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show, and who had agreed, in response to Laura's suggestion, to donate to the hospital a percentage of the profit.
Laura stayed in Philadelphia the first week the hotel was open, helping with the myriad small details she could anticipate from openings in Chicago and New York. Clay was away that week, too, talking to manufacturers in the South about a problem with the linens they had been receiving. So it was the manager of the New York Beacon Hill who greeted Leni Salinger when she arrived on a warm Wednesday afternoon and was seated at the antique desk in the small lobby where the concierge arranged her registration for the penthouse suite. "If there is anything I can do, madame," he said, handing her the plastic card that took the place of keys in all Beacon Hill hotels, "please call me. I am always here, or one of my assistants. And one of them will now escort you upstairs."
As Leni turned to go, a dark man with a brilliant smile came to the desk. He turned his concentrated smile and intense look on her, and she knew he was the kind who never missed an attractive woman. She was the one who turned away, pausing to view the lobby.
"Ah, Mr. Serrano," she heard the concierge say. "Here are your messages, and there was a call just a moment ago. Mr. Sam Colby would like to see you this evening. He would like you to call him. His number . . . one moment . . ." He wrote on a piece of paper and held it out.
"Not tonight; impossible. You will please call him for me; tell him sometime next week I will try to . . ."
Leni heard no more as she was led to one of the elevators at the back of the lobby. There were four of them, paneled in the same mahogany that alternated with French tapestries on the walls. Leni remembered that wood: Owen told her once it had been his favorite extravagance when he built the hotel. The tapestries were new—a splendid idea—but Leni saw that Laura had kept all the best things. Approvingly, she saw it again in the upstairs corridors: broad, brightly Ut by antique wall sconces, the fleur-de-lis carpet new but retaining the air of a bygone time, the picture moldings intact and framing large landscapes from the last century.
She foUowed the assistant concierge to the end of the corridor, where he led her into her suite: two rooms in mint green
Judith Michael
and ivory, her favorite colors, with an arrangement of thaleon-opsis orchids, the flowers she loved best, on the French coffee table. Beside the flowers was a tea service, the teapot steaming beneath its cozy, and a silver tray with a porcelain plate of finger sandwiches and petits fours. Propped against the flowers was a handwritten note on a card embossed with an iris. "I hope you enjoy your stay. Laura."
There was a discreet knock at the door. "Your maid, ma-dame," said the assistant concierge as he went to open the door. "If you need other assistance, please call us." He was gone before Leni could tip him. But of course it would not be^ done at this time; she knew that. All of them would expect something when she left, and it would be much larger than the small amounts dribbled out in most hotels.
She stood at the window overiooking Fifty-eighth Street while the maid unpacked her bags, hung her (kesses and blouses in the closet, and put her lingerie and sweaters in the antique bureau. One dress and two blouses she kept out. "I will have these ironed and returned within a few moments, madame," she said and quietly left.
Leni wandered through the rooms, picking up books that would provide her poetry or short stories, even crossword puzzles, if she wished. In an armoire she found a television set, videocassette recorder, and stereo; a compartment in the lower part concealed a refrigerator stocked with food and wine, including her favorite duck and cognac p^. Opening the antique desk, she discovered that one side held a small computer and printer. In each of the two nuui)le bathrooms were men's and women's velour robes monogrammed with the same iris that was on Laura's card, and a polished rosewood box containing shaii^x)os, shaving materials, and a variety of soaps. A booklet on the desk told her she could have a dinner party in her suite or in the private dining room on her floor, prepared by chef Gerard Lyon of the Beacon Hill EHning Room; if a larger diimer party was required, the hotel had made arrangements with several three-star restaurants which would give preference to Beacon Hill guests and their parties; the Be^n Hill stenographers, hairdr^sers, seamstresses, tailors, and maids would come to her suite when called; the newspapers of her choice would be at her door each morning;
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the hotel limousine was available for service to and from the airports, and arrangements could be made to use them at night for dining and the theater . . . The list went on and on, and Leni read it several times.
Where did she learn all this? We couldn*t have taught her because we don't do these things in our own hotels. We do them in our homes, but we've never—And that was the answer. Laura had bought Owen's hotels and made each of tfaem—^Leni assumed they were all the same—into the home s^e remembered.
And it was wonderfully effective. As she stood in the luxurious living room, glimpsing through the doorway the wide bed with its satin comforter, she felt as pampered as she did in her own home, with her own belongings and staff. Leni Salinger, world traveler, had never felt that in any hotel before, not even in the ones that bore her name.
She had allowed herself three days to find out what kind of a hotel Laura ran. As she bathed and changed, using the Henn^ bath oil she found in the rosewood box, she thought she could stay a month, getting away from everything she had to worry about at home, simply being a tourist in Manhattan and a cosseted guest of the Beacon HiU.
1^ ought to have her working for us, she thought.
She was due at a fund-raising meeting in Rockefeller Center at four, and at three-thirty she left her room and rode the elevator to the lobby. She stopped at the concierge's desk to arrange for theater tickets for the evening; she would call one of her friends to join her.
