Likely To Die

22

ONCE WE HAD CLEARED IMMIGRATION AT Heathrow, we searched the signs held by gray-uniformed drivers waiting near the doors until we found a printed plaque marked CLIVEDEN. Mike waved to the gentleman holding it in the air, who moved toward us to introduce himself and take the luggage we were carrying. He quickly escorted us out to the roadway where a sleek black Jaguar sedan was parked on the far side of the passenger drop-off area.

Arthur, as he was called, placed the bags in the car’s trunk, then opened the rear doors for Mike and me.

“Not too shabby, Coop. I think I’m gonna like it here. Your car, Arthur?” Mike asked, as the driver settled himself behind the wheel.

“Hardly, sir. It’s all we have at Cliveden, sir. Jaguars.” Pronouncing the name, as the Brits do, with three distinct syllables.

It was daybreak as we started the half-hour ride to the hotel, the only one in Britain that is also a Stately Home. Rush-hour traffic heading into London surrounded us on the A4. But when we turned off the motorway as we neared Buckinghamshire, the fields, woods, and slate roofs of the countryside and villages gave us the sense that we had gone back a century or two in time.

Arthur was giving us a history of the estate as he cruised the Jag around narrow curves on ancient lanes barely wide enough to let another car pass. Cliveden, he told us, was built in 1666 by the Duke of Buckingham. Almost four hundred acres of land-housing the main buildings, composed of bedroom suites, dining rooms, and newly added meeting rooms, plus exquisite formal gardens and natural parklands-perch above the Thames in splendid style. The property remained at the center of Britain ’s political and social intrigue as its ownership passed through several dukes, one Prince of Wales, and then on to the Astor family before its acquisition by the National Trust in the 1980s.

“Pretty fancy place for a conference center,” Chapman said.

Arthur grimaced into the rearview mirror. “We’re a hotel, sir. And a very special one at that. Once a year the Home Secretary takes it over for this do. Sometimes the Prime Minister comes and a few nobs from abroad. Hardly worth our while, sir.” Arthur looked again, just to reassure himself that we were not in that exalted category. “We’ll get a few of our regulars after you go. End of the month we’ve got a wedding-one of the royals. Then the season gets going with Ascot and Wimbledon and all that.”

“If you decide you want to stay on, let me know. I’m sure Battaglia’d find room in the budget,” I said to Mike as Arthur slowed the car to turn in through the colossal double gate that marked the entrance. We circled the large sculpted scallop shell ringed by cherubs that stood at the start of the tree-lined drive and rode the last stretch of graveled path up to the majestic main building of Cliveden.

Several footmen appeared at the sound of the car crunching on the stones and coming to a stop-each one dressed in striped trousers, a morning coat, and white gloves. We had pulled in under the porte-cochère and our doors were opened by two of the eager staff.

The third young man, bespectacled and shorter than I by a head, bowed in my direction and shook Mike’s hand as he welcomed us to Cliveden and told us his name was Graham. He gave us a brisk introduction to the hotel, explaining that the Cliveden tradition was to treat us all as “house guests” rather than customers. No registration, no signing for meals or services, no keys for the rooms or locks on the doors.

“Your office phoned ahead with all the arrangements, Mrs. Cooper. We’ve substituted your name for Mr. Battaglia’s where appropriate, and I’ve alerted all the staff to that change. I’m sure, madam, that you’ll be quite comfortable. Let me see,” he said, walking back to his antiquebureau plat inside the doorway, “you’ll be in the suite reserved for Mr. Battaglia. The Asquith. We only have thirty-seven rooms, of course, and they’re all filled at the moment with the gentlemen who are attending your conference.”

Nothing so crass as rooms with numbers here. Each of the suites was named for a titled or celebrated family who had visited Cliveden throughout its history.

Graham told one of the footmen to get our luggage from the car and take it up to the Asquith suite. He gestured in Mike’s direction, “And if there is anything at all I can do foryou, Mr. Cooper-”

“Chapman,” Mike snapped. “I decided to keep my maiden name, Graham. It’s Chapman.”

He picked up his bag without waiting for any help and started into the building. I was laughing as I followed him into the Great Hall, realizing for the first time that no one had expressly mentioned that the room assignment for Battaglia and spouse should not simply have been reissued to Cooper and spouse.

“What, hurt your feelings, Mikey? Don’t like being Mr. Cooper? Or are you scared of being alone with me in the dark?”

“MisterCooper? A guy’d have to have balls of steel to want that job title. Let’s check out the room, Blondie.”

