Chương 2
Everett asked Vivian to come with him. She hesitated long enough to make refusal possible, then stepped away, the hem of her gown whispering over the marble. Guests moved aside before she reached them.
Daniel crouched near the clutch but did not touch it.
“Maya.”
She was still rubbing her wrist.
“Maya, are you hurt?”
The question sounded wrong after everything else, too small for the room. She shook her head, then realized that was not true.
“I don’t know.”
Luis came closer. “She needs to sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Maya said.
“You’re not,” Luis replied. “And neither am I, and nobody grabbed me.”
A few guests looked embarrassed. Someone laughed once, nervously, then covered it with a cough.
Daniel stood. “The east salon is empty. Luis, take her there. Everett will send someone to collect her statement.”
Maya looked at the clutch. “My phone is in there.”
“We need to leave it untouched for now.”
“My mother calls at nine.”
Daniel blinked, perhaps surprised that the world had continued to contain mothers and phone calls.
“I’ll have someone bring you another phone.”
“I know her number.”
Luis placed a hand near Maya’s elbow without touching her. “Come on.”
Maya let him guide her away. She felt the guests watching and kept her face still because she had spent six years in luxury hotels learning how to carry humiliation without dropping it. A guest could insult your accent, your hands, your shoes, or your intelligence, and the work remained the work. You collected the empty glass. You answered the question. You did not give the room a second spectacle.
At the salon door, she glanced back.
The emerald brooch lay in her clutch like an eye that had opened too late.
The east salon was designed for private tastings and small donor meetings. It had walnut-paneled walls, four cream sofas, and a view of downtown Chicago through tall arched windows. The city lights looked clean from the thirty-second floor.
Luis shut the doors behind them.
Maya sat on the edge of a sofa. Her knees began shaking only after she looked down at them.
Luis went to the bar, poured water into a crystal tumbler, then reconsidered and transferred it into a plain service glass. “These things cost sixty dollars if you break them.”
Maya stared at him.
“I’m trying to help.”
“I know.”
He handed her the water. She took it with both hands.
“What happened before she grabbed you?” he asked.
“She came out of nowhere.”
“She didn’t come out of nowhere.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I saw her watching you near the stage.”
Maya lifted her head.
“When?”
“Maybe ten minutes before. You were filling the champagne tower. She was talking to that auction guy with the red glasses, but she kept looking over.”
Maya thought of the evening in broken images: folded napkins, donor paddles, a missing place card, the auctioneer asking for another light over the case. Vivian had passed her twice without speaking. That had not seemed unusual. Women like Vivian Cross often looked through hotel staff as if they were part of the walls.
Then Claire Whitmore, Vivian’s personal assistant, had asked Maya to deliver champagne to the west gallery.
Maya put the glass down.
“What?”
“My clutch was under the service table.”
“Yeah.”
“Claire sent me away.”
Luis’s expression changed. “Sent you where?”
“The west gallery. She said six guests were waiting.”
“There weren’t any guests there. I checked that room at eight-forty.”
Maya rubbed the inside of her wrist again.
“She knew my clutch was there.”
“Claire?”
“Vivian.”
Luis sat in the chair opposite her. “Why would she know which bag was yours?”
Every banquet assistant carried the same white clutch during formal events. They had been introduced after a guest complained that visible phones made the staff look inattentive. The clutches were issued at the beginning of each shift and numbered inside the lining.
Maya’s was number fourteen.
“There were eight bags under that table,” she said.
Luis leaned back. “So she picked yours on purpose.”
Maya looked toward the doors.
A quiet knock came before Everett entered. He had removed his glasses and was cleaning them with a cloth. Without them, he looked older and more tired.
“The police are on their way,” he said. “Hotel counsel too. Ms. Reed, may I photograph your wrist?”
She nodded.
He used a hotel-issued phone, took three pictures, and showed them to her before saving them. Then he wrote the time on a yellow evidence card.
“Did she hurt you anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Did you see her place the brooch in your bag?”
“No.”
“Did you handle the brooch at any point tonight?”
“No.”
“Did you have authorized access to the auction case?”
“No.”
“Did anyone ask you to leave your service station shortly before the accusation?”
Maya glanced at Luis.
“Claire Whitmore told me to take champagne to the west gallery.”
Everett stopped writing. “At approximately what time?”
“Maybe eight-forty-five.”
“Did she speak to you in person?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone hear it?”
“Luis might have.”
Luis nodded. “I heard part of it.”
Everett replaced his glasses. “The feed shows Ms. Cross approaching the clutch after Maya left the station. It does not show Ms. Whitmore sending her away. That area is outside the main camera angle.”
“Can you check another camera?” Maya asked.
“I’m checking all of them.”
“Did Vivian know there was a camera on the case?”
“She helped approve the security plan.”
Luis gave a humorless laugh. “Then why would she do it right in front of one?”
Everett folded the cloth into a square. “That is one of several questions.”
Maya watched his hands. They moved with the deliberate patience of someone handling a device that might explode.
“What aren’t you saying?”
“I’m not withholding anything from you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
May you like
He met her eyes. The seriousness in his face did not become softness, but it moved slightly in that direction.
“Four minutes of footage from the service corridor disappeared from the system at eight-fifty-two,” he said. “The ballroom feed survived because it records to a separate unit.”
