by Julie James
He looked over his shoulder at his partner and shook his head. Nothing. He stepped farther in and gestured for the second guy to follow. Both men disappeared into the room, out of Cameron’s view, and the door slammed shut behind them.
There was a momentary pause, then Cameron heard one of the security men cry out through the adjoining wall.
“Holy shit!”
Her stomach dropped. She knew then that whatever had happened in 1308, it wasn’t good. Uncertain what she should do, she pressed her ear to the wall and listened.
“Try CPR while I call 9-1-1!” one of the men shouted.
Cameron flew off the bed—she knew CPR—and raced to the door. She threw it open just as the shorter security guy was running out of 1308.
Seeing her, he held up his hand, indicating she should stop right where she was. “Ma’am—please get back in your room.”
“But I heard—I thought I could help, I—”
“We’ve got it covered, ma’am. Now please step back into your room.” He rushed off.
Per the security’s guard order, Cameron remained in her doorway. She looked around and saw that other people in the nearby rooms had heard the commotion and were peering into the hallway with mixed expressions of trepidation and curiosity.
After what seemed like forever but what was probably only minutes, the shorter guy returned leading a pair of paramedics pulling a gurney.
As the trio raced past Cameron, she overheard the security guard explaining the situation. “We found her lying there on the bed . . . She was nonresponsive so we began CPR but it doesn’t look good . . .”
By this time, additional staff had arrived on the scene, and a woman in a gray suit identified herself as the hotel manager and asked everyone to remain in their rooms. Cameron overheard her tell the other members of the staff to keep the hallway and elevator bank clear. The thirteenth floor guests spoke amongst themselves in low murmurs, and Cameron caught snippets of conversations as a guest from one room would ask another if he or she knew what was happening.
A hush fell over the crowd when the paramedics reappeared in the doorway of room 1308. They moved quickly, pulling the gurney out into the hall.
This time, there was a person on that gurney.
As they hurried past Cameron, she caught a glimpse of the person—a quick glimpse, but enough to see that it was a woman, and also enough to see that she had long red hair that fanned out in stark contrast to the white of both the sheet on the gurney and the hotel bathrobe she wore. And, she saw enough to see that the woman wasn’t moving.
While one of the paramedics pushed the gurney, the other ran alongside it, pumping oxygen through a handheld mask that covered the woman’s face. The two security guards raced ahead of the paramedics, making sure the hallway was clear. Cameron—and apparently several of the other hotel guests as well—overheard the shorter guard saying something to the other about the police being on their way.
At the mention of the police, a minor commotion broke out. The hotel guests demanded to know what was happening.
The manager spoke above the fray. “I certainly understand that all of you have concerns, and I offer you our sincerest apologies for the disturbance.” She addressed them in a calm, genteel tone that was remarkably similar to that of the man from Guest Services who Cameron had spoken on the phone with earlier. She wondered if they all talked that way to each other when no customers were around, or if they dropped the charm routine and that vague, quasi-European-even-though-I’m-from-Wisconsin accent the minute they hit the lunchroom.
“Unfortunately, at this point I can tell you only that the situation, obviously, is very serious and may be criminal in nature,” the manager continued. “We will be turning this matter over to the police, and we ask that everyone remain in their rooms until they arrive and assess the situation. It’s likely the police will want to speak with some of you.”
The manager’s gaze fell directly upon Cameron. As the crowd fell back into their murmurs and whispers, she walked over. “Ms. Lynde, is it?”
Cameron nodded. “Yes.”
The manager gestured to the door. “Would you mind if I escorted you back into your room, Ms. Lynde?” This was Polite-Peninsula-Hotel-speak for “You might as well get comfortable because your eavesdropping ass isn’t going anywhere.”
“Of course,” Cameron said, still somewhat shell-shocked by the events that had transpired over the last few minutes. As an assistant U.S. attorney, she’d had plenty of exposure to the criminal element, but this was different. This was not some case she was reviewing through the objective eyes of a prosecutor; there were no evidence files neatly prepared by the FBI or crime scene photos taken after the fact. She had actually heard the crime this time; she had seen the victim firsthand and—thinking back to the man in the blazer and hooded T-shirt—very possibly the person who had harmed her as well.
The thought sent chills running down her spine.
Or, Cameron supposed, maybe the chill had something to do with the fact that she was still standing in the air-conditioned hallway wearing nothing but her T-shirt and underwear.
Classy.
With as much dignity as one could muster while braless and without any pants, Cameron tugged her T-shirt down an extra half-inch and followed the hotel manager into her room.
Two
SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT.
Cameron had been trapped inside her hotel room for nearly two hours while the Chicago Police Department supposedly conducted their investigation. She knew enough about crime scenes and witness questioning to know that this was not standard protocol.
For starters, nobody was telling her anything. The police had arrived shortly after the hotel manager escorted her back into her room. A middle-aged, slightly balding and extremely cranky Detective Slonsky introduced himself to Cameron and took a seat in the armchair in the corner of the hotel room and began to take her statement about what she had heard that night. Although she had at least been given two seconds of privacy to throw on yoga pants and a bra, she still found it awkward to be questioned by the police while sitting on a hastily made hotel bed.