The concierge was answering questions asked by a short, powerfully buUt man with a large head and a deep, aknost gruff voice. Leni waited, glancing around the lobby. She recognized Daniel Inouti, a Hawaiian developer Felix had once tfiought of woiking with, one of San Iiancisco's most successful winery owners, a Colombian billionaire who often stayed at the Boston Salinger, a European king and queen temporarily out of a throne. But why not, she thought with amusement. Who else can afford Laura's prices?
**rm so sorry," the man in front of her said, turning to her and stepping aside. *1 didn't see you."
**I don't object to waitmg," Leni said calmly. 'There's no reason you shouldn't finish your business."
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He smiled. "Hotel business: I only needed information. Please, go ahead."
He was at least three inches shorter than Leni, but his air of authority made him seem taller. His suit was skillfully cut to minimize the disproportion between his short stature and broad shoulders; his gray hair was thick and his nose large, adding to his leonine look. And his smile had worldliness and charm. Leni returned the smile, liking him, wondering what part he played in Laura's hotel that led him to ask the concierge for information. r
But he had stepped aside for her, so she turned and requested the tickets she wanted. "Of course, Madame Salinger," the concierge said, and from the comer of her eye Leni saw the sudden alertness of the man beside her.
"Excuse me," he said. "You're Leni Salinger?"
"YesT'
"Wes Currier." He extended his hand. "I'm glad to see you at the Beacon Hill. I hope you find everything satisfactory."
She put her hand in his. "E)o you have some interest in this hotel?"
"As an investor. I like to ask questions and greet some of the guests when I'm in town." He smiled again. "Fortunately, I'm indulged."
His name was vaguely familiar. Felix would probably recognize it, Leni thought, but she didn't keep up with the money men unless they were on her list to be contacted for fund-raising campaigns. "It's a lovely hotel," she said. "Now I'll leave you to your questions; I'm due at a meeting."
"We
might share a cab," he said. "I have to be downtown in half an hour."
"No, I'm walking. It was pleasant talking to you— **
"Then I'll walk with you. If I may."
Leni met his eyes: serious, interested, determined. A man older than I, she thought with brief humor, what a novelty. "I'd like that," she said, and they left the hotel together.
Currier took her arm as they crossed the street, making their way between cars that were backed up through the intersection. "Are you staying in New Yoric long?"
"I'll be at the hotel for three days," she replied.
He led her around a blanket spread on ihe sidewalk with
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scarves and wallets displayed for sale. "And how long will you be in New York?"
She laughed, liking his quickness. "I live in New York."
"I thought the Salingers lived in Boston."
"I spend most of my time here now."
"But not in hotels."
"No, I have a house on the East Side. And you live here?"
"I have an apartment I rarely see. Why are you staying at the Beacon Hill?"
"I come from a hotel family; I wanted to see what it was like. What better way than to stay there?"
The noise of jackhammers drowned out their voices, and diey waited until they had walked some distance away. "And what is it like?" Currier asked.
"A home. My home, yours, any home built by people who care about beauty and comfort and have excellent taste. I'm very impressed with Laura. I'm told her Chicago hotel is just as fine."
"It is. She's got a special touch."
"And that's why you invested in her corporation? I wondered how she got the money for all that she's done. Have you known her long?"
"A number of us are investors; we all have confidence in her. Do you like living in Manhattan?"
"Yes, but it's not really new for me. I've been staying here for a number of years. Why do you rarely see your apartment?"
"I spend most of my time traveling."
They edged their way through a crowd watching a man play a shell game on a small folding table, keeping up a steady patter as his hands moved three cups in a blur of action; then tbey walked around a hot dog wagon and a young boy with his head back as he ate. "He looks like a sword swallower," Leni laughed. "I imagine the hot dog is considerably more fun."
"And better tasting."
"Do you travel for your woiic or for pleasure?" she asked.
"Work. I'd trade it for pleasure but it hasn't happened yet. It's surprising how difficult it is to arrange events as we'd like, even when we're old enough to identify the options and wealthy enough to buy them."
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Leni stopped. "I like that. It*s what Fve been thinking, but not quite as clearly." She looked up; they were standing before one of the buildings in Rockefeller Center. "This is where my meeting is. I've enjoyed our walk."
"What time will you be finished?" Currier asked.
"Probably about six."
"Will you meet me upstairs, in the Rainbow Room? We'll have a drink and then decide where to go for dinner."
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "At six."
Currier watched her walk into the building, then hailed^a taxi to drive downtown. He was so struck by her that it took him a moment to sort out his feeUngs. He didn't know what he had expected, from the things Laura had told him, but he had not anticipated her air of cool serenity, her soft, measured speech, and, in such striking contrast, the uncertain look in her eyes, as if she were starting something new, something uncharted, and had no idea what to expect firom it or just how she should behave.
/ spend most of my time in New York now.
That could be the uncharted territory: being single. Currier knew he could find out; he had people in Boston who knew all the gossip and would tell him what was happening, but he didn't want to do that. He wanted Leni Salinger to tell him herself.
