Chapter 7: The Buyer

"I don't know yet," I told her. "But I will, and I'll tell you first."

The woman in the straw hat looked at me for a long second.

"Your father used to say that," she said. "And then he did it."

"Then I'm going to do it."

I took her up to my office, called her bank on speaker and stayed on the line until her card was dead.

Noah went down to the bar and came back with a sherry.

She drank it in two swallows and told him he had kind hands.

He went red to the ears, and I enjoyed that more than I should have.

When she'd gone up to bed, I sat down at the front desk beside the young clerk.

"Who's been in the guest system," I said. "Not who's allowed. Who's been in it."

She looked at the back office door.

Then she looked at me.

"Mr. Halberd's assistant," she whispered.

"Last week. She had me run a full export."

"Every guest for five years, cards, addresses, birthdays, everything. She said it was for a marketing partner."

"Did she say which partner?"

"No. But I heard her on the phone after. Tuesday, four o'clock, the Palm Bar. Bring the drive."

Tuesday was two days away.

The Palm Bar is the Bellweather's oldest room, all mahogany and potted palms and a ceiling fan that never quite turns.

At three-forty-five on Tuesday I was in the corner booth with a club soda and a novel I wasn't reading.

Noah sat at the bar in a golf shirt and a cap, nursing a beer and watching a baseball game on mute.

At four the buyer came in.

Fifties, sunburned, a golf visor and a briefcase.

He took the booth by the window.

At four-ten, the night supervisor came in from the lobby, in his day clothes, carrying a padded envelope.

He saw me in the corner and froze.

I raised my club soda at him.

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