Do Not Disturb Read online

  “Faraday here.”

  “Ainsley,” a big male voice boomed. “How the hell are you?”

  “I’m good, Frank. Very good.” She braced herself. “What can I do for you?”

  “Cancel whatever dinner plans you have for tomorrow and send a car to the airport. I’ll be landing at O’Hare at eight and I’d love to see you.”

  Ainsley caught her breath. Frank Evans didn’t fly around the country. He summoned his minions to his plush offices on Park Avenue if he needed to talk to them in person. She wasn’t fooled by his “I’d love to see you” comment. Ainsley knew she was his favorite location manager, but being favorite had never extended beyond professional accolades. She had no personal relationship with Frank. Dinner would be strictly business. Though she was dying of curiosity about the sudden visit, she knew better than to ask questions.

  “I’ll pick you up myself. Dinner at the hotel or somewhere else?”

  “Let’s check out the competition. Charlie Trotter’s. Send a car and I’ll meet you there for their nine o’clock seating.” Frank clicked off the line.

  Ainsley stared at the phone in her hand. Everything about Frank was a test, including his dinner suggestion. Charlie Trotter’s was competition for no one. She was supposed to get dinner reservations a day in advance at a restaurant traditionally booked months ahead. On a Friday night, no less. Luckily, she had better connections and more savvy than the two rookies working the concierge desk. She made a few quick phone calls, wondering all the while what had prompted Frank’s sudden visit to the Windy City.

  *

  Greer silently cursed the hotel staff for not leaving the curtains drawn. She had stayed in the penthouse so often she didn’t need to be reminded of the fabulous view of Lake Michigan. The blazing sunlight pouring through the window was a piercing reminder of how difficult it was to recover from her infamous parties. She knew it didn’t matter how hard it became to keep up her playgirl lifestyle, she wouldn’t let up. She barely knew half the people who attended her soirees, but at least they provided some sort of company in her otherwise solitary existence. Since she had taken the music business by storm at the age of twenty-one, she found herself surrounded by hordes of people—fans, staff, and paparazzi. The bigger the crowd, the lonelier she felt. Her rapid climb to success meant the crowds were huge, but with no friends in sight. She had learned the best she could hope for was an occasional close acquaintance, someone she could connect with once every six months or so when schedules and geography permitted their paths to cross. Macy was one of those people, but last night, after she’d tasted her first high, she became someone Greer no longer knew. Macy transformed from sweet girl next door to bigger-than-life prom queen, holding court for all her adoring subjects. Greer shrugged. She could hardly blame Macy for taking advantage of the freedom she found in the lines of coke. She was on top of the world the last time Greer had seen her and she’d probably left with one of the obsessed fans who’d wrangled their way into the party. Lord knows everyone there had been fascinated with the prom queen’s animated personality.

  Greer closed her eyes to block out the bright new day and climbed out of bed. Her only scheduled appearance for the day was an appearance on Oprah, which left her plenty of time to recover from the wild night. Bathroom first, then coffee. Not yet ready to face the day, she scrunched her eyes shut as she made her way to the oversized bathroom, cursing when she stumbled and fell into a heap on the floor.

  “Fuck!” Greer’s eyes flashed open. She was lying on the carpeted floor and she was now doubly pissed at the hotel staff since it was their fault she’d been walking with her eyes closed. Grunting, Greer rolled over and started to push herself, up but she stopped short. She wasn’t the only one lying on the floor.

  Macy didn’t look like a prom queen anymore. A prom queen doesn’t lie, half dressed, on the floor of a hotel suite with dried saliva caked on her chin. Her wide-open eyes showed hints of fear she obviously couldn’t feel anymore, and her mouth was slack.