The footman holding my bags was waiting for us. “The lift is this way, madam. The Asquith suite is on the first floor. Mind your step.” He led us across the hallway and under the staircase to a small elevator that rattled its way slowly up to the next landing.

Our suite was at the end of a narrow corridor reached by passing rooms named for Westminster, Curzon, Balfour, and Churchill. When the door opened and Mike noticed the twin beds standing several feet apart, he murmured in my ear, “Only the English. Typical.”

The spacious bedroom was tastefully decorated in a pale shade of green with ivory trim and had an adjoining sitting room with a writing desk and chaise as well as a large bathroom. There was a stunning view of the rear of the property with its parterre gardens and trimmed box hedges and miles of riding paths leading down to the Thames.

It was almost nine o’clock by the time we unpacked. But it was still the middle of the night at home and we were both frustrated by our inability to call to speak with Maureen and to check our offices for updates. There were no faxes or messages waiting for us so we had to assume that nothing had developed in either of the cases.

“Want to check out the grounds?” Mike could function on less sleep than anyone I knew.

The luncheon and afternoon conference in which I would be participating started at one o’clock. I didn’t want Battaglia to get any bad reports about my presentation so I figured it was smarter to work on my notes. “I’m going to clean up, rest, and change for my speech.”

“I’m taking a walk. Been sitting still too long. See you later, Lady Asquith.”

I refreshed myself with a hot shower, then, wrapped in an oversized white terry robe with the Cliveden crest embroidered on its lapel, sat on the bed to work. The break revived me, despite the lack of sleep, and I was almost dressed and ready to leave the room by twelve-fifteen when Mike called me from the front desk.

“Are you receiving?”

“I’m just about ready to go down to the lobby.”

“Thought I’d shower and change if you were out of the way.”

I finished brushing my hair and putting on earrings as Mike came in. I gathered my notes and told him I’d meet him in the dining room for the luncheon. I took myself downstairs and through the expanse of the Great Hall, drawn to John Singer Sargent’s famous portrait of Lady Astor, the American-born Nancy Langhorne, who had become the first woman to take a seat in Parliament in 1919. The painting dominated the room and I sat at the desk below it to review the remarks I would be delivering on Battaglia’s behalf.

Once done, and noting that it would soon be 7A.M. in New York, I picked up the telephone and asked the operator to connect me with a number in New York City, billing the charge to my suite. When the switchboard answered at Mid-Manhattan Hospital, I gave the receptionist Maureen’s room number.

“What is the name of the patient to whom you wish to speak?”

I gave her Maureen’s name, and when I heard no response I spelled the surname for her.

“Let me put you on hold, ma’am.”

Several minutes passed until a voice returned to tell me that the patient I was trying to reach had been discharged from the hospital. It was only Thursday and my recollection was that she was not to be released for another twenty-four hours. I was relieved that someone had made the decision to take her out of harm’s way.

The time difference was already proving to be a nuisance. I wanted to say hello to Maureen and knew that no one in a hospital could sleep long past six when the clanging of breakfast trays and bedpans roused everyone except the comatose. Now that she was at home I would place that call to her later on. It was a bit too early to hound Joan, still the middle of the night for Nina in Los Angeles, and I was determined not to speak with Drew until I knew what had driven the timing of our meeting at Joan’s apartment.

Graham glided toward me as I sat at the desk, thinking to myself and gazing up at the delicate features of Lady Astor, bare shouldered in her white gown trimmed with pink satin ribbons. The pose was a bold one, perhaps struck when she was said to have refused Edward VII’s offer to join him in a game of cards with the line, “I am afraid, sire, that I cannot tell a king from a knave.”

“Miss Cooper, Mr. Bartlett-that is, the Home Secretary-has asked me to tell you that the morning session has ended and your group will be lunching in the Pavilion. That’s the building just next door to the boardroom. Shall I tell him you’ll be joining them?”

“Yes, thank you, Graham. I’m waiting for Mr. Chapman.” He stepped away and within minutes I could see Mike descending the staircase at the far end of the room, stopping every few feet to examine the paintings and armored figures that were part of the Cliveden collection.

“C’mon, let’s do the sightseeing later. We’ve been summoned for lunch.”

We returned to the front entrance, followed the path pointed out by Graham’s gloved finger, and made our way over to the series of rooms that housed the conference facilities. The Pavilion was a light-filled, cheerful area overlooking the notorious swimming pool-scene of the Profumo scandal-that had been set up with eight rectangular tables for the meeting participants and their guests.

