No one bars you from an upscale hotel as long as you’re properly dressed. I had the cab swing by my apartment and wait while I put on my wheat–colored pantsuit and some makeup. The midsummer heat continued as June inched into July; the rayon rubbed unpleasantly against my cuts and bruises, but the bellman inside the Trianon’s entrance accepted the envelope and a ten with a respectful promise to see that it was taken up to Ms. Dowell’s suite at once. I sat in an alcove off the main lobby, flipping idly through newspapers, but although the bellman assured me he’d hand–delivered my packet, no message came down for me.

Short of checking into the hotel, there wasn’t any way I could get upstairs without Lacey’s summons: the Trianon had someone stationed between the desk and the elevators to monitor traffic. I watched a discreet pantomime take place between the front–desk staff and the monitor, subtle nods allowing the blessed to pass into paradise. If I wanted to get upstairs, Lacey had to call me.

I read pages of Washington scandal, which I usually avoid; I read about the bodies hauled off the sidewalks after the weekend’s drive–bys—which I also usually skip—and even the sad ending of an unidentified man in his late thirties who’d been pulled out of the water at Belmont Harbor, but no word came for me from on high. I was starting to feel frustrated, which made my sore muscles ache more ferociously.

Maybe after another night’s rest a different way of probing at Frenada and Global would come to me, but for now all I had energy for was collecting my car—which I hoped was still sitting three blocks from Frenada’s headquarters. As I pushed myself out of the padded armchair, someone I recognized sailed through the revolving door like the Merrimac descending on a wooden frigate. Alex Fisher had such a head of steam that she ignored the doorman holding the side door wide for her. She also ignored a younger woman who was running to catch up with her.

“I can’t wait around for you,” Alex snapped in a ringing voice.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Fisher, I was paying the cab.” The young woman panted; she was pasty–faced and out of shape, probably from too many late nights dining on pizza while waiting for commands from the studio.

I had slipped behind a pillar to watch, but Alex was so wrapped up in her own business that not even a marching band could have distracted her. When the hall monitor tried to detain her, Alex jerked away and pushed the elevator call button. I was admiring her forthright tactics when Frank Siekevitz suddenly appeared at her side.