Chapter Five

Nicki stood in front of Haddon Heights hotel and gazed up at the cascade of plate glass windows that reached so high into the sky even the clouds could see their reflection. Taxis pulled up in front, people came and went, streetcars shuttled by, and men and women in suits filed into the canopied outdoor restaurant to order tall drinks in iced glasses.

Next door, outside Bloom’s Deli, two men on a picnic table bench drank coffee out of chipped mugs and ate blintzes and bagels and argued over exactly how thin pastrami should be sliced. A woman came out, filled up their cups, and handed them each a creamer and a paper envelope of sugar.

She must be Margo’s mom, thought Nicki.

They laughed about something, then the woman shuffled back inside. She stopped at the door to adjust a sign that was propped in the front window. It read Same Great Menu. New Prices.

Nicki headed for the hotel lobby.

“Excuse me,” said the doorman. “Are you a guest?”

“No.”

“You’ll need proper attire for the dining room.”

Nicki pushed past him and through the revolving door.

“Can you tell me what room Mr. David Kahana is staying in?” she asked the receptionist.

“I’m sorry,” the woman replied curtly, “I can’t give out that information.” She turned her back to Nicki.

“Fine.”

Nicki headed down the first corridor and found a bellhop carrying some luggage to the service elevator.

“Wow,” said Nicki, “I’ll be glad when things are back to normal on my floor. The whole thing makes me uneasy.”

“What makes you uneasy?”

“The attempted murder of that hotel guest.”

“Oh, right,” the bellhop said.

Nicki reached into her pocket. “Darn! I’ve left my key card upstairs. You aren’t going to my floor by any chance, are you?”

“The eighth? No, I’m not,” he replied. “But they can help you at the main desk.”

Nicki thanked him and hurried back to the lobby.

Silver chandeliers hung like earrings from the ceiling, and every stick of furniture flaunted velvet cushions. Even the elevators had attitude—gold doors with platinum fittings and original paintings on the walls. The uniformed elevator operator beckoned her inside with white gloves.

She took the stairs.

A police guard stood outside room 813.

Nicki approached him.

“Mr. Kahana asked me to retrieve something for him.”

“You can’t enter the room. I’m sorry.”

“He’s in intensive care. I have to—”

“Not even staff members can enter this room,” he said. “Not until the forensics team gets here and gives the all clear.”

Staff members. That gave Nicki an idea, and she headed back downstairs.

She assumed the manager’s office wouldn’t be far from her mother’s, near the front desk. She was right; the black oak door displayed a brass sign that read Trent Newman, Manager. The door was slightly ajar, so she rapped on it and walked in.

The manager swung around in his chair. He had thick brown hair and a mustache that grew over the corner of his mouth. His face was sunburned, his eyes yellowish-gray.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m here to apply for a job,” said Nicki.

“In the restaurant? I don’t need any waitresses.”

“No. Housekeeping.”

He pointed to a stack of applications sitting on a bureau near the door.

“Blue form,” he said. “Make it quick, will you?”

Nicki sat on the floor in the hallway and filled it out, complete with false address, false references, and false employment history. She went back into the office and handed it to Newman.

“Fu Yin. And you’ve just moved here?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“Buffalo.”

While he scanned the form, she glanced at the photos on his desk. In one of them, he was standing next to an older woman in the front yard of a small, wood-frame bungalow, surrounded by flowering hibiscus plants. He had no mustache then. In the distant background was Diamond Head, the distinctive landmark near Waikiki.

Oh, no. He’s from Hawaii!

She felt a slight moment of panic and then she thought about it.

He won’t recognize me.

She looked at the photograph again, trying to figure out where in Honolulu it was taken.

That’s out in the suburbs. Looks like Kaimuki.

Newman followed her gaze to the photograph. “My mother,” he mumbled. He picked up the application form. “What about your Social Insurance Number?” he said. “You say it’s forthcoming. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The employment office said it might take a couple of weeks.”

“When they say two weeks, they mean two months.” He tugged at his mustache. “I can wait for it if you want to work for me. God knows I need housekeepers. But I can’t pay you until I have the number. It’s up to you.”

“Okay.”

“Can you handle a cleaning position?” he asked. “You don’t look very strong. What are you, five feet tall?”

“Five two,” she replied. “And yes, I can handle it.”

“I hope so.”

His cell phone rang.

He pulled it out of a brown briefcase sitting on the floor next to his feet.

“Just a minute,” he said to the person who had called, then to Nicki, “Report to the head of housekeeping.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Newman didn’t reply.

Nicki pulled the door behind her, but didn’t let it click shut.

“Aloha, Kimo,” said Newman, leaning back in his chair.

Kimo must be Hawaiian. She peeked through the crack.

Newman threw both his feet up on the desk and put one arm behind his head.

“Arrested any chicken thieves lately?” Newman laughed.

And Kimo must be a cop.