I immediately spotted Commander Creavey’s substantial figure as he stood to wave us into the room, where he had held empty seats on both sides for Mike and me to join him. He rose and bellowed to the polite diners after he kissed me on the cheek and embraced Mike with a few sound slaps on the back. “This ‘ere is Alexandra Cooper. Top of the line in America. She prosecutes rapists, wife beaters, child abusers-all that type of bloke. I don’t advise you to trifle with her while she’s here. And this is Commander Michael Chapman. I’ve promoted him a few notches, but that’s because over ’ere-with what ‘e knows-’e’d be running the show. Be no need for me.

“Sit and enjoy your lunch. There’ll be time to mix with all these fine gents this evening.”

Chapman and Creavey jumped right into discussing each other’s work and catching up with “on-the-job” events since they had last had the opportunity to talk at a session in New York. I played with my salad as I looked around the room to see whether I recognized any familiar faces. I knew from the list that Battaglia had passed along to me that most of the speakers and panelists were from the United Kingdom and Western Europe and it was quite clear that diversity was not an element in selecting voices to speak about the future of society as we neared the millennium.

The sixty-something, blue-rinse matron with painfully pink skin sitting on my other side began to chat me up, introducing herself as Winifred Bartlett, wife of the Home Secretary.

“And what is it exactly that your husband is going to be speaking about at the conference, dear?” she inquired, pausing between bites of her smoked salmon as she eyed me through cataract-dimmed lenses.

“Actually,I am the one who’ll be speaking this afternoon. I’m not married. Michael is my colleague, not my husband.”

“How refreshing, Alice,” came the cheerful response. “Commander Creavey wasn’t joking, then? Do you really deal with all those dreadful crimes yourself?”

“Yes, I do. Fascinating work, Mrs. Bartlett, and enormously satisfying.”

“We don’t have so many of those kind of problems in Britain. Not enough work for you here, dear, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps that used to be the case, but I understand there’s been quite an increase in reporting of rapes all over the U.K. ”

Now she was considering that perhaps she didn’t need me as a distraction from her meal. Every ounce of her concentration returned to the plate. “Can’t imagine that’s so. My husband used to be a Crown Prosecutor. Embezzlement, insurance frauds, the occasional murder. Nothing as unsavory as your work. You should get yourself a husband, Alice, and leave this disgusting business to Creavey and his ilk. It’s nasty for a girl. No wonder you’re unmarried.”

I hadn’t been there long enough to answer as I would have liked to and held my tongue as I reminded myself I was standing in Battaglia’s shoes for forty-eight hours.

John Creavey caught me back up in the tale he was spinning about how his men had foiled a Colombian drug cartel scam downriver at Tilbury until the waiters arrived with the sweet trolley and coffee to end the luncheon recess.

“Nice to have met you, Mrs. Bartlett,” I lied.

“Pleasure.” So did she.

We followed the well-mannered group as they sauntered from the Pavilion back toward the Churchill Boardroom. Thirty or so stiff-looking men queued near the entry to the conference area and fifteen or twenty of the ladies paired off in the opposite direction. Lord Windlethorne stood at the head of the table and introduced himself as I moved past him to look for my seat. I guessed him to be in his late fifties, lean and angular, with the features and dark coloring of Gregory Peck cum Oxford don.

He welcomed me and pointed to my name plate at the table. I was docked two places away, between Professore Vittorio Vicario of the University of Milan and Monsieur Jean-Jacques Carnet of the Institut de la Paix in Paris. Vicario bowed his head in greeting and Carnet smiled, giving me the once-over and an“Enchanté.”

“Mr. Chapman,” Windlethorne told Mike as he entered after me. “We’ve only enough seats at the table for the speakers. Behind each one there’s a chair, as you can see. Those are for the spouses-or, shall I say, significant others-of the participants.

“Most of the wives were here this morning. Actually, they’re heading off now on a coach tour-famous gardens, Windsor Castle, a trip on the Thames. Perhaps you’d rather-”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

I glanced around the room. The head of Australia ’s Probation Services was the only other woman at the table. The chair behind her was empty. The spouse seats were almost completely deserted except for one backing up an older French Minister of Justice, whose trophy wife or mistress sat dutifully in place, and that of the Danish criminologist, whose barely-out-of-her-teens girlfriend stroked the back of his head as we waited for everyone to settle down.

Chapman growled into my ear. “You really owe me for this one. Everybody’s treating me like I’m some useless appendage you’ve brought along to carry your luggage.”

