IN ROOM 33

by EC Sheedy

  Gordy frowned. "I don't know."

  "Does he look like that?" Christian nodded to a sepia-toned photograph in a gleaming silver frame. It sat on a table near the French doors leading to the penthouse rooftop patio. Gordy went to the table and picked it up. Seeing it in his hands made Christian's nerves jump. He wanted to shout, put it down, put it down! But he wanted the lad to look at it even more. He'd tried to stifle it, but the longer Wade Emerson stayed in the hotel, the more his curiosity grew.

  "He does. Kind of. Except not so weird." He returned the photograph to the table.

  "Farther back." Christian said. "Put it nearer the window. Right where it was."

  Gordy did as he was told and came back to stand in front of Christian. He didn't ask who the man in the photo was, but Christian told him anyway. "That's a very old picture. It's Wade's grandfather, Joseph Emerson. We used to be business partners. But that was a long time ago."

  Gordy looked around the room, rubbed behind his ear. "Can I go now, Mr. Rupert? My Mom's waitin'."

  "If there's nothing else you can think to tell me, you can go. But come back this afternoon at five. All right?"

  "Yes, sir." The boy didn't waste time, headed straight for the door.

  "No earlier. No later," Christian reminded him, as he always did.

  "Yes, sir," he said again and slammed the door behind him.

  Christian was disappointed. With Stephen Emerson dead, changes were coming to the Philip. The quake and quiver of them rose from below, inevitable and threatening. His source said not to worry, but worry was what he did best. Worry and plan. He hadn't expected much from the man-child, of course. But he'd hoped to draw him out, tap into any information he might have overheard. Information that might prove useful as the days progressed.

  Somewhat agitated, he glanced out the window and settled his gaze on the large, tree-filled planters on his rooftop terrace. They needed cutting back, watering. It was time to call Mike in for some work. Mike would talk, answer his questions—not like Sinnie, who came and went from his home like a ghost.

  Yes. Mike would know what was going on. And if he didn't, he'd find out. Christian would see to that.

  Silly old fool, he said to himself, settling deeper into his chair, trying to learn something from Gordy, a man whose brain was still in short britches. What would he know about the Hotel Philip... or Christian's abiding feelings for Joseph Emerson? And why would the boy in him care? He let his head rest against his chair back and closed his deep-set eyes.

  So long ago. Why would anyone care?

  Except him. Christian cared. And Christian remembered.

  All of it... the stir of desire, the fire of ambition, the searing heat of passion—and the trust invested so deeply, so naively, in youthful dreams.

  All of it... destroyed, ground under the heel of a heartless, uncaring man.

  Hatred, like love, had a long shelf life.

  And hatred was his friend. It kept Christian alive. It kept him sane—or his version of it.

  And it kept him amused.

  * * *

  Joy stood outside the Hotel Philip and looked up. The morning was gray, the hotel grayer. Not the color, that was buff brick, soiled, tired, and showing every decade of its neglect. No, the grayness was in the Phil's attitude, that of a distinguished old gentlemen, once proud and natty, now self-conscious in torn pants and scuffed shoes.

  The city's pigeons had accented the Phil's decline with their personal brand of scorn, leaving guano to lie like dirty snow over the arched windows on either side of the broad, once-grand entrance. One of the windows was half boarded up and a graffiti artist had been hard at work on the free wooden canvas, drawing ZOOM ZOOM ZOOM and trailing it with wild, wavelike curls in greens and reds. A neon sign was fitted, like a misplaced suture, into the alcove above the door. Buzzing and blinking in a phosphorous blue, it proclaimed Hotel Ph—ip to anyone interested in an introduction. Joy guessed not many were.

  Nothing about the Hotel Philip ZOOMed.

  It was much—much!—worse than she remembered.

  And it was all hers, a woman who owned only what she could carry and rented the rest and who hadn't spent more than six months in any one place in too many years to count. She shook her head. Stephen Emerson had one wicked sense of humor.

  She scanned the hotel front again and swallowed. What a waste. Neglect, a thousand sins of omission, and this was the forlorn result. No doubt the Hotel Philip might have been a charmer in its day, but its day was past.

