“You seem confident about that.”
“I got some information out of Ben.”
“He told you where the records were?” Unbelievable. Isaac could charm anything out of anyone.
“Not exactly.” Isaac pointed at his own face. “He told me with his eyes.”
“So you don’t know.”
“I trust my instincts.”
I scoffed. Instincts were fine, but nothing beat a well-thought-out and thoroughly researched plan.
“I can break into the basement and prove it,” said Isaac. There was that challenging spark in his eyes again. “And besides, if there’s storage there, who knows? We could find the missing wedding rings and solve this whole thing.”
“No,” I said sharply. “If you get caught and kicked out of this place, we’ll end up worse off. I don’t think there’s anything we can do until you talk to Mr. Partridge.”
“If I don’t learn anything from him, then can I break into the basement?” Isaac cracked his knuckles. “It’s been a long time since I’ve picked a lock.”
I couldn’t believe this was who I was working with now. And I couldn’t believe how much fun I was having with him. Our banter renewed my passion for what I did. The more I talked with him about it, the surer I became that despite everything, my life was on the right track.
Chapter Eighteen
Isaac
I had two glorious, relaxing days with Roman before Mr. Partridge was due to return. He spent that time schooling me on Mr. Partridge’s habits and quirks. I paid attention the first time he laid out the facts, but he eventually became repetitive.
The morning of my interview with Mr. Partridge, I finally snapped at him. Perhaps because it was five in the morning, a time usually reserved for sleep. “Roman, I know this. You have to trust me to handle this.”
He was chewing on his lips, and his fists were so tightly clenched his knuckles were pale. “I know you know this, but I wish I could be there with you, in case-”
“In case I don’t know it?” I raised my eyebrows and gave him my patented sideways smirk — the one I knew got under his skin. “You have to trust me, my dude.”
“I’m trying to.”
I raised my eyebrows higher. “I got information out of Lance and Ben, remember?”
He nodded and took a deep breath. His fists unclenched slowly. “Okay. You can do this.”
“It’s not our last hope,” I pointed out. “There’s always the basement.”
There it was, that unique Roman glare. I had learned to tell the difference between when Roman was genuinely upset with me and when he was exasperated but amused. I liked to rile him up. There were other emotions I would rather taunt out of him, but I couldn’t get everything I wanted.
After a cold shower to wake myself up, I flexed my neck and cracked my knuckles in front of the mirror. I had good instincts, but hustling was a craft. It took luck and finesse to succeed.
In our old lives, Olivia and I noticed a particular businessman visiting the same ATM at the same time every week, taking out a grand, and (unfortunately for us) guarding it carefully until he met his coke dealer.
We weren’t going to pass up on that kind of cash. We watched him carefully to learn his patterns and weaknesses. As it happened, Mr. Tailored Suits and Expensive Cologne had a weakness for junk food as well as stimulants. It had been easy enough for Olivia to set up a stall giving out free mini-donuts while I played a clumsy stoner with the munchies. One brief stumble into his side, and we had good money well-earned.
Instincts were the garnish on well-laid plans. That was why I enjoyed working with strict, serious Roman — although I wouldn’t tell him that.
I remembered a few things about Mr. Partridge from before he fell. He was a doddery old man who liked to waggle his finger and complain about things, and his ears were stuffed with so much hair they could have passed for a gym shower drain.
I was going to go full Genesis to take on Mr. Partridge. Old people always had dead friends. It was a safe bet that he’d fall for my act.
I wasn’t sure why I was taking this ghost hunting business so seriously. In the past, I studied people like that coke-addled businessman and learned their patterns so I could feed myself and my found family. Now I was doing the same thing to find out some information about ghosts for a couple of eccentric conspiracy theories.
Maybe I simply missed adventure. The thrill of the hunt, the scam, the reward. My nostalgia had piqued since the suburbs, but what should I be nostalgic for? It wasn’t like those were good times for me. Except, in a way, they were the best times of my life.
