L Is for Lawless

didn't even look in my direction. She let herself into her room and shut the door with a bang. I shoved the cart into the alcove at the end of the hall, pulled out the duffel, and scurried toward the fire exit. I pushed my way into the stairwell and started down at a run, skipping every other step. If Laura Huckaby was at all suspicious, it wouldn't take her long to spot the subtle disarray. I pictured her heading straight to the closet, cursing her stupidity when she saw the duffel was missing. She'd have to know she'd been had. Whether she'd set up a stink or not would depend on how much nerve she had. If she'd been carrying a large amount of legitimate cash, why not take advantage of the hotel safe? Unless the booty itself was what Ray Rawson had lied about.
    I reached the eighth floor and pushed the door open, heading for 815. I pulled up short. A man in a business suit was standing in the hall outside my room. He turned when he caught sight of me. I caught a glimpse of the name tag pinned to his suit. The duffel suddenly seemed enormous and quite conspicuous. Why would a maid be toting a canvas bag of this sort? I moved automatically toward the utility alcove. My chest felt hot and I was starting to hyperventilate. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he knocked on my door again. Casually, he checked the corridor in both directions, then took out a pass key and let himself into my room. Oh, God, now what?
    I put the duffel on a shelf in the linen room and put a stack of clean sheets on top of it. The sheets tumbled to the floor and the duffel toppled with them. I gathered up the duffel and shoved it temporarily into an enormous laundry bag meant for dirty linen. I got down on my knees and began to refold sheets. I had to do something while I waited for the guy to get out of my room. I peered around the door. No sign of him, so I had to assume he was still in my room, nosing through my belongings. My shoulder bag was in the closet, and I didn't want him searching it, but I really didn't have a way to stop him, short of setting fire to the place. I heard the door to the fire exit open and close. Please, please, please, God, don't let it be one of the real maids, I thought. Someone stepped into view. I looked up. Well, my prayers had been answered. It wasn't the maid, it was the security guard.
    I felt a flash of fear move up my frame, heat bringing color to my face. He was in his mid-forties, short hair, glasses, clean-shaven, overweight. In my opinion, he should have been doing situps for the gut he sported. He stood there watching me fold a pillowcase. I smiled blankly. I felt like an actress in a play suffering acute stage fright. All the spit left my mouth and seeped out the other end.
    "May I ask what you're doing?"
    "Ah. I was just straightening these sheets. Mrs. Spitz told me to check the linen supply up here." I struggled to my feet. Even in my guise as a lowly chambermaid, I didn't want him to tower over me.
    He stared at me carefully. The look in his eyes was flat, and his tone was a mix of authority and judgment. "Can I have your name?"
    "Yes." I realized I'd better give him one. "Katy. I'm new. I'm in training. Eileen and Bernadette are actually working this shift. I'm supposed to help, but I dropped these sheets." I tried to smile again, but my expression came closer to a simper.
    He studied me with calculation, apparently weighing the truth value of the statement I'd made. His gaze flicked down to my uniform. "Where's your name tag, Katy?"
    I put my hand across my heart like the Pledge of Allegiance. I couldn't think of a response. "I lost it. I'm supposed to get another one."
    "Mind if I verify that with Mrs. Spitz?"
    "Sure, no problem. Go right ahead."
    "What's your last name?" He'd already taken out his walkie-talkie and his thumb was moving toward the button.
    "Beatty, like in Warren Beatty," I said without thinking. I realized belatedly my name was now Katy Beatty. I plowed right on. "If you came up to find the manager, he's in 815. The woman he's looking for is on her way downstairs," I said. I pointed in the direction of 815. My hand was shaking badly, but he didn't seem to notice. He'd turned to glance down the corridor behind him.
    "Mr. Denton is up here?"
    "Yes. At least, I think that's him. I got the impression he was looking for that woman, but she just left."
    "What's the problem?"
    "He didn't say."
    He lowered the walkie-talkie. "How long ago was this?"
    "Five minutes. I was just