California Schemin' - Kate George [11]
An irrational feeling of relief washed over me when the driver unloaded my bag at the front of the hotel. Nothing bad had happened, and I hadn’t been required to muscle my two-ton bag through the bowels of Washington. A bellhop practically ran through the rotating door and took charge of my luggage. I’d have to remember to stay in first class hotels more often.
I smiled at the desk clerk and handed him the business card that Sheriff Fogel had given me. The clerk immediately stood a little straighter. He began tapping furiously on the keyboard.
“Would you like an upper or lower floor, Ms. MacGowan?”
“Upper, I think, as close to the top as I can get.” I was thinking a nice view would be good. Maybe I’d get lucky and get a view of the National Mall. Hah! More likely it would be an alley or a brick office building within arm’s reach of my window.
“I have a penthouse suite on the top floor. The elevator has a special key so no one can come up without your permission. Would that be to your liking?”
“I don’t really think that’s necessary, and I’m not sure Fogel would want to pay for that, um, fancy a room.” I wasn’t supposed to say anything about who I was or who was paying, but this was ridiculous. A penthouse suite?
“The room is complimentary, madam. There is no need for you to worry. Is there anything else you will be needing? I can have meals sent to your room.”
“That would be fine. Thank you.”
He handed me a card key that operated the elevator and opened the room. The bellhop escorted me up in the gilt-lined lift to the top floor. What he must have been thinking I had no clue. The elevator doors were mirrored. My reflection showed tousled brown hair, rumpled T-shirt, faded jeans and my dirty black cowboy boots. I looked slightly disreputable and very rumpled after the flight, but they were treating me like some kind of dignitary. Or a fugitive.
I tipped the bellhop at the elevator after he dragged my suitcase into the hallway. Across from the elevators a set of shiny red doors framed with gold filigree faced me. I slid my card key through the electronic lock on the double doors. They opened into the suite, and I caught my breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city from three sides. From where I was standing I could see Washington through the open living area. History oozed from the city.
I dropped my suitcase and flung my purse onto the bed. I sank onto the couch and dug my cell out of my pocket. I didn’t know who to call first, Meg, who would be awed, or Beau, who must know what Fogel had said to the hotel to get me such a fabulous room.
I called Beau first, just so I could get the scoop and tell Meg. It would be so much more satisfying if I could tell her the whole story.
“So,” I said after I’d updated him on my flight, “what did I do to get the penthouse suite overlooking DC? I’ve got a special key to the elevator and everything.” I flipped the key card in my hand thinking of possibilities.
“Fogel pulled some strings and got you in under witness protection. I don’t know what he actually told the hotel, but from what I understand, they think you’re either a visiting dignitary, an undercover agent, a fugitive from another country or a movie star with somebody stalking you. The truth never entered the picture. It’s immaterial to the hotel. The chain gets paid to keep a certain number of rooms free across the country, and law enforcement can put anyone they want into them.”
“So the guy that checked me in thinks I’m a spy?” This was too good to be true.
“Probably. Promise me you won’t do anything foolish there.”
“Won’t even leave the room, most likely.” Well, probably, anyway.
I would stay in the hotel. I felt safe in my tower with the outrageous view and room service. I took a shower. At first I was self conscious about the lack of curtains, then I figured anyone diligent enough to