I scrutinized my reflection. The mirror drilled into the bathroom wall looked like a mirror in an old, barely maintained public toilet — thankfully without the flecks of dry urine. My reflection warped in the silver.
The only time I got privacy these days was when Roman had errands to run with Elliot or when I was in the bathroom. Although, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind giving up some privacy if it meant I got to shower with him. The thought of it made my imagination run wild. I bit my lip at the thought of how water droplets would splash and shimmer down his skin, how my body would feel pressed up against the cold shower wall, his hands and lips exploring every inch of me…
Cut it out. I had a job to do.
I tucked my long hair up into a man-bun and opted for jeans instead of harem pants. I wanted to look psychic, but I couldn’t look too unprofessional. The elderly didn’t always take kindly to hardcore hippies. After I threw on one of my nicer t-shirts, I looked almost like someone who might have a real job, except for the bags under my eyes.
I hated it. Sasha liked it when I dressed this way, but it wasn’t me. Then again, I wasn’t supposed to be me today. I was supposed to be someone Mr. Partridge would talk to. Open up to, if I played the game as well as I used to.
I slung a hemp bag over my shoulder, where I kept my tarot cards wrapped in silk. Fingers crossed this worked. Before I left the room, I tugged Roman’s peridot necklace from under my t-shirt. I let it hang openly against my chest. I told myself having one crystal on display would only improve my image, but the real reason was that running my fingers over Roman’s pendant was a surprising comfort when I got stressed.
Maybe this was more than nostalgia. If I was nostalgic for my grifter past, I’d only care about the game. I was looking forward to that thrill like a dieter looked forward to a cheat meal, but the main reason I wanted this to work… I wanted to impress Roman.
It was the same reason I had agonized for so long about what to wear. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to impress him by how well I cleaned up or if I would feel bad if he shared Sasha’s opinions about me looking better this way.
He definitely noticed. When I emerged from the bathroom, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
“I know,” I said. I flashed a smile. “I clean up well.”
“You look different.”
“That’s because I’m wearing different clothes, Roman.”
“You look good.” He frowned slightly. “But you don’t look like you.”
Why could a sentence like that make my heart flip?
“Thanks, I guess,” I said as confidently as possible. “I’m in disguise.”
“Remember, don’t push too hard,” said Roman. “If Ben thinks I’m harassing the guests-”
“You’re not harassing the guests. I’m harassing the guests. And I am a guest myself, so…”
At that, Roman cracked a small smile. Fuck, I loved making him smile.
“Just be careful.”
“What, you still can’t trust me?” I was mildly offended. “This is what I do.”
“It’s not you. I hate relinquishing control to anyone.”
“You’ll trust me after today.”
***
Mr. Partridge usually went downstairs to get his continental breakfast at six on the dot, and he spent a full half hour eating.
I wandered into the dining hall at eleven minutes
past six. I’d never been in this room at the Cressley before. The carpet bore the same faded seventies pattern as in the rest of the building. The only difference was that there were long trestle tables in this room, lines of uniform chairs bordering them.
I felt conspicuous in here at this time of the morning, although it was busier than I expected. How could so many people function this early in the morning? Routine was one of the things that led to my break up with Sasha — she had one, and I couldn’t stand them.
I got a plastic tray, poured myself some cornflakes, and took a chocolate muffin from a rack. It was identical to the muffin Roman had given me when he met me. Now I knew where he’d gotten it from.
Complimentary room service? I chortled to myself. Not at this place. I should have realized Roman was faking it as soon as I met him.
I recognized the brand of tea bags too. It looked like I wasn’t the only thief in this partnership after all. I made a mental note to tease Roman about that later. But mornings were for coffee. I poured myself as much as would fit in my cup.
