Tommy Tomelson let himself into the hotel room with his own electronic key card. He was sweating, a sour, bitter odor coming from him, as he turned and both locked and barred the door. He clutched a maid’s black-and-white uniform under his left arm. Extending the dress to her, he instructed, “Put this on. And hurry!”
She stepped toward the bathroom, but Tomelson blocked her advance with an outstretched arm.
“No need to undress,” he said. “Besides, I don’t want you trapped in there.” He pointed first to the drawn blinds, then to the door behind him. “Windows and the door. Quick egress.” He turned his back to give her privacy, facing the door. “Keep your clothes on. Just get the dress on over them.”
“What’s the hurry?”
Tomelson’s eyes said it all.
“Someone’s here?”
“A guy at the front desk asked some questions,” he told her. “No idea how he found us so fast.”
Hope glanced back at the television. For the past forty-five minutes she’d been agonizing over what to do. Before running she wanted Larson back. She wanted Miller to call with more information about the e-mail Markowitz had mentioned.
Tomelson said, “I’m not taking any chances.”
She considered explaining what she’d done but ate her words. She tried to pull her pants up on her calves, but it was no use; the pant legs would stick out from beneath the dress. She inspected the garment, unzipped it, and pulled it on over her head. The top of the dress hid her shirt, but its skirt, with a mock apron sewn in place, stopped at her knees. She reached up under the dress and, kicking off her shoes, unfastened her pants and slipped them off, stepping out of them.
Tomelson located a hotel laundry bag in the closet and handed it to her. She put the pants into this bag.
There was music playing somewhere nearby. Children’s voices shouting, “Trick or treat!” Only a few days ago she and Penny had had such plans for this evening. That recollection overpowered her.
“The shoes are wrong,” she said, looking down.
Brown slip-ons with a black uniform.
Tomelson didn’t dignify that with a comment. Instead, he said, “You’ll go calmly down the hall. Use the stairs. You’ll leave out the back of the hotel, by the putting green. Head down the bike path. It’s crazy out there because of Halloween. Find someplace nice and public. When you do, call me.”
He scratched out a phone number, tore off the corner of the magazine he’d written it on, and passed it to her. His hand was shaking, either from alcohol or nerves.
Hope pocketed the number in the front of her maid’s apron.
Behind Tomelson, the door kicked in and she felt the thunder of shots fired.
Hope dived to the floor, so dizzy with fear she couldn’t see.