The first thing Detective Slonsky noticed was the half-empty glass of wine that she had ordered from room service still sitting on the desk where she’d left it hours before. That, of course, had prompted several preliminary questions regarding her alcohol consumption over the course of the evening. After she seemingly managed to convince Slonsky that, no, she was not a raging alcoholic and, yes, her statement at least had a modicum of reliability, they moved past the booze issue and she commented on the fact that Slonsky had introduced himself as “Detective” instead of “Officer.” She asked if that meant he was part of the homicide division. If for no other reason, she wanted to know what had happened to the girl in room 1308.
Slonsky’s sole response was a level stare and a curt, “I’m the one asking the questions here, Ms. Lynde.”
Cameron had just finished giving her statement when another plain-clothes detective stuck his head into the room. “Slonsky—you better get in here.” He nodded in the direction of the room next door.
Slonsky stood and gave Cameron yet another level stare. She wondered if he practiced the look in his bathroom mirror.
“I’d appreciate it if you would remain in this room until I get back,” he told her.
Cameron smiled. “Of course, Detective.” She was debating whether to pull rank in order to start getting some answers, but she wasn’t quite at that point. Yet. She’d been around cops and agents all her life and had a lot of respect for what they did. But the smile was to let Slonsky know that he wasn’t getting to her. “I’m happy to cooperate in any way I can.”
Slonsky eyed her suspiciously, probably trying to decide whether he heard a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She got that look a lot.
“Just stay in your room,” he said as he made his exit.
The next time Cameron saw Detective Slonsky was a half hour later, when he dropped by he
r room to let her know that, due to certain “unexpected developments,” she would not only have to remain in her room longer than anticipated, but that he was posting a guard at her door. He added that “it had been requested” that she not make any calls from either her cell phone or the hotel line until “they” had finished questioning her.
For the first time, Cameron wondered whether she personally was in trouble. “Am I considered a suspect in this investigation?” she asked Slonsky.
“I didn’t say that.”
She noticed that wasn’t officially a “no.”
As Slonsky turned to leave, she threw another question at him. “Who are ‘they’?”
He peered over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“You said I can’t make any calls until ‘they’ finish questioning me,” Cameron said. “Who were you referring to?”
The detective’s expression said that he had no intention of answering that question. “We appreciate your continued cooperation, Ms. Lynde. That’s all I can say for now.”
A few minutes after Slonsky left, Cameron looked out her peephole and—sure enough—was treated to the view of the back of some man’s head, presumably the guard he had stationed outside her door. She left the door and went back to sitting on the bed. Cameron glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly 7:00 A.M. She turned on the television—Slonsky hadn’t said anything about not watching TV, after all—and hoped that maybe she would see something about whatever was happening on the news.
She was still pushing buttons on the remote, trying to figure out how to get past that damn hotel “Welcome” screen, when the door to her room flew open once more.
Slonsky stuck his head in. “Sorry—no television either.”
He shut the door.
“Stupid thin walls,” Cameron muttered under her breath. Not that anyone was listening. Then again . . .
“Can I at least read a book, Detective Slonsky?” she asked the empty room.
A pause.
Then a voice came through the door, from the hallway.
“Sure.”
And indeed the walls were so thin, Cameron could actually hear the faint trace of a smile in his answer.
“THIS IS GETTING ridiculous. I have rights, you know.”
Cameron faced off against the cop guarding the door to her hotel room, determined to get some answers.
The young police officer nodded sympathetically. “I know, ma’am, and I do apologize, but I’m just following orders.”
Maybe it was her frustration at being cooped up in her hotel room for what was now going on five—yes, five—hours, but Cameron was going to strangle the kid if he ma’am-ed her one more time. She was thirty-two years old, not sixty. Although she’d probably given up the right to be called “Miss” somewhere around the time she had started thinking of twenty-two-year-old man-boy police officers as kids.
Deciding that throttling a cop was probably not the best way to go when presumably dozens more stood right outside her door (she couldn’t say for sure; she hadn’t been permitted to even look out into the hallway, let alone step a toe out there), Cameron tried another tactic. The man-boy clearly responded to authority, maybe she could use that to her advantage.
“Look, I probably should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m an assistant U.S. attorney. I work out of the Chicago office—”
“If you live in Chicago, what are you doing spending the night in a hotel?” Officer Man-Boy interrupted.
“I’m redoing my hardwood floors. The point is—”
“Really?” He seemed very interested in this. “Because I’ve been trying to find somebody to update my bathroom. The people who owned the place before me put in this crazy black and white marble and gold fixtures and the place looks like something out of the Playboy Mansion. Mind if I ask how you found a contractor to take on a job that small?”
Cameron cocked her head. “Are you trying to sidetrack me with these questions, or do you just have some weird fascination with home improvement?”
“Possibly the former. I was under the distinct impression that you were about to become difficult.”
Cameron had to hide her smile. Officer Man-Boy may not have been as green as she’d thought.
