TWENTY-THREE

HURRIED footsteps came down the hall and a harried young man rushed into the suite. “Ms. Holbrook!” he began excitedly. “I got your emergency text in my car and drove here as fast as I could!”

Adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, he looked us all over. “Are these the people that violated the police quarantine?”

Victoria looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid I overreacted, Owen. Thank you for coming, but it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“And who is this?” Madame asked.

“Blanche, I’d like you to meet Owen Wimmer, Esquire. He’s the Parkview’s legal representative. You can imagine he’s been busy since Annette vanished.”

The towheaded lawyer in a buttoned-down shirt and sweater vest couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. Though small of stature, he displayed a great deal of intense energy. After barely acknowledging Madame, the lawyer faced Victoria and in one rapid-fire breath said—

“I have one question for you. And you know why. Was Stevens involved?”

“Yes.” Victoria frowned. “He and two members of his staff restrained this young man.”

Owen cursed and turned to Mr. Dante. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Sure, it was nothing,” the barista replied.

The young lawyer frowned. “We won’t stand in your way if you elect to file a complaint with the police.”

“Forget it,” Mr. Dante insisted.

Visibly relieved, Owen faced Victoria. “Stevens is a loose cannon. This is not the first incident. You should fire him—”

“I don’t know if that’s necessary. He’s been at the Parkview for years. Without Annette here to agree, I don’t feel comfortable making such a drastic personnel change, but I will speak with him.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough. We cannot have the Parkview subjected to any further legal jeopardy.” The lawyer removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a pocket handkerchief. “I’d like to be the one to address Stevens and his staff—”

“I said I’d take care of it.”

“Hmm, well . . .” Owen practically pouted. “You know best. I’ll go, then.”

Madame announced that we should be moving on, too.

Victoria apologized again to us for our rough treatment and requested that we leave by the front entrance, since the NYPD had ordered hotel management to seal everything off, including the private elevator.

“And because Owen is such a stickler,” she added, practically rolling her eyes.

On our way out, I spied the young lawyer at the elevator, shaking his head as he fussily restored the crisscrossed police tape that Madame had torn off the door.

Then we turned the corner, and Victoria Holbrook led us down a wide, carpeted hall lined with suites. An ornate flight of stairs took us to the elegant lobby.

Before Madame exited through the bronze-and-glass doors, the woman in black rained more air-kisses down on her. “Don’t be a stranger. The next time you visit, let me know. We’ll have lunch in the Sun Court—my treat.”

Outside, buses, cabs, and cars crowded the street. The autumn wind, whipping along Central Park South, made the colorful leaves quiver, and me shiver. I pulled my Poetry in Motion jacket closer around me, glad I had the blond wig on my head for extra warmth.

Madame signaled for us to follow her lead. “Victoria expects us to leave so we’d better make a show of it.”

She asked the doorman to call us a cab and, once we all piled in, informed the driver—

“We’re only going around the block, to the hotel’s garage entrance on fifty-eighth, but I’ll be tipping you well.”

“No problem, ma’am!”

Turning to Mr. Dante, she instructed him to contact her son. “Tell him to sit tight. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Mr. Dante nodded and pulled out his phone. “Too bad your friend stopped the fight,” he muttered. “I know I could have taken that guy.”

Esther shook her head. “Get over it, Rambo.”