  She glanced up and down the littered street, a mélange of pawn shops, Eastern-style eateries, vacant stores, and, strangely, a bright new coffee shop. It looked like a freshly capped tooth in a mouthful of cavities. She knew from her cab ride here that better times were encroaching on this forsaken street. A block away a major revitalization plan was in the works, and a new hotel was rumored to be on the boards two blocks to the east with shops to follow. But, except for the coffee shop, nothing like that was in evidence here.

  The cabbie called it the street Seattle forgot. She tended to agree.

  A light rain started to fall, so she climbed the three steps to the entrance, sought what shelter she could under the buzzing blue sign to wait for David Grange. Joy didn't trust him, not that it mattered, because she didn't intend the "taking care of Lana" scenario to include a useless vetting of her current lover.

  But for her mother's sake—and her own—she hoped David Grange was a prince among men. It would make her own getaway easier. On that thought, a yellow cab pulled up to the curb and disgorged said lover onto the sidewalk. He smiled up at her.

  He was definitely pretty, she decided, watching him take the stairs to join her, his wide, white smile locked in place with a politician's ease. He had a dimple and probably, under his conservative blue business suit, a rather worthwhile, gym-hardened body. Not unappealing.

  "Sorry I'm late. A meeting ran too long." He opened the hotel door. "Shall we?" He followed her in.

  Cavernous was her first impression. Ammonia was her first scent. The place smelled like a hospital after a bacteria war. Not the stew of odors she remembered or expected.

  "This is new." David looked around, eyebrows raised.

  "What?"

  He waved a hand. "The place is clean. The last time I was here, maybe a month ago, the lobby still had dirt from the sixties." He walked to the front desk, ran a hand along it, then lifted it. "Somebody's been busy. Maybe they finally replaced the caretaker."

  Joy barely heard him. She spun slowly, raptly, in place. Time and its ravages hadn't been kind to the stately lobby, but even in its beaten, battered state it retained an old-world elegance. She didn't remember that. Today she soaked it in, marveled at it: the front desk's thick, carved walnut top—now time-blackened—sitting atop a facade of pink marble; the floors, stained and pockmarked by the passing years, showing proud traces of their once-pearly-white marble surface; the ceilings, bruised to yellow by a million cigarettes, soaring high and arched, looking down in dismay.

  When she was here last, she was twelve, had felt nothing but idle curiosity; today she felt sadness.

  It may be clean. It may smell good. But it was still a mess. So depressing to see how a building once grand and handsome could fall so low.

  David pointed to an elevator at the far end of the lobby. "We might as well start at the top and work our way down." He tilted his head. "Unless, of course, you've seen enough already."

  "No. I'd like to see it all." Threat of a wrecking crew arriving imminently couldn't drag her out of here. "Every floor."

  "This way, then."

  In the elevator, David pushed the large black button that said 6, the last in the series. As the elevator cage clattered and jerked its way to the sixth floor, Joy said, "I thought there were seven floors."

  "There are. But the seventh is the penthouse. You have to get off at six and walk up. It's not legally a part of the hotel. Held in perpetuity by a man named Christian Rupert. He'll be there un
til they take him out in a pine box—"

  "You're a lawyer."

  "Gave myself away, did I?"

  " 'Perpetuity' will do it every time."

  He laughed.

  "What will happen to him if I agree to sell you the hotel?"

  "If ", he repeated. "That slum-landlord thing starting to appeal to you?" He smiled down at her. One of those megawatt smiles artfully executed to melt female hearts at one hundred paces.

  "Not likely." She gave the barest shrug. "Just curious."

  "Rupert will have to go." His expression darkened.

  "Can you do that? What about the 'perpetuity' thing?"

  "Look." He faced her, his expression sober. "We should get things straight. There's two ways this hotel can go. Spend a few million to renovate and bring it up to code which might provide a minimal return at best—or sell and bring in the wrecking ball. The clock is ticking either way. Stephen received a court order over two years ago to make basic safety improvements, mainly electrical and structural. He ignored it. Didn't want to be bothered, I guess. That order will shift to the new owner. You. If you don't comply, the city will step in and comply for you—which will cost a fortune.

