This meant getting his hands on the camera. And the way he planned to do that could technically be considered breaking and entering. But Wellstone brushed this aside. This could go under the heading of true investigative reporting—on the level of the Pentagon Papers or Deep Throat.
Just then, Wellstone saw movement at Ye Sleepe’s main entrance. A burly-looking man—the same Cro-Magnon bastard who had pushed him away from Betts in the restaurant—came out onto the street. He was followed by the scruffy-looking young man Wellstone knew was Betts’s researcher. These two were followed in quick succession by the attractive DP; Betts himself, the fartbiter—and then, Deo gratias, Moller. Wellstone noticed the charlatan was not carrying his case.
That meant he must have left it in his room. Exactly as Wellstone hoped.
A few more people joined the entourage; they milled around outside the lobby for a minute or two, then set off down State Street toward Barnard.
Now he rose, fresh club soda untouched; dropped a twenty on the table; and moved quickly out into the lobby and onto the street. As usual, he hadn’t anticipated the heat and humidity, which wrapped him like a soggy Hudson Bay blanket. There weren’t many streetlights here, especially on the far side where the parking lot was broken up and being repaved, and Wellstone could just make out Betts’s group as they turned onto Barnard and disappeared.
Still moving quickly, yet careful not to arouse curiosity or suspicion, he crossed the street. He’d planned this down to the last detail—but that didn’t mean he could afford to dawdle.
He walked along the fa?ade of Ye Sleepe, ducking past the construction barricades at the far end and turning into the parking lot. It quickly grew even darker. He paused to make sure nobody was around and no security cameras were aimed his way. Except for some paving equipment, he was alone and essentially invisible in the darkness.
Hurrying along, he counted the windows until he reached Moller’s room. He tried peering in, but the curtains were tightly closed. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he pressed his fingers against the window, feeling appraisingly along its lower edge.
It didn’t open from the outside. No surprise there. But—thank God—it wasn’t one of those sealed portholes one found in modern hotels that made you feel you were inside a fish tank. Reaching into his pocket, Wellstone pulled out a narrow-bladed chisel and a rubber mallet. Inserting the chisel into the gap between the window and the sill, he tapped quietly with the mallet—once, twice, three times—until the steel end of the chisel was seated firmly in the narrow channel. Then, grasping the end of the chisel, he pushed up, gently at first and then with increasing force. If he could possibly avoid it, he didn’t want to break the glass—that would mean switching to the less appealing plan B, in which he’d have to overturn things and make it appear an aborted robbery. But luck remained with him: the window was unlocked and the sash slid up easily and noiselessly.
He raised the window about two feet, then turned and once more made a careful reconnoiter. He was in complete darkness, and in any case the closest person he could see was in a car waiting at a streetlight two blocks away. Quickly, hand on the sash, he hoisted one leg over, then the other, slipping between the curtains and letting them close again behind him. No point in shutting the window: he didn’t plan to be here long.
He took out a flashlight and, using its low beam, looked around the room. With a rush of adrenaline, he saw Moller’s unmistakable equipment case, closed and sitting on the floor at the end of the bed. Now there was no doubt: he was in the right room. Daisy’s images had shown that the case was zippered and latched. Moving quickly to the door, he examined its locks. In addition to the usual hotel doorknob, it had both a chain and a hinged privacy bolt. He couldn’t secure the chain—that would be a dead giveaway—but he could swing the small latch halfway across the jamb, which would buy him extra time while not arousing suspicion. This probably wouldn’t be necessary, but Wellstone wasn’t the kind to take chances.
Now he returned to the suitcase at the end of the bed. Leaving his flashlight on and placing it on a side table, he took out his phone and snapped several shots of Moller’s case from different angles. Would it be locked? He lifted it and placed it gently on the foot of the bed. It was surprisingly heavy. He unzipped it and tried the latches, and they snapped open—unlocked! He took a brief video of its contents, plucking out one item after another and turning it this way and that for the camera. He’d seen a lot of this stuff already, thanks to Daisy, but up close the items appeared a lot more fake, especially the silver wand, which felt as light as aluminum, and the smoked glass, distressed to look like obsidian.