“Here’s the thing,” she told him, “you can’t keep me here against my will, especially since I’ve already given my statement to Detective Slonsky. You know that, and more important, I know that. There’s clearly something unusual going on with this investigation, and while I’m willing to cooperate and give you guys a little leeway as a professional courtesy, I’m going to need some answers if you expect me to keep waiting here. And if you’re not the person who can give me those answers, that’s fine, but then I’d like it if you could go get Slonsky or whoever it is that I should be talking to.”
Officer Man-Boy was not unsympathetic. “Look—I know you’ve been stuck in this room for a long time, but the FBI guys said that they’re gonna talk to you as soon as they finish next door.”
“So it’s the FBI who’s running this, then?”
“I probably wasn’t supposed to say that.”
“Why do they have jurisdiction?” Cameron pressed. “This is a homicide case, right?”
Officer Man-Boy didn’t fall for the bait a second time. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lynde, but my hands are tied. The agent in charge of the investigation specifically said I’m not allowed to talk to you about this.”
“Then I think I should speak to the agent in charge. Who is it?” As a prosecutor for the Northern District of Illinois, she had worked with many of the FBI agents in Chicago.
“Some special agent—I didn’t catch his name,” Officer Man-Boy said. “Although I think he might know you. When he told me to guard this room, he said he felt bad for sticking me with you for this long.”
Cameron tried not to show any reaction, but that stung. True, she wasn’t exactly buddy-buddy with a lot of the FBI agents she worked with—many of them still blamed her for that incident three years ago—but with the exception of one particular agent who, fortunately, was miles away in Nevada or Nebraska or something, she hadn’t thought that anyone in the FBI disliked her enough to openly bad-mouth her.
Officer Man-Boy looked apologetic. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re so bad.”
“Thanks. And did this unknown special agent who allegedly thinks he knows me have anything else to say?”
“Only that I should go get him if you start acting fussy.” He looked her over. “You’re going to start acting fussy now, aren’t you?”
Cameron folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, I think I am.” And it wouldn’t be an act. “You go find this agent, whoever he is, and tell him that the fussy woman in room 1307 is through being jerked around. And tell him that I would appreciate it very much if he could wrap up his little power trip and condescend to speak to me himself. Because I would like to know how long he expects me to sit here and wait.”
“For as long as I ask you to, Ms. Lynde.”
The voice came from the doorway.
Cameron had her back to the door, but she would’ve recognized that voice anywhere—low and as smooth as velvet.
It couldn’t be.
She turned around and took in the man standing across the room from her. He looked exactly the same as he did the last time she’d seen him three years ago: tall, dark, and scowling.
She didn’t bother to mask the animosity in her voice. “Agent Pallas . . . I didn’t realize you were back in town. How was Nevada?”
“Nebraska.”
From his icy look, Cameron knew that her day, which had already been off to a most inauspicious start, had just gotten about fifty times worse.
Three
CAMERON WATCHED WARILY as Jack, aka FBI Special Agent Pallas, looked over at Officer Man-Boy.
“Thank you, Officer, I can take it from here,” he said.
The police officer made a hasty retreat, leaving her alone in the hotel room with Jack. His gaze was
stone cold.
“This is quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself involved in.”
Cameron straightened up. Three years had passed, and he still managed to put her immediately on the defensive. “I wouldn’t know. Thanks to you, I have no clue what I’m involved in.” She paused, hating being out of the loop on whatever was going on. “What happened to the woman next door?”
“She’s dead.”
Cameron nodded. The presence of CPD detectives had pretty much given that away, but the confirmation of the woman’s death shocked her nevertheless. She suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to get out of that hotel room. But she forced herself not to show any reaction in front of Jack.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said simply.
He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “Why don’t you take a seat? I need to ask you some questions.”
“Do you intend to interrogate me, Agent Pallas?”
“Do you intend to be uncooperative, Ms. Lynde?”
She laughed hollowly. “Why? Are you going to get rough with me?”
His eyes remained steely and dark. Cameron swallowed and made a mental note to be careful when taunting a man who carried a gun and blamed her for nearly wrecking his career.
She remembered the day three years ago when they’d first met to discuss the Martino case. She’d never worked with Jack before; at that point she’d only been a prosecutor for a year and he had been working undercover that entire time. She had been surprised—but eagerly so—when her boss assigned her the Martino investigation, one of the most high-profile cases in the district. Rob Martin (aka Roberto Martino) was widely known by both the Bureau and the U.S. attorney’s office to be the head of one of the largest crime syndicates in Chicago. The problem had always been getting enough evidence to prove this.
Which is precisely where Special Agent Jack Pallas came in. Prior to their meeting, Cameron learned from her boss that Jack had worked undercover for two years to infiltrate Martino’s organization, until the FBI had been forced to pull him out when his cover was blown. Her boss had not told her much about the extraction other than that Jack had been cornered in a warehouse by ten of Martino’s men, had fought his way out, and had been shot in the process. She’d learned one other thing—by the time FBI backup arrived, Jack had already managed to kill eight of Martino’s men.