  Greer’s hand flew to her mouth. She clamped it shut, resisting the simultaneous urges to scream and vomit. Even as she reached out to shake Macy’s shoulder, she felt the rest of her body recoil with fear. She shook Macy’s still form, at first softly, then with increasing pressure. After a few moments, she let her fingers slip away from the futile task. She knew she should lean forward, check to see if Macy was breathing, but she balked at the thought of placing herself in such close proximity to what she knew was disaster. Her thoughts raced, finally skidding into a memory of something she had seen on television. Her eyes darted around the room, finally landing on Macy’s purse lying nearby. She fished through the contents and pulled out a compact. She flipped it open and held the mirrored half near Macy’s mouth, careful not to touch her lips. Greer waited for what seemed like an eternity for fog to show her signs of life, but the mirror remained clear and bright. Greer’s hand began to shake with sharp, jerking motions, and the compact dropped to the floor. Greer’s stomach rolled and her thoughts raced. This can’t be happening. What is she doing here, in my room? Is she dead? This can’t be happening.

  She had no idea how much time has passed, but she knew she had to do something, and she had to do it now. Macy was either dead or dying, smack in the middle of Greer’s suite, the likely victim of a drug overdose. Greer swallowed the lumps of fear rising up to choke her and stumbled over to the nightstand. She picked up the phone and hesitated only a moment before dialing Rick’s room.

  *

  Greer was sitting on the balcony, but she could still hear the exchange taking place in her bedroom. She felt as if they must be talking about some other Ms. Davis. Surely she wasn’t the subject of this heated conversation between Chicago homicide detectives and a small army of sharp-dressed lawyers, all standing in a room draped in crime scene tape. Rick was the only person in the room she knew. The suits were all lackeys for the record label—the most expensive, high-powered legal team money could buy. She didn’t care to know their names. All she wanted was for all of them to clear out of her suite.

  “I’m going to need to talk to Ms. Davis at the station.”

  “Ms. Davis will be happy to cooperate with your investigation, but she’s not coming to the police station. Tell us what you’d like to know and we’ll get you the information.”

  “Counselor, I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here.”

  “We called you, Detective. Let’s not forget our cooperation. Ms. Davis is traumatized by these events and the loss of a good friend. You will ask your questions through us or not at all.”

  Greer didn’t engage in the battle of wills taking place in her suite. She knew Rick would make sure her interests were protected, but she hoped they all cleared out soon. She was scheduled to be at Harpo Studios in less than three hours.

  *

  Ainsley leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her face. She’d had to burn several favors, but she’d secured a table for Friday night. She had given up a comp suite for the following weekend, box seats to a Cubs game, and she had canceled a hot date with Francesca, a flight attendant who sometimes shared her bed on occasional layovers. Frank wouldn’t appreciate the extent of her efforts. He was a results-oriented individual, but she was still pleased with herself.

  “Ms. Faraday?”

  Apparently the few moments she’d spent making reservations for dinner with her boss were the only ones she was going to get to herself today. Ainsley looked up at her assistant. “Yes?”

  “You might want to turn on the news.” The suggestion was delivered with an urgent tone. Ainsley reached for a remote and clicked to the local ABC affiliate.

  “Reporters have been confined to the first floor of the Tinsley Hotel for the last hour, but sources report a representative from the police department will be making a statement before noon. For a summary of what we know so far, let’s turn to Becky Duncan, live on the scene. Becky, tell us what’s happening.”

  “Thanks, Greg. H
ere’s what I can tell you so far.” She ticked the points off on each finger. “Macy Rivers was found dead this morning in the penthouse of the hotel. She is not a registered guest. The penthouse was registered to Greer Davis. We don’t know anything else for sure at this point.”

  “Becky, is there any speculation as to what happened?”

  “A source within the hotel, who preferred to remain anonymous, did tell us about a party last night in Greer Davis’s suite, and now the place is crawling with Chicago’s finest. Word is Ms. Davis is still in the hotel and she’s being held for questioning.”

  “Isn’t she scheduled to appear on Oprah this afternoon?”

  “Right, Greg. No word yet on whether the queen of daytime has heard the recent developments, but we’ll be on the scene till we have some answers. Reporting live from the Tinsley Hotel, I’m Becky Duncan.”

