Failing that, you can try and bluff the folks in reception by claiming that you’ve mislaid your card. But since the room was booked in the name of a female guest who happened to be staying alone, and since Victoria wasn’t in the most amenable frame of mind to assist me just at the moment, I didn’t believe I’d try that particular technique. But I wasn’t about to cry into my sleeve, either. Because just like the garage elevator in the Tiergarten, the system employed a manual backup—there was a trusty keyhole fitted in the very center of the door handle.
I was just about to drop to my knees and give it the once-over when I heard hushed conversation from behind me. Turning around, I saw a middle-aged couple wheeling suitcases along the corridor. I rolled my eyes and patted my coat pockets like I was searching for my key card. Nope, couldn’t find it. I rolled my eyes some more. I even added a shoulder shrug, just to test my acting range, and then I curled my hand into a fist and rapped lightly on the door.
“Darling,” I cooed. “Sweet pea. I seem to have lost my key.”
The man and the woman smiled awkwardly at me, then huddled around their own door and fitted their card in the slot. The lock disengaged with a clunk and the man held the door open for his partner.
“Honey,” I persisted. “Are you in the bathroom?”
The man dragged his suitcase inside and allowed the door to close behind him.
As soon as the corridor was empty again, I searched inside my coat and removed my gloves and the spectacles case that contains my burglary tools. There was every chance I wouldn’t need my gloves. After all, this was a hotel room, and it was likely to be layered in many thousands of fingerprints. But hell, wearing gloves was one of my key rules, and given how my night had started out, now didn’t seem like the time to take chances.
My gloves were cheap, disposable numbers, made of a very fine, opaque plastic. They were also customized. Some months ago now, I’d spent a very dull evening snipping away the middle and fourth fingers on an entire box of gloves to accommodate the warped digits on my right hand. I’ll admit it’s not a perfect solution, since it makes the gloves a little more delicate than I might prefer, but I was compensating by carrying another two sets in case this pair disintegrated, and I’d wrapped surgical tape around my exposed fingertips to be certain I didn’t leave any prints.
With my gloves secured, I popped open my spectacles case and removed an aluminum raking tool and a medium torsion wrench. I’d been so active just recently that I’d treated myself to a whole new set of tools from a locksmith supply company on the Internet, and they made short work of the locking mechanism.
After only a few tweaks and twists, I heard a reassuring click, followed by another, and one more, and finally a very welcome clunk. Moving as swiftly as possible, I stepped inside the darkened room and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside of the door. Then I sighed, and rubbed my hands together, and allowed myself to relish, just for a moment, the sudden rush of endorphins that coursed through my body. I was all atingle. Another forbidden space. Another violation of privacy. Sick, I grant you, but I can’t pretend it didn’t feel good .
EIGHT
The room lights could only be triggered by slipping a key card into a slot on the wall, and since there was no override (or rather, no override that I could be troubled to find), I clicked on my pocket torch.
My penlight is tiny, but it’s powerful, and I cast the beam around to get my bearings. I found that I was standing in a short hallway with coat hooks on my left and a series of fitted cabinets and a bathroom on my right. Ahead of me, the ceiling height doubled above a living-sleeping area that ended in floor-to-ceiling windows shrouded by net curtains.
My first move was to cross the room and close the heavy fabric curtains in front of the nets.
I was just about to drop to my knees and give it the once-over when I heard hushed conversation from behind me. Turning around, I saw a middle-aged couple wheeling suitcases along the corridor. I rolled my eyes and patted my coat pockets like I was searching for my key card. Nope, couldn’t find it. I rolled my eyes some more. I even added a shoulder shrug, just to test my acting range, and then I curled my hand into a fist and rapped lightly on the door.
“Darling,” I cooed. “Sweet pea. I seem to have lost my key.”
The man and the woman smiled awkwardly at me, then huddled around their own door and fitted their card in the slot. The lock disengaged with a clunk and the man held the door open for his partner.
“Honey,” I persisted. “Are you in the bathroom?”
The man dragged his suitcase inside and allowed the door to close behind him.
As soon as the corridor was empty again, I searched inside my coat and removed my gloves and the spectacles case that contains my burglary tools. There was every chance I wouldn’t need my gloves. After all, this was a hotel room, and it was likely to be layered in many thousands of fingerprints. But hell, wearing gloves was one of my key rules, and given how my night had started out, now didn’t seem like the time to take chances.
My gloves were cheap, disposable numbers, made of a very fine, opaque plastic. They were also customized. Some months ago now, I’d spent a very dull evening snipping away the middle and fourth fingers on an entire box of gloves to accommodate the warped digits on my right hand. I’ll admit it’s not a perfect solution, since it makes the gloves a little more delicate than I might prefer, but I was compensating by carrying another two sets in case this pair disintegrated, and I’d wrapped surgical tape around my exposed fingertips to be certain I didn’t leave any prints.
With my gloves secured, I popped open my spectacles case and removed an aluminum raking tool and a medium torsion wrench. I’d been so active just recently that I’d treated myself to a whole new set of tools from a locksmith supply company on the Internet, and they made short work of the locking mechanism.
After only a few tweaks and twists, I heard a reassuring click, followed by another, and one more, and finally a very welcome clunk. Moving as swiftly as possible, I stepped inside the darkened room and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside of the door. Then I sighed, and rubbed my hands together, and allowed myself to relish, just for a moment, the sudden rush of endorphins that coursed through my body. I was all atingle. Another forbidden space. Another violation of privacy. Sick, I grant you, but I can’t pretend it didn’t feel good .
EIGHT
The room lights could only be triggered by slipping a key card into a slot on the wall, and since there was no override (or rather, no override that I could be troubled to find), I clicked on my pocket torch.
My penlight is tiny, but it’s powerful, and I cast the beam around to get my bearings. I found that I was standing in a short hallway with coat hooks on my left and a series of fitted cabinets and a bathroom on my right. Ahead of me, the ceiling height doubled above a living-sleeping area that ended in floor-to-ceiling windows shrouded by net curtains.
My first move was to cross the room and close the heavy fabric curtains in front of the nets.
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