Tamony. It will be waiting at the back entrance when you’re ready to go.”
“Thanks, hon,” Bobbi said, waving her hand distractedly as she walked toward the front entrance.
It would have been nice to find a moment to breathe, but one of the Belgians moved from in front of the long, black lacquered reservation desk to her station at the far end. “We wish tickets for a big Broadway show, si vous ne vous occupez pas.”
“Of course, Monsieur Michaud. Would you like to see a list of the shows that are currently available?” Mia responded in French.
He nodded, then glanced around the lobby. “When will these movie people leave? So much noise,” he said. “Very annoying.”
“I’m afraid they’ll be here for the rest of your stay. They’ve reserved their rooms for the entire month of June.”
He snorted as Mia gave him a printout of the most popular shows. Not all of them, actually. Just the ones she could get tickets for.
He perused the list for several moments and Mia took advantage of the tiny break to quietly jot down notes about the pillows and the limo.
“This one.” Michaud pointed to one of the long-running shows that rarely sold out on the weeknights.
“Is this for tonight?” she asked, holding back a sigh when he nodded. It was already three-thirty. She’d started her shift at eight that morning, so he could have come at any time, but no. The only minute for certain guests was the last minute.
It took some time to get all the details taken care of, but Monsieur Michaud left on a bright note with the tickets and finally, Mia could relax.
Well, this was the job. She’d fought hard to get here. It had helped that she’d been raised all over the world in the best of the best hotels, that both her parents were concierges, and that she spoke five languages, including French. Still, getting this job at Hush when she was only twenty-eight… Unbelievable. Most concierges didn’t even aspire to this level of hotel until they’d been on the job for at least fifteen years.
Maybe it had to do with how special Hush was, and the clientele the hotel catered to. In less dignified quarters, Hush was known as the sex hotel, but those more sophisticated understood that Hush was a haven of sensuality and luxury. A celebration of the mind, the spirit and most definitely the body.
She’d yet to meet a guest who hadn’t left with a dreamy smile and a confident walk. Although these wacky movie people might be the first.
She got on the phone with the transportation department and set up Bobbi Tamony’s limo with a driver she knew personally, then with Theresa, the housekeeping manager, to secure Weinberg’s pillows, at least six from different suppliers. Neither of them had to mention that the Hush house pillows were some of the finest in the world. Everyone who stayed at Hush, at least the ones who thought they were Very Important People, had their own litmus tests for just how important they were. Sometimes it was the turndown service: the shades exactly three-quarters drawn, Godiva chocolates on the end table. Often it had to do with the liquor, particularly the champagne. Today it was pillows.
She answered a dozen successive calls, each of them sending her to her computer where she was plugged into a very exclusive and private Web site connecting concierges from every major hotel in the world. If she couldn’t get her hands on something, one of her compatriots would, and eventually, all was well.
One thing about her job—the day certainly sped by. She hadn’t been able to break away today, not even for lunch, which meant she’d missed her opportunity to sneak down to Exhibit A, the nightclub in Hush’s basement, and watch the filming. But the movie company would be here for the rest of the month. In fact tonight her friends Carlane, an assistant concierge at the Helmsley and Jenna, a concierge at the Algonquin, were coming to meet her for dinner, followed by drinks at Erotique, the Hush bar.
It wasn’t kosher to spend much time there, at least for her, but they were dying to see Danny Austen, the star of the film. In all likelihood they’d get their chance. He was something of a lush and a major flirt, but he was sweet and he hadn’t been too, too demanding.
A ruckus at the restaurant had her leaning over her desk to see, but it was only the paparazzi. Or one paparazzo. Gerry Geiger. Trying yet again to gain access to the hotel. Piper had hired extra security to deal with the photographers and for the most part it had gone well. Except for Gerry. He was the trickiest son-of-a-gun of them all. The new security guys were on the spot, and with a minimum of fuss, things were back to normal. Well, as normal as Hush hotel ever got.
Back online she grinned when she read a plea from the Vegas Hard Rock Hotel concierge, hoping someone knew how to get six bat hearts. Bat hearts had to be available somewhere, and she was going to do her best to find them. Find them first.
It was exactly the type of game she liked best. When most people thought of a concierge, they thought of service. But for Mia, it was all about the hunt. The more impossible the request, the more she was in her element.
She sighed happily as she set to the task. It was yet another day in paradise.
DETECTIVE BAX MILLIGAN was in hell.
Not just because his regular partner was in the hospital with a broken pelvis, but the mook had hurt himself washing his car, and he’d managed to do it before he’d done any of the paperwork on the Fitzgerald murder.
Bax took another sip of coffee, sighed miserably, then got back to it. Page after page of cop speak about a case that wasn’t getting solved anytime soon. Damn it to hell, too many cases weren’t getting solved and that was the only part of the damn job he liked.
He kept writing words no regular human would ever say, careful not to miss a comma because nowadays it was more about procedure and protocol than catching the bad guys.
Well, he’d had it. Three months from now, marked with bold Xs on his desk calendar, he was outta here. He was moving to Colorado—Boulder to be precise. At the ripe old age of thirty-six, he was going back to school to finish his master’s, and maybe get his Ph. D. The long-term plan was to teach and write, the emphasis on writing. He’d find himself a nice little college and talk about books, all kinds, read until he couldn’t turn another page. In Boulder, he’d have friends who didn’t give him shit about his books. Who didn’t think he was a pussy for talking about Dickens. Three more months filled with death and gangs and god-damned paperwork.
He’d even lined up a part-time job at the university library. Not a lot of money, but he’d been socking away his pennies for a hell of a long time, just waiting.
He could barely remember the impetus that had led him to join the NYPD. Probably reading too many Robert B. Parker novels. As he turned to the next page and began filling in the little boxes, he had to stop himself from reciting the old litany of his failures: Failure to recognize from the start that being a cop, let alone a homicide detective, was not for him. Failure to see that New York, which he’d loved the moment he’d arrived, had fallen from grace as he’d come to truly know the city. Failure to get the hell out at the first signs of disillusion.
He lifted his mug, but the coffee was gone. Seeking any escape he could from the forms on his desk, he headed to the coffeepot, past the rows of desks and all the chatter, past the men who loved the job, or at least tolerated the bullshit better. If Miguel had been here, at least he could have bitched to someone, but Miguel was a klutz and therefore out of commission basking in the attention of his wife and two kids.