“Personally, I think you should have taken the garden tour with the significant others. You would have found someone to hit on in that group.”

“Don’t throw yourself at Windlethorne too quick, Blondie. I know how you fall for that kind of sensitive-looking specimen.”

I looked up to the head of the table. Lord W. was chewing on the end of his wire-rimmed glasses as he debated some weighty issue with a pudgy German who kept punctuating his comments with jabs in the air. I blushed when Windlethorne caught me looking and smiled back at me. Mike was right, he was exactly my type.

Lord Windlethorne invited everyone to take his or her seat and called the afternoon assembly to order by introducing me formally to the politicians and academics who had presented papers or would be joining my panel for the rest of the day. He then proceeded to call on speakers in the order they were listed in the program.

One of the Swiss finance ministers began the session with a forty-five-minute discourse on the problems of financial frauds and the Internet. He detailed instances of multimillion-dollar swindles that had been attempted in recent months and outlined a plan for combating technological hoaxes in the next century.

The concentration then moved to interpersonal violence. Twenty-minute time slots had been allocated for each of the four speakers-the Australian woman who talked about her country’s novel techniques for handling teen offenders; the pudgy German, a sociologist who studied European ethnic violence of the last fifty years, predicting and projecting trends; Creavey’s analysis of terrorist tactics and how to combat them; and my slightly doctored version of Battaglia’s remarks about the prospect for America’s future-crime and punishment.

Lord Windlethorne lit his pipe and opened the floor to statements from everyone present. Like many Europeans, these professionals seemed most interested in the problems of urban America, which had to this point in time seemed so extraordinarily unlike their own.

“What aboutyour specialty, Miss Cooper?” Professore Vicario asked, “Do you think it has much, how do you say in English, relevance to our population here in Europe?”

I had made only a short reference to the issue of sexual violence in my formal remarks but was delighted to get it on the table during the question-and-answer period. “As progressive as you all tend to be on a variety of topics, you’re light-years behind on this one. One need only consider the terrible cases of child abuse in Belgium last year-the pedophile rings that involved government officials-to understand how widespread the phenomenon is. And you’ll forgive me,professore, but your magnificent country still has some of the most archaic laws concerning spousal abuse that one can imagine in this day and age.

“I don’t need to center this around my own personal interest, but itis just incredible to me,” I added, “that you could even contemplate a meeting of this scope without devoting attention to the issues of drugs, drug treatment, and gun control.”

I thought Windlethorne was squirming a bit in his seat as he tried to reignite his pipe, but others in the room picked up on the subjects immediately.

Creavey jumped in. “I assure you, Alex is right. If you don’t think these are your problems yet-and I can’t believe there’s one of you in this room who hasn’t had some exposure to them in your criminal justice systems at home-they’re coming in your direction.”

The Home Secretary tried to pooh-pooh the trend toward violence, sheltered in this elegant retreat that seemed a world apart from the reality of city streets. “Oh, come now, people. Let’s not exaggerate this picture, shall we?” Battaglia had been right on the money. “A bit of hooliganism, joyriding-”

Chapman had been waiting for his moment. He knew, from conversations with Creavey, how aware of this issue the British had become after the unspeakable tragedy in the elementary school at Dunblane.

“You wanna know what you’re facing if you don’t start moving in the direction of gun control and funding drug treatment programs? You wanna know what kind of cases I work on every single day of the week?

“John, you ever have a ‘dis’ murder?”

Creavey frowned and stroked his mustache. No answer. Mike looked from face to face. “Any of you know what I’m talking about? Dis-that’s the motive to kill another human being.”

Professore Vicario attempted to inject a note of humor. “You mean, Signore Chapman, dis or dat?”

“No, professor. I mean disrepect. Last week, I got called to the scene of a homicide. The killer was fifteen years old. Deals heroin. Snoopy tabs, we call ‘em. Glassine envelopes with cartoon characters like Snoopy on the label. Big seller with kids, right outside the fence at an elementary school.

“His victim? A five-year-old girl who dissed him. She stepped on his shadow after he told all the kids not to. He turned and put a bullet through her head just as a lesson to the others not to ignore him. Not to dis him.”

The theoreticians were silent.

“Maybe this was a culture in which guns were in the hands of the upper class-hunting grouse and pheasants and wild boar on weekends in the country. But if you don’t start acknowledging these problems today, you’ll be right up there in the record books with your American cousins.”

