A Friend in the Glass (An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery #3)

Chapter Five

People in Pods apparently offered the low-price-point option for pod-based accommodations in the Five Boroughs. Sam was able to piece that together from a sun-faded flyer taped to the inside of the hotel’s front door. The flyer said, People in Pods offers the low-price-point option for pod-based accommodations in the Five Boroughs . Right, Sam thought. Because the high-price-point option is competing with the Four Seasons.

Outside, the hotel’s frontage consisted of plate-glass windows, stainless-steel trim, and brick that had been recently smeared with what Sam fervently hoped was dog shit. Inside, the lobby looked like something Andy Warhol might have slapped together on an acid trip after someone told him to “make it look like the future”: aggressively bright primary colors, lots of chrome, and speckled linoleum that was probably designed to hide dirt tracked in off the street. Boy-band music thundered through the small space from speakers mounted in the corners, but if the volume—or the quality—bothered the bored twenty-somethings lounging and flipping pages, ironically perhaps, in outdated copies of Time Out New York , they gave no sign of it. One girl was actually asleep across an ottoman, head hanging off the edge; Sam wondered if all that blood pooling on her brain was a hazard, but he figured it couldn’t be any worse than five minutes of dealing with the city outside.

“I hate BTS,” Rufus said, addressing the music. “I hate that I can recognize them, actually. I need to hang out with Pauly Paul more often.”

“That might actually be worse,” Sam said as they approached the desk.

The clerk was youngish, bro-ish, with an expensive-looking haircut and, defying the odds, a popped collar. He was pretending to read Atlas Shrugged .

“I need to talk to one of your guests,” Sam said.

Bro looked up, not raising his head exactly, but his eyes, which gave him a much more “snotty rich boy forced to take his first job” sort of expression. “Uh, ok. And?”

“Never mind.” Sam started around the desk, heading for the elevator on the far wall.

Bro shoved the novel aside, stood from the desk, and jogged after Sam. “Hey, man . You can’t come in here if you’re not paying for a room.” He moved to cut Sam off at the elevator bank, slapping his hand over the Up button.

“Man?” Sam asked.

“Are you deaf?”

Rufus hurried after the two, wrapped both hands around one of Sam’s arms, and yanked him backward. “Don’t whip out your dick,” he whispered harshly. To Bro, he said, “Don’t call him Man or Buddy or Pal or whatever Long Island bullshit you were raised with, ok? Thanks.”

“I told you I want to talk to one of your guests,” Sam said. “Did you not understand something?”

Rufus grabbed Sam by the chin and met his eyes. “Try offering her name.”

Bro had squared his shoulders and puffed his chest out as he watched the two. He fixed his collar—made it poppier, somehow—and gave Sam an expectant “you dumb shit” kind of look.

“Shareed Baker.” Sam bared his teeth. “Now.”

“How about a ‘please’—”

“Don’t push your luck,” Rufus said over Bro.

Jutting his jaw and making a scoffing sound like he’d been told to pick up his dirty socks, Bro walked back to the counter, pausing a few times to make sure they followed, and then tip-tapped at the keyboard for a moment. Sam was slow making his way back to the desk; he wanted to see the phone, which was on the clerk’s side of the divider. Bro found the information, dialed an extension, and brought the receiver to his ear.

“I bet you wear cargo shorts in summer, right?” Rufus asked Bro as he sidled up to the desk. “Brown belt?”

“Dude, shut up.”

“Backward baseball hat,” Rufus added. “Because it makes you look cool .”

Bro rolled his eyes and said after a few more seconds, “No one’s picking up.”

“She’s probably taking a nap,” Sam said. “I’ll just go knock on her door. Which pod is she in?”

Bro put the receiver down on the cradle. “ Guy .” He said it on purpose, Sam knew. “You can’t go upstairs. You’re not a guest, and she’s not answering the phone. If you don’t leave, I’m calling the cops.”

“Fine,” Sam said and headed for the door.

He waited outside for Rufus to catch up.

“You know,” Rufus said casually, letting the door fall shut before joining Sam on the sidewalk. “I think you could take him. You might even win.”