Staring unseeing out of the taxi window, he remembered her smile and felt the attraction that had drawn him to her even before he knew her name. He warned himself not to act like a teenager, to go slowly and to calculate what he wanted. But he'd been going slowly with women since he and Laura had separated seven months earlier. He'd taken them out and slept with a few of them, but he'd made no effort to know or even like them. He'd gone through similar periods following his divorces, but after his years with Laura, he wanted much more, and he didn't want to wait. He was lonely and bereft, angry that with all his strengths and resources he couldn't have the simplest of relationships—though he knew there was nothing simple about marriage—at a time when he was wealthy and energetic enough to enjoy everything he'd been putting off for later.
So why should he go slowly with Leni Salinger? He was
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attracted to her, and she was to him; he wanted to spend time with her and know all about her; he wanted to sleep with her. And she had that uncertainty in her eyes that told him she was as ripe for a new man as he was for a woman, as ready to start again, as willing to take risks once again. It didn't even matter what her status was with Felix. If they were still married, it didn't seem to be much of a marriage, and Currier had never let loose ends bother him; they could always be tied up quickly and efficiently when someone wanted it badly enough.
The taxi passed Bleecker Street, and he thought of Laura, whose house on Grove Court was only a few blocks away. He'd meant to call her today to talk about expenses: the costs of renovating the hotels were running higher than they had anticipated. But it could wait. He allowed himself a moment of reverie about the times they had spent together and his persistent hopes, kept artificially high by his refusal to accept failure. Artificial, he thought. As artificial as her idea that she could build a life free of the baggage of the past.
The reverie faded, as dreams do upon waking. Laura was a business partner and a friend, and he had other things to think about. He reached Wall Street and had his meeting with his clients, and less than two hours later he was in the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center, seated beside a window where he could watch the entrance. In a few moments Leni Salinger was walking toward him, and he stood, holding a chair for her. And when she saw him, she smiled.
Chapter 27
THE fifth theft was just before dawn. It was July, in the midst of a heat wave, and one of the neighbors was preparing for an early-moming run. She saw Clay from the back but thought nothing of it, since he was using a key to unlock the front door, and Felix and Leni were known to let family members and friends use the house when they were not in town.
No one else saw or heard anything as Clay quietly let himself in. Beside the door was the alarm panel; with his gloved finger he punched in the code that turned off the system, and then took a quick look around in the faint light from a street lamp. He was in a tiny foyer, with a guest room and badi to his right. Straight ahead was a stairway going up: beside it was a short, narrow hall leading to the dining room and, beyond it, the kitchen and a walled garden. He took the steep stairs two at a time and in a moment stood in the living room, pitch-dark except for a sliver of hght coming from the street through fringed velvet dr^)es. With a small flashlight he made a swift survey of the curved velvet couches, the carved round table in the center of the room, the paintings hung against small-figured wallpap^. Posh, he thought; too good for old Felix. But what he was looking for wasn't diere, and he went through an archway into the library.
He flashed the light swiftly aroimd the paneled room and sighed with relief. Tlie three Rouaults hung in a niche above a
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V velvet love seat. Propping the flashlight on a table, he took I them down and slipped them into an artist's leather case he i had folded inside his dark jacket. Then he turned in place, using the flashlight again to study the room. There was only one other painting, and behind it he found the wall safe. Taking a piece of paper from his pocket and following the combination written on it, copied from the one he had foun
d tucked in Leni*s purse right beside the code for the alarm at the front door, he opened the safe and rummaged within. It was empty except for the documents dealing with the purchase of the house. What the fuck, he thought angrily; why does he have a safe if he doesn't have anything to keep in it? Not a danm thing for me. Disgusted, he closed and locked it, automatically straightening the picture covering it. Then he froze as a sharp noise broke the silence.
It came from outside—the backyard of this house, or maybe next door—and it sounded like something slammed shut. A screen door. Maybe. He waited. Absolute silence, as silent as the moment he entered. He stayed, not moving, barely breathing, for five minutes. A window, he thought. That's what it sounded like. Someone in a neaiby house had opened a window, flung it up, so that it made that sharp sound.
It isn't in this house; I'm all right. Stupid to panic, but Ben always taught me never to take anything for granted. You never know when the danger may be real. That's what he taught me. And look how far it's gotten me.
Time to get out. He picked up the artist's case, then paused to consider the desk. Why not? It was still dark outside; he had time for a quick look; he might find some cash.
The desk was enormous, finished on both sides so two people could work at it at the same time, facing each other. Each side had cabinet doors and drawers flanking a kneehole opening, and he opened them, rifled and closed them with an efficiency bom of confidence and experience. But once again he found no money; only papers and letters, most of them Leni's.
The top drawer on the other side was fuller than the others. An eelskin wallet lay beneath some of the papers and envelopes; it held credit cards with Leni's name, and ninety-five dollars. With a snort, he threw it on the desk and began flip-
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ping through the envelopes, taking a swift look inside each. Nothing, nothing, goddam it . . .
Something was stuck at the back, and he tugged at it; it would not come fiiee. Shit, what's wrong with it? He pulled again at the paper his fingers had found. And then he thought of a hidden compartment. That's it, he thought with rising excitement. What else could it be? It's an old desk; it lool^ just like the one in Owen's office; and in the old days they used to make those little hidden places all the time.
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