Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO DIED TWICE
3
At six the next morning, Clara stood beside the ninth-floor elevator with Lupita.
Rebecca had arrived from New York on the first available flight and was on her way from O’Hare.
Lily remained upstairs with Helen Shaw, Clara’s longtime executive assistant, who had driven in from the suburbs after receiving a 2 a.m. call.
Clara trusted Helen completely.
That list had suddenly become very short.
The ninth floor was silent.
Suite 904 stood at one end.
Room 916 at the other.
Between 916 and 918 was a decorative wall covered with framed photographs of old Chicago.
Lupita pointed toward one frame.
“Behind that.”
Clara removed the picture.
A narrow access panel appeared.
She inserted Daniel’s old card.
Green light.
The wall clicked.
Behind it was a service corridor no guest was supposed to know existed.
The air smelled dusty and cold.
They entered.
Fifteen feet down was a steel door.
No number.
Lupita whispered, “917.”
Clara tried the brass key from the envelope.
It fit.
The room beyond did not resemble a guest suite.
There was no bed.
No television.
No windows.
Only shelves.
Cabinets.
Computer equipment.
And hundreds of paper files.
Clara stepped inside slowly.
“What is this?”
Lupita shook her head.
“I never saw inside before.”
On one wall were photographs of guests.
Politicians.
Business executives.
Professional athletes.
Judges.
Celebrities.
Some photographs appeared to have been taken inside hotel rooms.
Others showed people entering elevators, meeting visitors or exchanging envelopes.
Clara felt sick.
“This is surveillance.”
Lupita opened a cabinet.
Inside were dozens of external hard drives labeled with dates and room numbers.
“Not hotel security surveillance.”
Clara understood immediately.
This was private.
Hidden.
Illegal.
Someone had created an archive.
A blackmail archive.
Clara opened another drawer.
Personnel files.
Copies of passports.
Immigration documents.
Driver’s licenses.
Banking information.
Employee family addresses.
Beside several names were handwritten notes.
OWES 4,200.
SISTER UNDOCUMENTED.
SON ON PROBATION.
HUSBAND GAMBLING.
Clara’s anger deepened.
“They weren’t only watching guests.”
Lupita whispered, “They were controlling employees.”
Then Clara found Sofia Alvarez.
A red folder.
Inside was Sofia’s employee photograph.
Twenty-eight years old.
Bright smile.
Long dark hair.
Accounting department.
Stamped across the file:
TERMINATED.
A second stamp appeared beneath it.
RESOLVED.
Clara opened the folder.
There were photographs of Sofia leaving the hotel.
A copy of her apartment lease.
A photograph of Lupita buying groceries.
Another of Lupita attending church.
“They watched me,” Lupita whispered.
Clara turned another page.
Then stopped.
A photograph showed Daniel Vance.
He was thinner than Clara remembered, already weakened by cancer.
He was entering the Grand Regent lobby.
Timestamp:
Three years and forty-two days earlier.
Lupita covered her mouth.
Clara turned another page.
Daniel speaking with Sofia.
Clara froze.
“That’s impossible.”
Lupita stared.
“Sofia disappeared four years ago.”
Yet the photograph had been taken nearly one year afterward.
Sofia was alive.
At least then.
Clara rapidly searched the folder.
There were more images.
Daniel and Sofia entering an employee stairwell.
Daniel meeting a security guard Clara did not recognize.
Daniel standing outside 917.
Then one final photograph.
Daniel looking directly into the hidden camera.
On the back he had written something.
Clara turned it over.
IF CLARA FINDS THIS, THE WRONG PEOPLE ARE STILL RUNNING THE HOTEL.
Her knees nearly weakened.
Daniel had known he was being photographed.
He had deliberately left the message.
Lupita whispered, “Your husband was trying to protect us.”
A voice came from the doorway.
“Yes.”
Both women spun around.
Patrick stood there.
The receptionist from the previous night.
He was shaking.
Clara stepped between him and Lupita.
“How did you get in?”
Patrick raised both hands.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then start explaining.”
Patrick looked down the corridor.
“We shouldn’t stay here.”
Clara didn’t move.
“You have ten seconds.”
Patrick swallowed.
“My brother worked security here.”
“Name?”
“Evan Crowley.”
Clara searched her memory.
Nothing.
“He disappeared five years ago.”
“Like Sofia?”
Patrick nodded.
“Martin told everyone Evan had stolen guest jewelry.”
Lupita whispered, “I remember him.”
Patrick’s eyes filled.
“He didn’t steal anything.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he mailed me this.”
Patrick removed a flash drive from inside his jacket.
“He sent it the night before he disappeared.”
“Why didn’t you go to police?”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“The detective assigned to the case told me there was nothing on it.”
Clara looked at the drive.
“And you believed him?”
“At first.”
Patrick’s expression turned bitter.
“Then that same detective retired eighteen months later and bought a lake house.”
Clara’s pulse quickened.
Patrick continued.
“I joined the hotel because I wanted to understand what Evan had found.”
“You worked here for five years pretending not to know?”
“Yes.”
“And last night?”
Patrick looked ashamed.
“I treated you like garbage because Martin was watching.”
Clara stared at him.
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
“I know.”
“You humiliated a tired mother in front of her daughter.”
“I know.”
“You would have done the same thing if I weren’t the owner.”
Patrick’s silence answered the question.
Clara stepped closer.
“Fear explains cruelty. It doesn’t erase responsibility.”
Patrick nodded.
“You’re right.”
He handed her the drive anyway.
“But if you want to know why your husband came here, look at folder D-17.”
A noise echoed down the service corridor.
Elevator machinery.
Then voices.
Patrick went pale.
“They’re coming.”
“Who?”
“Security.”
Lupita grabbed Clara’s arm.
“We need to leave.”
Patrick shook his head.
“Not through the main hallway.”
He opened a storage cabinet and pressed against the rear panel.
It moved.
Another passage appeared.
Before entering, Clara grabbed Sofia’s red folder and Daniel’s photographs.
Patrick shut the panel behind them.
Footsteps entered 917 seconds later.
A man said, “Someone opened the room.”
Another voice answered.
Martin Hale.
“Find out who.”
Clara held her breath.
Then Martin said something that changed everything.
“And call Roland. Tell him Clara found Daniel’s archive.”
Clara’s blood turned cold.
Roland Mercer.
Her company’s chief financial officer.
Her oldest business partner.
May you like
Daniel’s closest friend.
The man Lily called Uncle Roland.