“Well, I think we’ll all need a bit of refreshment, now, don’t we?” Lord Windlethorne announced, trying to put a smile on the end of the day’s work. He looked at his watch. “It’s half past six. There will be cocktails in the library at seven-thirty, followed by dinner. Thank you all for your presentations and we’ll see you later.”

I pushed back my chair and turned to Chapman. “As usual, Mikey, we’ve added the stamp of our personal cheer and spirit to another event.”

“C’mon, they needed a dose of reality. Too many ivory tower types to suit me. Let’s go up to the room. I want to call the office.”

It was a cloudy evening and we walked together the short distance back to the main building. I checked with Graham but there were no telephone messages, so we continued on to the suite. I went into the bathroom to freshen up while Mike called the squad. The running water had drowned out his short conversation, and by the time I emerged he was pouring us each a drink from the crystal decanters on the table in the sitting room.

I sat in one of the stuffed fauteuils and kicked off my shoes, pressing on the remote control device of the television set to find CNN.

“Turn it off a minute.”

“I just want the top of the news.”

“Turn it off so I can tell you something.”

I pressed the clicker and looked at Mike, who sat opposite me on the footstool and rested his drink on the tray.

“Everything’s fine now, Coop. But there was a problem during the night.”

“What kind of problem?” I raced through thoughts of the stabbing victim at Columbia-Presbyterian, my parents, to whom I hadn’t spoken in days, my friends, and-

“Maureen-”

“Oh!” I gasped and slammed my right palm across my mouth, my left one already quavering with the full glass of Scotch. Ever since I had tried to call her earlier in the day I had assumed that she was safe at home with Charles and the kids.

“She’s fine, Alex. Trust me.” He placed his hand on my knee and, as Mercer had done at the airport, he eyeballed me to reassure me that he was telling the truth. “I swear to you she’s okay.” He took the drink from my hand and stood it beside his.

My panic turned to anger at the thought that we had left Mo in any real danger. “What happened to her?” We spoke over each other as I fired questions at him while he reminded me he would never have let us take off unless he had been assured that Maureen would be fine.

“If you calm down I’ll tell you what I know.”

“I want to speak to her first. I want to hear her voice myself. Then I’ll listen to you.”

“You can’t speak to her. That’s half the point. She’s been moved out of Mid-Manhattan and, forher sake, no one except Battaglia and the Commissioner know where she and her husband are. You want to screw it up for her by making a phone call that somebody could intercept? Mercer’s in the office now. He was with her this morning and she is absolutely perfect. Somebody just tried to scare her out of the hospital, not kill her. Honestly.”

“What do you mean ‘somebody’? I assume the video surveillance caught whoever it was, right?”

“Look, sometime around midnight, whoever it was that did this entered Maureen’s room. Dressed like a nurse.”

“Like a woman nurse?”

“Yeah. Uniform with a skirt. The schmuck on surveillance-don’t worry, he’ll be out looking for a new job in a few days-looked up at the screen, saw the nurse’s outfit and cap, assumed that it was business as usual, and dozed back off.

“Mo doesn’t know what hit her. She was sound asleep. But this ‘nurse’ covered her mouth, which is what startled her and woke her up. Then a second later she was jabbed with a hypodermic needle in her arm.

“When the real nurse went in to check on Maureen a bit later, she was completely motionless. They rushed in some oxygen, pumped her stomach, and got her the hell out of that nuthouse.”

“What-”

“They’re waiting for toxicology, if that’s what you’re about to ask. Nobody has a clue what was injected into her system but she rebounded pretty quickly, which is why they don’t think it was lethal.”

“And the nurse?”

“Probably one of the boys we’re looking at for Gemma. A bit of late-night disguise. Found a very large white uniform-a dress and a little nurse’s cap-in a garbage pail in the parking garage behind the hospital. Plus a woman’s wig. Brunette, kind of a Donna Reed do from the fifties.”

“Now I guess we’ve got to figure out how they knew she was a cop. Any ideas on how she got made?”

“Easy, despite our best intentions. Timmy McCrenna, the DEA delegate-know him?”

“Yeah.” McCrenna was the squad’s representative to the Detective Endowment Association.

“He heard a rumor she was in the hospital and never figured it to be on business. Sent her a huge flower arrangement and a bunch of cards with the DEA insignia all over the place sticking out of every lily and carnation. Almost got her killed ‘cause he’s such a fruitcake about hospitalizations and funerals. Everything’s a goddamn Hallmark occasion with McCrenna. He must get a kickback from his local florist.”

