Night Film

82

Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting in the window of the Starbucks at Second Avenue and East Fiftieth.

“It’s an ideal situation,” said Hopper. “If Hughes is out cold, we’ll have plenty of time to look through her place.”

I was relieved to see this morning Hopper seemed to be all right after everything he’d told us. After disclosures such as his, it was difficult to gauge how the person would react afterward. But he appeared to be more focused.

“It’s like having secret access to Marilyn Monroe’s house,” said Nora. “Or Elizabeth Taylor’s. Think of the photos and letters and love affairs with presidents no one knows about. She might even know where Cordova is.”

“As enticing as it sounds to ransack Marlowe’s home while she’s in a drug-induced coma,” I said, “this operation is possible because of Olivia. I don’t want her to find out I rummaged through her sister’s apartment like a yard sale.”

“We’ll work fast,” said Hopper, “leave the place exactly as we found it.”

I said nothing, squinting across the street. A few yards from a restaurant, Lasagna Ristorante, a suspicious-looking white-haired man wearing a black coat was loitering by a brick wall. For the past five minutes, he’d been standing there, having an intense argument on the phone, but every now and then he glanced pointedly right at us.

“It’s time to get the Waldorf guest list,” I said, keeping an eye on him. “We’ll get the name of every guest who stayed on the thirtieth floor between September thirtieth and October the tenth, the days Ashley was in the city. We’ll compare that to the Oubliette membership. If one name appears on both, that’s the person Ashley was looking for. That’s the Spider.”

The white-haired man outside hung up and took off, heading north on Second. I waited to see if he’d circle back or cross the street, but he appeared to be gone.

“But how do we get the names?” asked Nora.

“The only way.” I drained the rest of my coffee. “Corruption and intimidation.”