I meandered past Mr. Partridge on my way to find a seat for myself, sizing him up. His legs were folded in their stiff corduroy pants, one ankle crossed over the other knee. He squinted through half-moon glasses, lost in a newspaper crossword puzzle and oblivious to my presence. In front of him was a platter of buttered toast and a collection of table spread packages.
I took a seat a few paces away. I had time, should I want to take it. This was a delicate procedure. I had to extract information from Mr. Partridge like a child playing Operation. If I wasn’t careful, the alarm would go off, and my game would be over.
I chewed as slowly as possible on my cornflakes and glanced at my phone. There were no messages from Roman. That figured, considering he was upstairs, waiting to hear from me about how this morning went.
Pull it together.
“They do a decent breakfast here, don’t they?” I said, trying to breach a conversation with Mr. Partridge. He looked at me, a little shocked that someone was speaking to him. His patchy, fluffy eyebrows raised.
“They never have enough jam, and the toast is too dry.” Mr. Partridge liked to complain. For men of that age, complaining could be something of a hobby. In order to get him to give me the information I needed, I had to find some way to get him complaining about the hotel. Preferably about something other than table spread. I couldn’t go back to Roman with nothing but Partridge’s opinions on the continental breakfast. I’d made other promises.
“The coffee is bitter too.” If I could convince him I was another grumpy old man in a youthful body, he might see me as his ally.
Sure enough, he was more focussed on me than on his crossword now.
“If you want to know if I’m okay, you can ask. You don’t have to be polite because I’m old.” He chuckled good-naturedly.
I glanced him a question.
“I remember you,” he said. “You were with the bellhop when he found me after my fall.”
“I wasn’t with him.” Better distance myself from Roman as much as possible. “I heard it happen from my room.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re in the room next to the stairwell?”
I nodded. “Room 1405.”
Mr. Partridge puffed out his cheeks and exhaled a dramatic sigh. His were shaking as he brought a piece of burnt toast up to his lips. Breadcrumbs showered down when he crunched into it, clinging to his lips and sticking in the hairs on his chin. He chuckled, sending another spray of crumbs out. “You know that isn’t the fourteenth floor.”
I knew enough about these kinds of marks to understand that the best way to get them to listen to you was to pretend you acknowledged that they knew better than you. Even when they didn’t know anything you couldn’t have looked up online.
“Yeah, it is,” I said. “I just said I’m in room 1405.”
“That’s what they want you to think. You’re in room 1305. The Cressley doesn’t technically have a thirteenth floor, but if we did, you’d be on it.” He puffed out his chest proudly, like he’d revealed a big secret.
I faked shock. “Is it really haunted? That bellhop-”
“His heart’s in the right place, but he’s a bit… You know.” Mr. Partridge shook his head.
“He told me some stories,” I said. I shoved a mouthful of cornflakes in my mouth, pretending I was overly-interested and curious. I figured that bringing up the ghosts was the best way to get a reading on Mr. Partridge. Did he believe or not? “How long have you been living here?”
Mr. Partridge chuckled, but underneath his chair, he crossed his ankles. He was closing himself off to me, either consciously or unconsciously. A bad sign. He didn’t want to talk about the ghosts. Did that mean he believed in them or not? If I could get a solid yes or no, I could plan my tactics.
“Long enough to hear most of those stories and more.” He didn’t volunteer any more information, which in my experience meant there was more information he could share. I was being too eager. I needed another tactic.
“Has the plumbing always been this bad?” I asked. Back to bonding over complaining. It was my most effective tactic.
“Oh, don’t get me started on the plumbing. You know what I think about maintenance here?”
“Not good things?”
Mr. Partridge was puffing up. “Have you had the honor of meeting the Cressley’s maintenance worker yet? Lance. He’s a - pardon my language - he’s a little shit of a man. His father was much better at his job.” Mr. Partridge tugged at his collar, revealing a diamond-studded ring dangling around his neck. I glanced quickly at his hand, and sure enough, there was a ring there too, a simpler, more masculine cut. Was he widowed? Divorced? At his age, probably the former.