  "Believe me, Joy, the smart thing to do is take my offer and get out now—before the city gets even more cranky." He stopped and his mouth firmed. "As for the old man upstairs, he should have been in a home years ago. Now, he'll be forced to it. Unfortunate, but that's the way it is."

  Joy loathed the idea of shoving a helpless senior into a home he didn't want, but the idea didn't seem to bother David. "How does he feel about that?"

  "No idea. I've never met the man. I'll deal with him when I have to."

  Joy didn't comment, but neither did she miss his presumption. In his mind the Hotel Philip was already his.

  He went on. "The thing you need to understand is that unless you have a few million stashed away you're willing to risk on engineers, architects, and a building crew, the only way you can give your mother the cash she needs is to sell to me. It keeps coming back to economic realities—the real value in the Philip is in the land."

  "So you keep telling me, but I do have the hundred thousand."

  "When it comes to the Hotel Philip? A drop in a very empty bucket."

  "I see," she said, not sure she saw anything other than a man determined to get his hands on her—and her mother's—property. And while it bothered her, after what she'd seen so far, he might be right. The place was a wreck. Selling was the smart way out. All she had to do was get someone to confirm that Grange's offer was fair, take it—and walk away.

  "I hope you're not too disappointed, that you weren't hoping for more," he said.

  She didn't have time to answer because just then the elevator jerked to a clanging halt—at the third floor. David pushed button 6 again, and again, to no avail. It didn't work, nor did any of the other numbers. The elevator refused to move, and the grated accordion door, easily seen through, was not so easily opened. After several more futile tries, David yelled into the empty hall. "Anyone there?"

  Nothing but a faint, bouncing echo.

  David rattled the cage bars, swore under his breath.

  Joy studied the brass roof of the ancient elevator, envisioned frayed hoist cables anchored by rusty bolts. Her stomach kicked. They were only three floors up, but the ceilings were very high. It was a long way down.

  David rattled harder. Called out again.

  With an abruptness that shocked them both, a man carrying a bucket and a mop stepped in front of them. He must have come from the stairs beside the elevator.

  "Thank God," David said and loosened his grip on the cage struts. "Get us out of here, would you?"

  Joy, from where she stood behind David, saw the man reach into the cage and lift a narrow bar, then pull the accordion-style door open. The elevator hadn't aligned with the floor properly, so David chose common sense over courtesy and stepped out of the elevator before her, then offered his hand to help her with the step up.

  He glared at the man with the mop. "If you're responsible for maintenance around here, you should have that thing"—he gestured back at the elevator—"seen to immediately."

  The man, looking amused, slid his gaze from David to Joy. When it settled on her, the amusement vanished and every line in his face drew to hostile.

  Joy stared at him, couldn't believe her eyes. "Wade. Wade Emerson?"

  He said nothing, and if possible, his gaze grew even colder; he visibly straightened.

  When he turned as if to walk away, she touched his arm. "It's Joy Cole. Do you remember me?"

  He cocked his head, and a look of confusion displaced the hostility. "Little Joy?"

  "Not so little anymore." She looked at him, his damp-kneed denims, ratty, sleeveless shirt—the dark green eyes, studying her as thoroughly as hers studied him. Past him, down the empty hall, she noticed the still-wet floor. None of it made sense. "You work here?" she finally mumbled, unaccountably reddening.

  "Live here, for now at least."

  Wade Emerson living in this rundown heap? Baffled, she had no idea where to take the conversation from here. "Oh, I see."

  He gave her a half smile, without a trace of embarrassment. "I doubt it."

  Then, thank God, David piped up. "You're Stephen's son?"

  Wade's attention, until now fixed on Joy, shifted to David. She knew he'd taken in the salon haircut, expensive suit, high-gloss wingtips, and made some uniquely man-on-man judgment, although he gave no hint of it. "The one and only," he said, his tone even. "And you?"

  David thrust out his hand. "David Grange. Friend of the family." He looked at Joy as if for confirmation.

