Judgment

25

Maybe Matías had left town, gone back to Chicago, his work done. But she had no other way of reaching him than to try his hotel. If he was gone, he was gone. All she could do was try.

Was it foolhardy? Was she sticking her head back in the jaw trap? Maybe so. But she needed to find out what he knew, if anything, about Mayfair Paragon. He’d called himself a chess piece in a game whose players he claimed not to know. But her instincts told her that he knew more than he was letting on. Maybe a lot more.

Not that he would readily cooperate with her. She’d have to force a deal. There was a way out of this nightmare, and she was determined to find it.

As she drove, she checked her rearview mirror from time to time, looking for a following vehicle, feeling sheepish about it, ruefully recalling how she’d nearly torn into Chae-won Kim. The fact was, several cars had been behind her since Kenmore Square, three or four of them. None, as far as she could tell, since leaving the courthouse.

Legally, of course, she was putting herself in a compromising position just meeting with a member of the defense team. For her to do so without the other side there was considered ex parte communication. If she was photographed meeting with Matías, she could face all sorts of questions. And if the truth ever came out, that would be sure grounds for impeachment. Her career could be over in a flash.

She found a parking space easily, on the curb a block beyond the Home Stay Inn. Just as before, she entered the hotel lobby with purpose and turned left to the elevator bank and took it to the third floor. As before, no one tried to stop her or ask where she was going. Look like you belong and most people won’t bother you. But just in case she was recognized, she wore sunglasses and a hat.

She passed an open door and a housekeeper’s cart in the hallway. When she came to room 322, she could hear noise inside, what sounded like the television on, fairly loud. For a moment she hesitated, listened for other voices, then finally rang the doorbell. Right away she sidled away from the door, along the wall, out of view of the peephole. If he looked out and saw her, he might not open the door. She waited. The TV blared, muffled-sounding. The door remained closed. She waited some more.

Was it possible he hadn’t heard the doorbell over the noise of the television? She slid back over to the doorway, her face hidden behind the brim of the hat, in case he was looking out the peephole — and rang again. Then she knocked. The TV remained on. She waited another minute; then she pounded hard on the door.

Coming down the corridor was the housekeeper, diminutive and Latin-looking, pushing her cart. She avoided Juliana’s eyes. It wasn’t her business.

But then Juliana had an idea.

“Excuse me,” she said to the housekeeper.

The maid looked up reluctantly.

“My husband forgot to give me a key. Could you let me in?”

She was wearing her blue suit and looked respectable. She lowered her sunglasses, her back to the camera. Sure enough, the housekeeper looked her over, her eyes moving up and down Juliana, sizing her up. She said, “Is three-two-two?”

“That’s right. I’m positive.”

The woman approached, gave her a questioning look, pulled out a keycard, and beeped the door open. She didn’t seem happy about it. It was probably against the rules: hotel guests who’d misplaced their keys probably had to go to the front desk and present ID. But she pushed the door open for Juliana, and a split-second later she made a strange yipping sound, a high-pitched scream. “Ay Dios mío!”

Juliana pushed her way into the room and saw what had so frightened the housekeeper.

In the twilit gloom, she could just make out a naked male body slumped on the floor, unmistakably dead.