Good. Obviously it wasn’t good for him, but this information boded well for me. If Mr. Partridge was in love with his dead wife, he would be an easy target. I could get him talking if I convinced him he was talking to her.
“I’ve met Lance.” I didn’t have to fake disdain.
“That man has no idea how to respect his elders. He’s worse than you.” He jabbed a piece of toast at me.
I didn’t know how I was being disrespectful, but I doubled down on trying not to be. “I’m sorry, sir. I was only curious-”
“Everyone’s curious about the ghosts. No one cares about the people who died here.”
There was genuine bitterness in his voice. He knew someone who’d died here. Maybe this was an angle I could take. I wasn’t sure yet.
“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking.”
“These ghosts- They were real people once upon a time.”
So he did believe. “Your wife died here?” I asked, putting everything on the line.
“How’d you know that?” He narrowed his eyes at me.
“I know you might not believe this- but sometimes I can sense things. And when I saw you, I sensed this loss and-”
“And so you decided to ask me about ghosts. What is this, a con?”
Of course it was a con, but this wasn’t the first time a mark had called me on my bullshit. Mr. Partridge wasn’t an easy target, but he was far from the hardest I’d ever cracked. I hoped Roman appreciated this. I charged for my psychic services. The only reason I was doing this for free was because I was doing it for him. For some reason, I would do anything for Roman.
“You’re not the first to think that,” I said, with a gentle smile. At least that part was true. “I’m not a con artist. I can prove it.”
“You can prove it, huh?” Mr. Partridge folded his arms, and his shoulders jutted up. I might not have chosen the wisest tactic, giving myself away as a psychic so early, but now there was no going back. “Go on.”
I’d been put on the spot like this before. I took a deep breath. This was where I had to use my intuition and cold reading skills. If Mr. Partridge believed in ghosts, it was only a small leap for him to believe I could talk to them. And people with dead relatives… Well, they were always a l
ittle more inclined to take to my convincing.
Mr. Partridge looked about seventy, which would mean he would have been born in the late 40s or early 50s. Assuming his wife was about that age… I scanned my memory to think of the most popular women's names of that time.
“A letter is coming to mind,” I said. Cheryl. Catherine. Carol. “I think I’m sensing a C-” I gauged his face. He wasn’t buying it yet. I sounded a hard ‘c’ from the back of my throat, closing my eyes and rapidly jerking my eyeballs from side to side so it looked like I was communing with spirits. It hurt. Susan. Karen. Sandra. Kathleen. “Maybe an ‘S’, a ‘K’...”
Now he looked interested. He leaned forward toward me. His arms were a wall on the table between us, but his ankles turned out. The barricade was breaking.
“Those were her initials.” Mr. Partridge touched the bump under his shirt where that wedding ring had been lying. He stared at me. I’d hooked him. Now I had to reel him in.
“Those were your wife’s initials.” I took a leap of faith and said it as a statement, not as a question.
“S.K.” His face went wistful.
“Not S.P?” If she hadn’t changed her maiden name back then, this woman must have been something.
“Sandra Keene.”
Dingdingding, we had a Sandra. I deserved a prize. I fought not to let any recognition or surprise show on my face. I couldn’t let Mr. Partridge see that I recognized her name. Roman had drilled that name into my head along with all the other victims. I knew Sandra Keene had died of a heart attack on the fourteenth floor in 1993. I knew that, according to Roman, she was a potential victim.
“She kept her maiden name,” Mr. Partridge continued. He curled his lip — this had clearly been a point of contention in their marriage.
The first thing any cold reader had to learn was that people always wanted to talk about themselves. They loved it. All I ever had to do was steer the conversation in the right direction, and my mark did the rest. It was easy.
“I’m feeling something here,” I said. I gestured to my chest. I knew for a fact what had killed her, but Mr. Partridge didn’t know that I knew. I could milk this. “A heart attack, maybe?”
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