Sam snorted. “He was wearing a Brooks Brothers polo, which means he belongs to that special group of incompetent fuckups who are protected by the Geneva Convention. How do we get back inside?”

Rufus looked like he was trying really, really hard not to laugh. “Let’s try a side entrance or something. Maybe we can catch an employee taking out trash or accepting a delivery.”

“Tell me if I miss it,” Sam said, “in case in Manhattan a service entrance is actually a manhole or a rusty fire escape or a Slip ’N Slide that takes you straight to hell.”

They headed down the block and turned at the intersection. Several plain steel fire doors studded this side of the building, and as Rufus had predicted, one of them was propped open with an overturned plastic crate. Sam slowed his pace, trying to look like this was all routine, and pulled open the door. The hallway on the other side was unremarkable—tan walls, fluorescent lights, a bulletin board with health and safety notices. It led in the general direction of the lobby and Bro-clerk. A narrow staircase, probably not up to code, climbed to Sam’s right.

“Third floor,” Sam said over his shoulder as he started up the steps.

Following close behind, Rufus asked, “How do you know?”

“Because he pressed Transfer and then 90308. And unless she’s on the 90th floor, I’m guessing she’s in 308.”

“When you’re sneaky, but also kinda crabby, I’ll be honest, I get a chub from it.”

“I know,” Sam said and took the rest of the stairs two at a time.

When they exited the stairwell, they were in a section of the hotel obviously intended for guests. The high-traffic carpet was brightly patterned. LED bulbs gave a warmer, softer light than the fluorescents downstairs. The walls had some sort of pink-and-silver-flecked paper that was apparently approved by the Andy Warhol Commission-on-the-Future-and-wait-this-is-a-hotel. Plastic plaques mounted by each door indicated the number.

It wasn’t like the clickbait images Sam had seen online, pictures from Tokyo or who knew where, of people climbing into coffin-sized openings stacked on top of each other. Pods—in the US, anyway—apparently meant very, very, small hotel rooms. They passed an open door; the sound of movement came from within, and Sam could see the bunkbeds and the sliding door to a bathroom with approximately the same dimensions as a matchbook. In front of the open door stood a housekeeping cart stacked with dime-sized soaps and shampoo and conditioner capsules, everything portioned so small it wouldn’t have been enough to wash a cat. A key card propped against a stack of business cards that said Your room was cleaned by and then a line where someone had scribbled what Sam thought might say Korby. Toilet paper. Plastic-wrapped foam cups. Towels.

“Your washcloths are bigger than those,” Sam whispered.

Rufus was too busy shoving shampoo capsules in his pocket to respond, and Sam kept going before he had to decide whether hotel theft was worth intervening in.

308 stood halfway down the hall. The door was closed and, when Sam touched the handle, locked. He considered the door for a moment, considered knocking. Then, instead, he moved back down the hallway to the open door and the housekeeping cart. Whoever was straightening up—presumably Korby—was humming something with a fantastic amount of camp. Sam took the keycard and went back to 308.

“Unless now’s not convenient,” Sam said, glancing at Rufus’s bulging pockets.

“Give me a break. Shampoo’s expensive.” Rufus held up one of the capsules. “Look at this: coconut. I’m gonna smell great for the next week.”

“Mother of God,” Sam said under his breath and tapped the keycard against the reader.

A green light flashed. The electronic lock disengaged. He eased the door inward, anticipating the resistance of a swing lock or chain. Nothing. Cool air washed past him, carrying the smell of vinegar, urine, and coconut. Sam listened. Nothing again.

When he stepped into the room, he let out a breath like he’d been socked in the gut. The woman on the bunk was dead. He knew in the first instant; it was one of those skills that, once you learned, you couldn’t unlearn. Black, on the easy side of middle age, dressed in discount-store slacks and a plasticky-looking polka-dot blouse, she had kicked off one flat, and her stockinged foot made her look caught off guard and vulnerable.

The story, if you wanted to believe it, was all laid out: a syringe and needle; doubled-over foil and the metal cap from a glass-bottle Sprite; a blue Bic lighter; the tubing eased around her upper arm.

“Fuck me,” Sam said. “You’d better call Erik.”