  Ainsley clicked the power off and shook her head. “Better make sure we’re ready to deal with any spillover from the Tinsley. I imagine there will be plenty of people looking for rooms in a hotel not surrounded by crime scene tape. And tell the chief of security I want to meet with his crew before the night shift. I don’t want any parties with dead guests at a Steel Hotel.”

  *

  “Out of the question!” Rick’s tone signaled another temper tantrum was on the way.

  “Why not? She’s not going to ask about Macy. For God’s sake, it’s Oprah, not Crossfire.” Appearing on the show was the only highlight in an otherwise laborious press junket. Besides, she could use a dose of Oprah’s touchy-feely charm after waking up to find Macy dead in a heap in her beautiful penthouse suite. Why should Macy’s downward spiral swirl away her dreams? “I’m the only guest today. I can’t cancel with no notice.”

  “She’s a professional. She’ll understand a helluva lot better than her viewers would if you’re on their TV screens when they expect you to be grieving.”

  Greer had no independent recollection of any specific words spoken during the few minutes she spent apologizing to Oprah for having to cancel. All she remembered was an overwhelming sense of acceptance and warmth. She understood how Oprah was able to get everyone to open up to her. Rick had grabbed her the minute she left Oprah’s dressing room and hustled her out of the building.

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  He had a limo waiting and they dashed from the studio to the waiting car. Greer noticed a large crowd outside the studio, but when she saw many of them were holding signs, she decided they weren’t fans, but merely a group gathering for a protest of some kind. The car crept through rush-hour traffic toward the Tinsley. Greer took advantage of the slow commute and poured a stiff drink. She hadn’t realized how stressed she was. She settled back in the leather seat and let the warm burn of whisky settle her nerves.

  “Rick, how much longer until we get back to the hotel? I’m meeting Ethan for dinner, and I need time for a nice long nap first.” Ethan Benavides was one of Greer’s oldest friends. He was in Chicago with the traveling production of Phantom of the Opera, and tonight was his off night. She knew Ethan from college when they performed campy musical reviews at Hershey Park during the summers to earn tuition money. Ethan went on to perform in Broadway productions, while Greer formed a band that launched her into stardom. Their respective travel schedules made it difficult for them to connect more than a couple of times a year. Greer was anxious to see him.

  “Honey, I don’t think you’re going to want to go out tonight.”

  “Hell yes, I am. I haven’t seen Ethan in months. We have reservations at Charlie Trotter’s. Rumor is Charlie himself will be there tonight.” She wondered what was behind Rick’s conclusion. He knew she was a major foodie and despised the strict diet he insisted on. “I could use a night out after all I’ve been through. Oh, and I swear I’ll work off all seven courses in the hotel gym tomorrow.”

  “No, dear. It’s just…well. You might have an increased number of followers, and I want some time to beef up security. Besides, I think it would look better if you stayed in for a while.”

  “Seriously? I’m not the one who decided to party my brains out last night. Look, I’m sorry Macy’s dead, but why does her decision to let loose get to dictate my every move? Besides, Ethan and I are perfectly capable of slipping away to dinner without attracting a crowd.”

  Rick shook his head while simultaneously pointing out the tinted window of their car. Greer followed the direction of his hand and gasped. They were down the block from the entrance of the Tinsley Hotel and they wouldn’t be able to get any closer in the limo. Crowds hoisting signs thronged the street and lined the steps to the hotel entrance. Greer squinted, trying to figure out the source of this popular protest. Signs were everywhere: “Just Say No,” “Get out, Greer,” “We Love Macy.” The protestors competed for space with dozens of the paparazzi wielding notebooks and cameras as they surged into the street. Greer realized the massive crowd was gathered because of her, and the knowledge made her sick. She grabbed Rick’s arm and squeezed. He looked at her and wasted no time responding, shouting to the driver, “Don’t stop. Head back up Michigan.”

