts at the front desk, but Georgia didn’t approach them.
She knew enough to start with the bellhops. They knew more than folks at the front desk and were more likely to talk. But no one was manning the bellhop station, so she strolled around the lobby floor, imagining the hotel in its finer days.
A grand staircase with brass banisters took up most of the lobby, and other rooms combined traditional with modern furniture that gave off an eclectic but sophisticated aura.
But the room that took her breath away was a giant ballroom with an enormous seafoam-and-ocean-colored carpet. Hundreds of sconces, recessed sky-blue lighting, and sculpted white moldings surrounded the room. A second-floor mezzanine wrapped around the space, with vertical windows, graceful draperies, and intricate moldings. Six huge crystal chandeliers that dominated the ceiling made her feel like Cinderella at the ball.
When she returned to the lobby, a uniformed bellhop stood behind a lectern at the station. She approached him with a smile. “Hi. I wonder if you can help me out.”
The balding middle-aged man, with a belly that stuck out under his jacket, looked her up and down. Georgia could see in his expression that he knew she wasn’t a guest.
“What do you need, lady?”
Georgia pulled out her picture of Ruth along with a twenty and gave both to him. “You see her in here, maybe a month, six weeks ago?”
He scrunched up his forehead, concentrating on the photo, or delivering a good performance if he wasn’t. “Sorry. Can’t place her.”
“Is it worth asking any of your buddies?”
He rubbed the space between his nose and upper lip, as though smoothing a nonexistent mustache. “I can show it around if you want.”
She pulled out another twenty and a ten and her card. “Ten more to you, and twenty to anyone who recognizes her. Here’s my card.”
“What did she do, this woman?”
“She got herself shot in the ass when that terrorist took out the Resistance woman on the roof of your hotel.”
He nodded sagely. “A big day here, that was.” He spoke with a lilt, close to an Irish brogue. Her father did too. But unlike the Irish, who were supposed to be expansive and eloquent wordsmiths, this guy was stingy with his. She knew why. At the rate he was going, she’d end up paying him five bucks a word.
“There’s something else,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I know you have a video surveillance system. I saw four cameras alone in the lobby, and more in the ballroom. I’m sure the FBI has the surveillance video from the day of the shooting. Who should I talk to about a backup?”
His eyebrows arched and he took a closer look at her card. “Georgia Davis, private detective.” She nodded. “Well . . .” He paused dramatically. “Our head of security is Lee Oswald. That’s who you need to see.”
“Really?”
He smiled ruefully. “Yeah. You can ask him . . .” His voice trailed off.
She knew what he was saying and dug out another twenty.
“The guy you want to talk to is our maintenance engineer. Roy Sandhurst. Take the elevator to the second basement and follow the hall to his office.”
She thanked him and headed to the elevator bank. No wonder they called it the “Hotel of Presidents.”
The door to Sandhurst’s office was open, and he was behind a desk poring over papers. Georgia knocked on the open door. “Excuse me.”
He looked up.
“May I have a few words, please?” She introduced herself, told him what she wanted, and gave him a card.
He didn’t get up but studied her card. She noted the obligatory shirt with his name emblazoned above the pocket. “You need to go to security. I can’t help you.”
“If I did that, I’d have to wait for a court order before I got them, and I don’t have time. I think more lives are in danger.”
“Who are you working for?”
She told him.
“What are you looking for?”
She hedged. “I’ll know when I find it.”
Sandhurst was asking all the right questions. She wondered if he’d been in law enforcement at some point. Or on the other side of the law. He tapped the edge of her card on his desk. “So you want tapes from the day of the incident, right?”
“Not quite. I need video from a week prior to the event through the day after.”
“From what I understand—of course, I can’t be sure—the FBI took a month’s worth. From December fifteenth through January sixteenth.”
She thought about it. The Bureau was exceptionally thorough. If they wanted a month’s worth of surveillance video, shouldn’t she get the same? The drawback was that a month of video footage would take forever to screen. She didn’t have time.
On the other hand, if Sandhurst had gone from an outright refusal to a veiled hint of the footage she should request, maybe she should request the entire thirty days’ worth. Even if he was simply fishing for money, it wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t need to screen it all.
“Okay. I’d like the same.”
“It’ll take me time to get you a backup.”
“How much?”
“It’s complicated. We got twenty-one floors, cameras in every hall, eight per floor, plus all the meeting rooms, entrances, stairwells, and common rooms. And you want video for thirty days. That’s a lot of video. Plus I have to—um—split the money with the security guy who’s gonna do the work. And he won’t be able to put in for overtime. Plus I got my own job to do.”
“How much to get it by tomorrow morning?”
“I’d say . . .” He paused, then looked directly at her. “Five thousand.”
He was in it for the money, she determined. And the fact that he didn’t appear to like the hotel security chief. Had he been considered for head of security and lost out to Oswald? Even so, five thousand dollars was out of hand.
“To save a life you’d charge me five grand? Come on.”
“Okay. Three. Because I like you.”
Georgia shook her head.
“Twenty-five hundred,” Sandhurst said.
“Two and that’s my final offer.”
They shook on it.