examiner’s team. She was bone tired. Jacky and Mrs. Springer had walked her to her hotel after she had confessed her fear of getting into a taxi driven by a man. But the memory of the talkative Mrs. Springer gave Grazia a burst of energy. She turned toward the elevators.
When she had arrived the week before, the Hotel Fiorella’s subtle European elegance and quiet charm had enchanted Grazia. The minute the uniformed doorman opened the heavy brass doors to the intimate reception area, the Manhattan traffic roar ceased. It was even quieter in the lounge off the lobby where heavy burgundy curtains blocked the street. Deep oriental carpets covered gleaming hardwood floors, and low lamps muted by green shades sat near soft sofas and armchairs. A carved wooden bar offered specialty coffees, teas, and hot chocolate.
Stanley Johnson came out of the security office and held the elevator door open for Grazia. He followed her inside the elevators and inserted his pass key-card. “How are you doing?” he asked with quiet concern as the elevator rose.
Grazia leaned her aching head against the elevator wall. “You were Detective Cargill’s partner before you retired, you said. That’s how you know about drug-facilitated, uh, assault?” She couldn’t say the word ‘rape’ but she needed to know more about this crime to recover from it.
“That’s right, Miss. Detective Cargill and I worked on a number of cases in the East Village and one near Gramercy Park. Cargill was instrumental in clearing it out.”
“Do you think Manuel took me to my room and . . . like Detective Cargill says?” Grazia’s voice trembled.
“No, I do not.” Stanley Johnson shook his head emphatically. “Manuel has been a solid, reliable employee for the two years I’ve been chief of hotel security. Besides, someone would have noticed if he had left the reception desk. Guests and hotel staff are always coming through the lobby, even at late hours.”
“Could Manuel have looked the other way and let a strange man take me to my room?”
“No, Miss! Manuel would never have done that, especially if you didn’t look well.” Stanley shook his head in bewilderment. “I’m baffled. I called his wife in Flushing. She keeps insisting he’s in Italy. I’m driving out to see her this evening; maybe she’ll tell me more in person. Believe me, Miss Conti, I want the truth as much as you do.”
Detective Cargill was waiting by her room door. “The criminologists are done,” he reported cheerfully. “All they need are your fingerprints and a cheek swab for DNA so they can distinguish your DNA from the other DNA they find in the room.”
A quick swab wiped the inside of Grazia’s cheek, and her inked finger pads were rolled onto a sheet of white paper. Then she was alone in her room while Stanley and Cargill held a murmured conference with the medical examiner’s team in the hall. She looked around at the Lord & Taylor shopping bags lying empty, her new clothes littering the floor, her stripped bed, and the white fingerprint dust covering the furniture and doorknobs. Grazia’s knees went weak. She sat abruptly in the chair by the round table. Stanley entered, closing his cell phone.
“Housekeeping is sending a team to clean this up. It’s best if you wait in my office.”
Downstairs in Stanley’s office, Cargill tossed his jacket over a chair and eyed Grazia, slumped on the small sofa. “You need to eat, Miss Conti. Hamburger? No,” he amended at her look of revulsion. “Vegetarian. I’ll call a place on Second Avenue. They’ll send over tomato-carrot soup and a broccoli wrap. That’s what the guys at the station order. Personally, I never touch the stuff.”
Telephone order completed, Cargill pulled his chair around to face Grazia. She was sipping hot chocolate brought to her by Stanley and feeling slightly revived. Cargill flipped open his notebook. “Let me tell you what the medical examiner’s criminologists found in your
When she had arrived the week before, the Hotel Fiorella’s subtle European elegance and quiet charm had enchanted Grazia. The minute the uniformed doorman opened the heavy brass doors to the intimate reception area, the Manhattan traffic roar ceased. It was even quieter in the lounge off the lobby where heavy burgundy curtains blocked the street. Deep oriental carpets covered gleaming hardwood floors, and low lamps muted by green shades sat near soft sofas and armchairs. A carved wooden bar offered specialty coffees, teas, and hot chocolate.
Stanley Johnson came out of the security office and held the elevator door open for Grazia. He followed her inside the elevators and inserted his pass key-card. “How are you doing?” he asked with quiet concern as the elevator rose.
Grazia leaned her aching head against the elevator wall. “You were Detective Cargill’s partner before you retired, you said. That’s how you know about drug-facilitated, uh, assault?” She couldn’t say the word ‘rape’ but she needed to know more about this crime to recover from it.
“That’s right, Miss. Detective Cargill and I worked on a number of cases in the East Village and one near Gramercy Park. Cargill was instrumental in clearing it out.”
“Do you think Manuel took me to my room and . . . like Detective Cargill says?” Grazia’s voice trembled.
“No, I do not.” Stanley Johnson shook his head emphatically. “Manuel has been a solid, reliable employee for the two years I’ve been chief of hotel security. Besides, someone would have noticed if he had left the reception desk. Guests and hotel staff are always coming through the lobby, even at late hours.”
“Could Manuel have looked the other way and let a strange man take me to my room?”
“No, Miss! Manuel would never have done that, especially if you didn’t look well.” Stanley shook his head in bewilderment. “I’m baffled. I called his wife in Flushing. She keeps insisting he’s in Italy. I’m driving out to see her this evening; maybe she’ll tell me more in person. Believe me, Miss Conti, I want the truth as much as you do.”
Detective Cargill was waiting by her room door. “The criminologists are done,” he reported cheerfully. “All they need are your fingerprints and a cheek swab for DNA so they can distinguish your DNA from the other DNA they find in the room.”
A quick swab wiped the inside of Grazia’s cheek, and her inked finger pads were rolled onto a sheet of white paper. Then she was alone in her room while Stanley and Cargill held a murmured conference with the medical examiner’s team in the hall. She looked around at the Lord & Taylor shopping bags lying empty, her new clothes littering the floor, her stripped bed, and the white fingerprint dust covering the furniture and doorknobs. Grazia’s knees went weak. She sat abruptly in the chair by the round table. Stanley entered, closing his cell phone.
“Housekeeping is sending a team to clean this up. It’s best if you wait in my office.”
Downstairs in Stanley’s office, Cargill tossed his jacket over a chair and eyed Grazia, slumped on the small sofa. “You need to eat, Miss Conti. Hamburger? No,” he amended at her look of revulsion. “Vegetarian. I’ll call a place on Second Avenue. They’ll send over tomato-carrot soup and a broccoli wrap. That’s what the guys at the station order. Personally, I never touch the stuff.”
Telephone order completed, Cargill pulled his chair around to face Grazia. She was sipping hot chocolate brought to her by Stanley and feeling slightly revived. Cargill flipped open his notebook. “Let me tell you what the medical examiner’s criminologists found in your
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