  Joy didn't see it that way but let it go. The two men shook hands.

  "Been here long, Emerson?" David asked.

  "The name's Wade. And I've been here a time."

  The two men locked gazes, and while Wade's eyes were unreadable, David's were openly speculative. "Sorry about your father," he said. "Good man. Unfortunate you couldn't make the funeral."

  "Yeah." Wade picked up his mop and pail, his gaze again settling on Joy. He didn't seem to like what he saw. "I'll be on my way. Watch the floors, they're slippery in spots."

  Joy, still so stunned to find him here—like he was—watched him go without a word. He opened a door a few feet down the hall and walked in, leaving the hall empty, except for patches of dampness on the floor and the faint scent of pine.

  "The higher they fly..." David shook his head, his expression openly amazed.

  "I don't understand."

  "I just mean that Wade was up there, way up there. A financial genius, Stephen called him. Apparently he made a serious name for himself in the mergers and acquisitions field."

  "They kept in touch, then? Stephen and Wade?" This surprised Joy, who'd thought the rift between them complete and permanent.

  "No. Stephen tracked him when he could, through the financial pages, old friends, that sort of thing. But he made no effort to reconcile, nor did Wade. Not sure what happened between them, but it was obviously damn bad." David frowned, a flash of concern in his eyes. Then irritation. "I had no idea he was here."

  "Did you know him ... from before?"

  "No." He stared down the hall, his expression reflective. "Strange," he said. "And sad, of course."

  "Sad?" Joy echoed, intrigued. "Why sad?"

  "Stephen's heart started to fail the day they sent Wade Emerson to prison."

  Chapter 4

  Wade walked to his window, opened it, and did deep breathing.

  Life really had a way of broadsiding a guy. For a minute there, he'd have sworn the woman was Lana Cole. Talk about like mother, like daughter. He'd never seen such a resemblance.

  He took another full breath and went to pour himself half a cup of leftover coffee. He took a drink and immediately threw the rest of it in the sink. Tasted like liquid soot. He rubbed his temples, eased himself into a chair stationed by his Formica-topped table.

 
; Joy Cole. He'd met her a couple of times before his final blowout with Stephen and her mother. The last time was right here, in the Hotel Philip. She was twelve or so then, which would make her around thirty now—and a real stunner. Just like her mother.

  If she was lucky, the resemblance stopped at the physical.

  But what the hell was she doing here? Checking out Mommy's inheritance to see what kind of good fortune had befallen the Cole women? If so, she must be one disappointed lady. He smiled grimly. The guy with her had the cut of a lawyer—shiny shoes, firm handshake, calculator eyes. The executor, maybe, showing her around. Maybe Mommy wanted her opinion on what to do with the hotel.

  Tear it down, most likely.

  He ignored the pain in his gut and looked at the ceiling. "Well, Joe, it looks like the day of the dame. Not too sure how you'd feel about that." He took his tool belt off, emptied the bucket of water into his sink. Nothing to do now but lay low. Let the lawyer show the lady around—and stay as far away from her as possible.

  A half-hour later, he heard Sinnie hissing against his door. "Wade? You in there?"

  He didn't feel like Sinnie right now, but he knew there'd be no avoiding her. "I'm here."

  She marched in, not bothering to close the door.

  "Ever see the like?" she asked without preamble, looking wasp-mean. "More damn crust than a bread roll."

  "You've met our guests," he said. "I just poured myself an orange juice. Want some?" He took a deep drink, felt the cold orange rip down his arid throat.

  "I don't want any juice. I want you to do something." Her voice rose.

  "And that would be?"

  "Get that woman out of here. Get them all out of here. This place is yours by right, Wade Emerson. It was in your grandpa's blood, and it's in yours."

  Wade held his words in for a second. "Sinnie, I'll say it again, one more time and slowly. This place does not belong to me. I have no claim on it. Whether you like it or not, the Phil belongs to Lana Cole."

  "Actually, it doesn't. It belongs to me." The voice was low, the words bell clear.

  Joy Cole leaned against his open door, her head tilted to one side, her gaze arcing between him and Sinnie.