Grant Whitley came from the office beside reception carrying a leather folder. He was fifty-one, tall, beautifully dressed, and skilled at arranging his face into a welcoming expression whenever somebody with influence entered the room. His hair was neatly silver at the temples, and his cuff links bore the Wexley crest. He had managed the property for nine years, during which its revenue had generally remained respectable enough to keep corporate attention elsewhere.
He looked Odessa over from wet shoes to old scarf and made a decision before she spoke again. "The shelter's on Ninth Street," he told her. "Marcus can point the way."
"I'm looking for a room, sir," Odessa replied. "Not a shelter."
Whitley glanced down at the water collecting beneath her coat. "You're dripping on my marble."
"It's raining, sir," she said. "Most of us drip."
Paige caught the smallest change in the manager's face and knew trouble had arrived. Whitley tolerated humor from wealthy guests, especially when they were mocking somebody below them. Humor directed at him by a person he had already dismissed was another matter. He pointed toward the seating area without looking directly at Odessa.
"Wait over there. I have real guests."
Odessa followed his gesture, saw a cluster of armchairs, and chose one near the reception desk. Her legs ached, and the walk from the bakery had been longer than she expected in the rain. She sat carefully, placing the overnight bag between her shoes, and waited while Charles Hart arrived from a waiting town car. Whitley crossed the lobby to greet Hart before the man's coat was off, offering him a complimentary bottle of champagne and assuring him that his suite had been prepared exactly as requested.
"Mr. Hart, your suite is ready," Whitley said. "The champagne's on me."
Odessa watched Hart thank him with the slight embarrassment of a man who had not asked for a performance. She watched Paige check him in within seconds and Marcus carry his bags to the elevator. Then she returned her attention to Whitley, who had turned toward her chair with an expression of growing annoyance. Apparently her continuing presence had become an offense that needed correction.
"Off the chair," he said. "Those are for guests."
Odessa looked up. "I am a guest. Or I'm trying to be."
"Then try from the door. Don't drip on the velvet."
Paige stepped out from behind the counter. "Mr. Whitley, we do have a vacancy. I checked the inventory."
"Then tell her the rate."
"Eight hundred dollars for the remaining executive room," Paige said gently. "There are taxes and an incidental hold, but I can explain those before we complete anything."
Odessa opened the narrow purse tucked beneath her coat. She had counted the bills twice at home that morning, partly to make sure she had enough and partly because handling cash reminded her of the years when every purchase required a calculation. She set the notes on the counter in a tidy stack, eight hundreds with a few smaller bills prepared for taxes if the hotel accepted the arrangement. Paige began counting discreetly while Odessa reached for her identification.