The Perfect Wife. Блейк Пирс
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that none of the women worked.
Some used to. Joanne had been in marketing. Kimberly said she used to be a real estate agent when they lived in Sherman Oaks. Josette had run a small gallery in Silverlake. But they were all stay-at-home moms now. And while they appeared happy with their new lives, they also seemed hungry for details from the professional world, greedily, almost guiltily devouring any morsel of intrigue.
Jessie stopped, realizing she had somehow arrived at the Biltmore Hotel. She’d been here many times before. It was famous for, among other things, hosting some the early Academy Awards in 1930s. She’d also once been told it was where Robert Kennedy was assassinated by Sirhan Sirhan in 1968.
Back before she decided to do her thesis on NRD, Jessie had toyed with the idea of profiling Sirhan. So she’d shown up one day unannounced and asked the concierge if they gave tours of the hotel that included the site of the shooting. He was perplexed.
It took a few embarrassing moments for him to understand what she was after and several more for him to politely explain that the assassination had not occurred there but at the now-demolished Ambassador Hotel.
He tried to soften the blow be telling her that JFK had gotten the Democratic nomination for president at the Biltmore in 1960. But she was too humiliated to stick around to hear that story.
Despite the shame, the experience taught her a valuable lesson that had stuck with her ever since: Don’t make assumptions, especially in a line of work where assuming wrong might get you killed. The next day she changed thesis topics and resolved to do her research from then on before she showed up at a location.
Despite that debacle Jessie returned often, as she loved the old-fashioned glamour of the place. This time, she immediately settled into her comfort zone as she meandered through the halls and ballrooms for a good twenty minutes.
As she passed through the lobby on her way out, she noticed a youngish man in a suit standing nonchalantly near the bellhop station, perusing a newspaper. What drew her attention was how sweaty he was. With the air-conditioning blasting through the hotel, she didn’t see how that was physically possible. And yet, every few seconds, he dabbed at the beads of perspiration constantly forming on his forehead.
Why is a guy just casually reading a paper so sweaty?
Jessie moved a little closer and pulled out her phone. She pretended to be reading something but put it in camera mode and tilted it so she could watch the guy without really looking at him. Every now and then she took a quick photo.
He didn’t seem to actually be reading the paper but rather using it as a prop while he intermittently looked up in the direction of the bags being placed on the luggage cart. When one of the bellhops began pushing the cart in the direction of the elevator, the man in the suit put the newspaper under his arm and ambled along behind him.
The bellhop pushed the cart into the elevator and the suited man followed and stood on the other side of the cart. Just as the doors closed, Jessie saw the suited man grab a briefcase from the side of the cart that wasn’t visible to the bellhop.
She watched the elevator slowly go up and stop at the eighth floor. After about ten seconds, it began to descend again. As it did, she walked over to the security guard near the front door. The guard, an amiable-looking guy in his late forties, smiled at her.
“I think you’ve got a thief working the hotel,” Jessie said without preamble, wanting to give him the situation fast.
“How’s that?” he asked, now frowning slightly.
“I saw this guy,” she said, holding up the photo on her phone, “swipe a briefcase from a luggage cart. It’s possible that it was his. But he was pretty sneaky about it and he was sweating like a guy who was nervous about something.”
“Okay, Sherlock,” the guard said skeptically. “Assuming you’re right, how am I supposed to find him? Did you see what floors the elevator stopped on?”
“Eight. But if I’m right, that won’t matter. If he’s a hotel guest, I gather that’s his floor and that’s where he’ll stay.”
“And if he’s not a guest?” the guard asked.
“If he’s not, I’m guessing he’ll be coming straight back down on the elevator that’s returning to the lobby right now.”
Just as she said that, the elevator door opened and the sweaty, suited man stepped out, newspaper in one hand, briefcase in the other. He began walking to the exit.
“I’m guessing he’s going to stash that one somewhere and start the whole procedure over again,” Jessie said.
“Stay here,” the guard said to her, and then spoke into his radio. “I’m gonna need backup in the lobby ASAP.”
He approached the suited man, who saw him out of the corner of his eye and picked up the pace of his stride. So did the guard. The suited man broke into a run and was just pushing his way out the front door when he collided with another security guard running in the opposite direction. Both of them sprawled out on the ground.
Jessie’s guard grabbed hold of the suited man, lifted him up, yanked his arm behind his back, and slammed him against the hotel wall.
“Mind if I look in your bag, sir?” he demanded.
Jessie wanted to see how it would all play out but a quick glance at her watch showed that her appointment with Dr. Lemmon, set for 11 a.m., was in five minutes. She’d have to skip the walk back and catch a cab just to make it in time. She wouldn’t even have the chance to say goodbye to the guard. She worried that if she tried, he’d insist that she stick around to give the police her statement.
She barely made it and was out of breath and just sitting down in the waiting room when Dr. Lemmon opened her office door to invite her in.
“Did you run here from Westport Beach?” the doctor asked with a chuckle.
“Actually, I kind of did.”
“Well, come in and get comfortable,” Dr Lemmon said, closing the door behind her and pouring them both glasses of water from a pitcher filled with lemon and cucumber slices. She still had the same awful perm that Jessie remembered, with tight little blonde ringlets that bounced when they touched her shoulders. She wore thick glasses that made her sharp, owl-like eyes appear tinier. She was a small woman, barely over five feet tall. But she was visibly wiry, probably a result of the yoga she’d told Jessie she did three times a week. For a woman in her mid-sixties, she looked great.
Jessie sat down in the comfy easy chair she always used for sessions and immediately settled back into the old vibe she was used to. She hadn’t been here in a while, well over a year, and had hoped to keep it that way. But it was a place of comfort, where she’d struggled with, and intermittently succeeded in, making peace with her past.
Dr. Lemmon handed her the water, sat down across from her, picked up a legal pad and pen, and rested them on her lap. That was her sign that the session had formally started.
“What are we discussing today, Jessie?” she asked warmly.
“Good news first, I guess. I’m doing my practicum at DSH-Metro, NRD Unit.”
“Oh wow. That is impressive. Who’s your faculty adviser?”
“Warren Hosta at UC-Irvine,” Jessie said. “Do you know him?”
“We’ve interacted,” the doctor said cryptically. “I think you’re in good hands. He’s prickly but he knows his stuff, which is what matters for you.”
“I’m glad to hear that because I didn’t have much choice,” Jessie noted. “He was only one The Panel would approve in the area.”
“I guess that in order to get what you want, you have to color inside their lines a bit. This is what you wanted, right?”
“It is,” Jessie said.
Dr. Lemmon looked at her closely. An unspoken moment of understanding passed between them. Back when Jessie had been interrogated about her thesis by the authorities, Dr. Lemmon had shown up at the police