  *

  “How is New York?” Ainsley wasn’t used to making small talk with her boss, but they were already into the sixth course and Frank had dropped no hints about the reason for his impromptu visit. She had to admit the food was excellent and, except for the pesky crowd of reporters outside, the evening had progressed splendidly. But dinner at Charlie Trotter’s was a three-hour event, minimum, and Ainsley was beginning to wonder if Frank was going to wait until the check came to get to the point of his visit.

  “Actually, I’ve been in New Mexico for the past week. I flew here directly from Albuquerque.”

  Ainsley’s mind conjured up visions of desert plains and tumbleweeds. She had trouble picturing the sleek man sitting across from her traversing a prairie in his silk Armani suits. Frank enjoyed life’s creature comforts as much as she. She knew many vacationed in the sparsely populated Western state, but she couldn’t imagine why. When she vacationed, which was seldom, she preferred city life with all its attendant amenities. Frank looked as if he expected her to remark on his recent trip, so she commented, “I hear it’s a quiet destination.”

  Frank laughed. “You’ve never been to New Mexico?” At Ainsley’s nod, he continued. “It’s a beautiful state, a huge draw to tourists looking for rugged vistas. Our research shows those same tourists are increasingly on the hunt for luxurious accommodations from which to appreciate all the state’s natural beauty.”

  Frank droned on for a few more moments describing the beauty of his recent destination. The first two hours of dinner had lulled Ainsley into a food coma. She listened politely to Frank’s remarks, but her mind didn’t register the idle conversation actually had a specific purpose. When Frank finally got around to the point, she missed it entirely.

  “And I need your help.”

  Ainsley reached for her espresso and downed the scorching tablespoons of black adrenaline. She needed to shake the sleepy haze of the past six courses of extravagant dishes and focus on what Frank had just said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I think you’ll be a perfect fit. Mergers and Acquisitions has already done most of the due diligence. You’ll head up the transition team. The current manager is also one of the former owners, and she’ll be staying on. I need you to bring the property in line with our standards. I don’t imagine it will take more than a month.” He wasn’t trying to sell her on the idea. Frank’s tone and expression conveyed the deal was done. He expected her to accept her new responsibilities with the same enthusiasm she had accepted every other assignment in her years of employment.

  Ainsley cursed her lack of attention. What was he talking about? What property, where? How in the hell did she miss the turn in the conversation? She concentrated on asking a few pointed questions designed to gather information without revealing her inattention. “What’s the exact location?”

  “Pala
ce Ave. It’s just yards from the plaza. You’ll love it. Over half the rooms have a view of the Sangre de Cristos. You can walk to some of the best restaurants, galleries, and shops in town.”

  Sangre de Cristos? For the life of her, Ainsley had no idea what he was talking about. It sounded like a church. Logic told her whatever he was talking about was probably in New Mexico, but she was lost as to any additional detail. Suddenly, she was desperate for dinner to be over so she could Google the answers. She contemplated a trip to the ladies’ room so she could use her BlackBerry to gather information, but the restaurant manager suddenly appeared at their table.

  “Good evening, Ms. Faraday. Would you and your dinner companion like a tour of Mr. Trotter’s studio kitchen?”

  Frank’s face lit up and Ainsley gave a silent curse. Normally, she would have welcomed the opportunity to impress her boss with the perks she was able to garner in her home city, but tonight all she could think about was filling in the blanks of their dinner conversation. She forced a smile and followed Frank to the inner sanctum of the restaurant, all the while wondering what she had gotten herself into.

  *

  “When you invited me for dinner, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  Greer punched Ethan in the ribs and wrestled the jar of macadamias away from him. She knew he would never let anyone else see him eating all the junk food from the honor bar, but he would gladly indulge in course after course of hoity-toity food in public. The difference was simple: one was worth hours in the gym, and the other was not. She had to admit she was disappointed at missing their dinner reservations too. “Do you think this is my idea of gastronomic orgasm? I had it on good authority, Charlie Trotter himself was going to be on site this evening. I’ve had those reservations for months. Some tourist with no taste is probably sitting at the table meant for us, plowing their way through all eight courses. This sucks.”