“Just a nightcap, what do you say?”
“One drink,” he said, “and then I’ve got to go.”
“You got a deal.”
McNeal and the woman took the elevator to her room on the seventh floor. She swiped her room card, and he followed her inside.
“Make yourself at home,” she said. “You mind fixing me a vodka martini? And have whatever you want. It’s all in the minibar.”
The woman went into the bathroom. “I’m just going to freshen up for a few moments.”
McNeal needed to keep his wits about him. He fixed her a drink and poured a shot of Talisker single malt for himself. He looked around the room. Spotless. Tasteful. The woman’s handbag on the writing desk.
“I’ll just be a couple more minutes,” she shouted from the bathroom. “You got the drinks ready?”
“Almost.”
McNeal’s senses kicked into high gear. His cop background made him naturally suspicious. He thought there was something scripted and unsettling about her hyperconfident manner. The way she had seemed to insert herself into his life. He really couldn’t place her face, and it bothered him.
He walked over to the writing desk and began to rifle through the contents of her handbag.
“I like a strong drink,” she shouted.
McNeal opened her wallet. He pulled out credit cards and a Florida driver’s license. She lived in Delray Beach. Her ID showed her name as Francesca Luca. His instincts had been correct. She was an imposter. He put the cards and wallet back in the purse, zipped it up again.
What the hell was going on?
A few moments later the woman stepped out of the bathroom. She wore coral-pink lingerie. Panties and bra.
“What do you think of the new fall collection?”
McNeal smiled at her. “Very nice.” He stepped forward and pressed his gun to her head. “Who the fuck are you? And who sent you?”
The woman began to blink away tears. “Whoa, Jack. What’s this?”
“Answer my fucking questions. Who are you? Who sent you?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I thought you wanted to relax. Have a drink. Have some fun. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Francesca, is that your name?”
The woman shut her eyes tight and shook her head.
“Long way from Florida. I want answers. Or I’ll be calling the cops to find out who you really are. You want that?”
The woman sniffled quietly.
“Last chance or it’s 9-1-1 time. DC police, in my experience, don’t fuck around.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who paid you?”
“I don’t know. I got paid in cash.”
“How much?”
The woman shook her head.
McNeal pressed the gun tight to her temple. “You will answer me, so help me God. How much were you paid?”
“Five thousand bucks up front.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. They wanted me to sleep with you.”
“And then?”
“Then drug your drink. Then take pictures of you. Then blackmail you.”
McNeal’s blood ran cold. He puzzled over who the hell had set this up.
“Ten thousand bucks on delivery.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars for a night’s work? Nice way to earn a buck.”
“It’s a living.”
“Yeah, whatever. So, where’s the money?”
“In my car.”
“I want a name. Who gave you the money?”
“A woman.”
“A name?”
“She didn’t give me her name. It’s all in cash. Look, don’t tell the cops. I’ll lose my kids. Do you understand?”
“Tell me about the backstory you made up.”
“The woman gave me a few pointers about who she wanted me to be. Staten Island was important. She showed me some pictures of you. Stuff to mention.”
McNeal’s mind raced as he struggled to take it all in. “Where did you meet this woman?”
“My house. Someone gave her my name. That’s what I do. It’s a job.”
McNeal put away his gun. “So, you’re a grifter. And you’re a prostitute.”
“I provide a service.”
“Bullshit. Put your clothes on and get out of here. You have ten minutes to grab your things before I call the cops.”
He strode out of her room, barely breathing until he reached his own door.
Twenty-Seven
McNeal caught his breath, shaken up. He sobered up quick. He got back to his room and called Peter.