Mike was on his feet to pick up the phone and redial the office so I could speak to Mercer. “I called back home to the squad during the break in the afternoon session, after the German’s presentation. I wasn’t holding out on you, Coop, I just didn’t want to upset you right before you had to deliver Battaglia’s speech.”

I stirred the ice in my drink with my finger and took a swallow of the Scotch while he waited for the connection to be put through.

“Hey, big guy. Coop needs to talk to you. Uh-huh, just told her now. No, no, she’s not. Speak to her yourself or I think she’ll be on the next flight outta here.”

He extended the cord to its full length and carried the phone to my chair.

“I have had just about all the bullshit I can take, Mercer, so please tell me exactly what’s going on with Mo now.”

“She’s good, Alex. They moved her to New York Hospital in the middle of the night right after this happened-to check her out and do some tests on her blood. I saw her there and held her hand this morning. Then they transferred her out of the city for safekeeping. None of us knows where but she’s cool about that. And Charles is with her.

“Mo said that if I mentioned four little words to you, you’d know she’s just fine.”

I tried to think if she and I had ever discussed a code word but nothing came to mind.

“ ‘Canyon Ranch. Your treat.’ You tell me, is she alive and well?”

I smiled. We had often joked about going to an elegant spa for a week-to be pampered with massages and mud baths and facials-but had never taken the splurge. “Tell her she’s on, first break Battaglia gives me.”

We said good-bye and I hung up the phone, resting my head back against the top of the chair’s cushion. “God, I just couldn’t forgive myself if anything ever happened to Maureen.That’s not the work of any crazy guy living in an underground tunnel. I don’t know what its hook is to Dogen’s murder but only a health care pro would be sticking syringes in patients-or in chocolates, for that matter-to try to scare us.”

“Let’s go downstairs and get some chow. Tomorrow we see Dogen’s ex-husband. Creavey’s going to sit in on the interview with us and have a look at the photos. Then Saturday morning we’re going home. So take yourself off duty for a few hours and enjoy what’s left of the evening.”

I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost eight o’clock. We’d been in England more than twelve hours. The combination of jet lag and this disturbing news had hit me head on. “I’ll go down with you, but I’m too nauseated to eat anything.”

I splashed water on my face, reapplied my lipstick, spritzed on more perfume, and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of my yellow-and-black David Hayes suit. We bypassed the bumpy lift in favor of the staircase, and walked down toward the library.

Graham stopped us at the doorway. “Sorry, madam. Sir. They’ve all gone in to dinner already. To your right,” he motioned us with his gloved hand. “And Miss Cooper, you had two calls while your line was engaged.” He handed me the message slips. Mr. Renaud phoned and will call again tomorrow, I read. The second one said that Miss Stafford was anxious to talk to me, was on her way to the airport, and would ring back.

“You go on ahead, Mike. I want to go back upstairs and return the calls.”

“But Graham just said-”

My annoyance was palpable. I hadn’t meant to direct it at Mike but he was the only one in range. “I just want to go back to the room for a couple of minutes.” I turned and stomped off to the staircase, taking its three tall sections on the run without missing a beat.

I opened the door to the room and stepped inside. I had no intention of returning Drew’s call at that point. I simply did not want to speak to or socialize with anyone.

I went into the dresser drawers and removed one of Mike’s shirts. Not expecting to be sharing a room, I had packed without bringing a nightgown. Then I called the housekeeping department and asked them to pick up the laundry I placed in a bag and left outside the door of the room, including the dirty shirt Mike had worn on the plane, for overnight service. I wanted to make sure it would be washed and ironed since I had now purloined one to sleep in. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower until the steam poured out into the rest of the suite, then stood beneath the water until all of the tension of the day and evening ran out of me.

Dressed in Mike’s red-and-white-striped shirt, I sat at the desk and wrote him a note apologizing for snapping at him and abandoning him to the crowd. I placed it on his pillow and turned down the corner of his sheet, leaving on the reading lamp so he could see his way around.

I crawled in between the tightly pulled linens of my own slender bed, separated by a couple of inches from Mike’s. I wasn’t thinking Tina Turner tonight, I was thinking Otis Redding. He had been right. Young girlsdo get weary. Try a little tenderness, he had advised, over and over again when I had listened to him sing to me. I wanted someone to try it and I wanted it soon. But it wasn’t likely to happen tonight, so I turned off the lamp nearest to me, burrowed my head into the pillow, and convinced myself that I was exhausted enough to need a good night’s sleep.