"I don't think so," she said. "She wasn't killed here, so I don't think they'd have any reason to. Even if they did," she added, "they would do it for the nights she was here, not for an hour ago."

That made me feel marginally better.

The meeting with the cops was quick and painless. They explained that they found nothing that would explain her death in Boston. Luckily, they didn't ask us if we had gone in before them. So they cleared out of the room—leaving the safe open so we could gather Izzy's belongings—and suddenly we were alone.

"I don't think we should go back to the Residence Inn. If this hotel was her secret hide-out," said Sabrina, after giving the room a once-over, "It should probably be ours too. We are probably safer here."

"I agree. Besides, I don't know about you, but I'm starving. It's dinner time and it looks like they have a decent restaurant here."

"I'll go down and reserve a room for the night." She hesitated. "I'd rather not stay in this room."

"I understand." Did I hear her say "reserve a room," and not "rooms?"

"I'll deal with this stuff later," she said. "Do you want to go move the car and bring in our things? I'll meet you in the lobby."

"Will do."

"And Del?" She had a look of concern. "Be careful."

A feeling of warmth spread through me. "I will. I'll let them valet the car. That'll keep me in public view the whole time."

I had the bellman take our bags—all except Izzy's briefcase—and I met up with Sabrina in the lobby.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, with a touch of color in her face, "I only got one room. We're probably going to be up late going through Izzy's stuff, and, to be honest, I'd feel more comfortable sharing the room."

"I think I can live with that," I said, trying hard not to smile too widely.

*****

We had a relaxing dinner, despite the fact that the log book was burning a hole in Sabrina's bag. We knew we had plenty of time to go through it, and after the events of the last few days, we needed the break.

We filled each other in on our lives. I first regaled her with the stories of some of my less fortunate ancestors, then got a bit more serious when I told her about my childhood, living with my mother and visiting my father far less frequently than I would have liked, despite him living only a mile away. He loved me in his own way, but he wasn't a father type. He was way too self-absorbed—and he knew it—to be an effective parent. A little effort on his part would have meant everything to me. My mother had confessed to me a few years earlier that she often pleaded with my father to show me some attention. He would give it a try for a few weeks, then lapse back into his old ways.