He shook his head. “I couldn’t authorize that,” he said. “I really couldn’t. You’re a private citizen, not a policeman, and while I did want to cooperate there’s a limit to my authority here. If the police should make an official request—”

“I realize I’m asking a favor.”

“If it were the sort of favor I could grant—”

“It’s an imposition,” I went on, “and I’d certainly expect to pay for the time involved, the time and inconvenience.”

It would have worked at a smaller hotel, but here I was wasting my time. I don’t think he even realized I was offering him a bribe. He said again that he’d be glad to go along if the police made the request for me, and this time I let it lie. I asked instead if I could borrow the Jones registration card long enough to have a photocopy made.

“Oh, we have a machine right here,” he said, grateful to be able to help. “Just wait one moment.”

He came back with a copy. I thanked him and he asked if there was anything else, his tone suggesting he was confident there wouldn’t be. I said I’d like a look at the room she died in.

“But the police have quite finished there,” he said. “The room’s in a transitional state now. The carpet had to be replaced, you see, and the walls painted.”

“I’d still like to see it.”

“There’s really nothing to see. I think there are workmen in there today. The painters are gone, I believe, but I think the carpet installers—”

“I won’t get in their way.”

He gave me a key and let me go up myself. I found the room and congratulated myself on my ability as a detective. The door was locked. The carpet installers looked to be on their lunch break. The old carpet had been removed, and new carpet covered about a third of the floor, with more of it rolled up awaiting installation.

I spent a few minutes there. As the man had assured me, there was really nothing to see. The room was as empty of traces of Kim as it was of furniture. The walls were bright with fresh paint and the bathroom fairly sparkled. I walked around like some psychic practitioner, trying to pick up vibrations through the tips of my fingers. If there were any vibrations present, they eluded me.

The window faced downtown, the view chopped up by the facades of other tall buildings. Through a gap between two of them I could catch a glimpse of the World Trade Center all the way downtown.

Had she had time to look out the window? Had Mr. Jones looked out the window, before or afterward?