Five minutes later: “We’re still in the elevator,” said Story. “We’ve just been riding up and down over and over.”
“There’s a good reason for that.” Serge pointed toward a special slot in the elevator’s control panel, which required a magnet key to access the executive level.
The elevator reached the lobby again; Serge fumbled for his wallet as the doors opened. An older couple in formal evening attire got on and smiled. Serge returned the greeting and resumed his wallet search. The man in the tux pressed the button for the executive level. “What floor?”
“Same,” said Serge, still going through his billfold. “That key has to be in here somewhere.”
“Allow me,” the man said cordially, producing his own magnetic card and inserting it in the control panel.
After a quick ascent, doors opened, and the man nodded at Serge with a slight smile. “Have a nice evening.” He took his wife by the arm and headed down the hallway until they reached the last room on the western end. There was a small plaque next to the door with the name of the suite: SAN CARLOS. The couple went inside.
Seconds later: Knock-knock.
The woman stood at the room safe, removing dangling diamond earrings. “Who can it be at this hour?”
“Don’t know.” The husband walked over and put his eye to the wood. “Something’s wrong with the peephole.” He opened the door on the chain.
Serge’s grinning face pressed right up against the gap. “Hello! We just met in the elevator!”
“How can I help you?”
“Spot check.”
“For what?”
“Quality assurance. Won’t take long, And you get a free gift.”
“So late?”
“Best time to catch the staff with its pants down. Want to make sure you’re receiving the absolutely finest hospitality value. We won’t accept anything less.”
“But everything’s okay.”
“You’d be surprised.”
A woman’s voice from behind. “Who is it?”
“Hotel inspection.”
“This late? What kind of inspection?”
“We get a free gift.”
“Tell him to come back in the morning.”
“Wish I could,” said Serge. “But then I’d be breaking the rules and the terrorists win.” He slipped something flat through the still-chained opening. “I have a clipboard.”
“He has a clipboard,” the man said over his shoulder, unlatching the chain. Three people filed into the room. Serge made a quick sweep of the suite, jotting notes, “then pacing off from the walls until he was satisfied he had located the exact center of the room. He reached into his pocket.
The man walked over in a hail of camera flashes. “You guys with the hotel?”
“Heck no.” Serge slowly rotated in place, capturing another photographic panorama.
The man glanced dubiously at his wife, then back at Serge. “But if you’re not with the hotel…”
Flash, flash, flash. “Familiar with the roaming gnome?”
“You’re with them?”
“Used to be.” Flash, flash. “But they rejected my hotel photos just because they all had crime tape. The roaming gnome is dead to me.” “But-“
Serge stuck out his arm. “Please stand back. Insurance reasons. Mainly a formality, but I wouldn’t want you to end up like the last couple.”
“Serge,” said Coleman, crouched in front of a small door. “Check it out: They left the key in the minibar.”
“Richard,” whispered the woman. “What’s going on?” “Something’s not right.”
Story sat at the end of the couch and rolled her eyes. “You can say that again.”
The woman grabbed her husband’s arm. “Maybe we should check with the front desk.”
Serge held up the clipboard. “That’s also against the rules.”
“Sir,” said the husband. “I can assure you everything is in order. Now if you wouldn’t mind-“
Serge produced a plastic DVD case from the waistband under his tropical shirt. “Your free gift!” He walked to the suite’s entertainment center and inserted the disk.
“What the hell are you doing now?” asked Richard.
Serge clicked the remote control. “You think I chose this room by accident?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care-“
“You’re in the Elvis suite!”
“What?”
Serge removed a pair of tweezers from his pocket as a movie began. “This was Elvis’s favorite room in Jacksonville.” He got down on hands and knees. “Stayed here so often there used to be gold records all over the walls.”
On TV, a young Elvis stood on a sunny beach and picked a guitar.
“… You gotta follow that dream!…”
Serge tweezered strands of carpet fiber into a small, glassine envelope- “Elvis’s skin molecules”-and stood back up. “You’ve been incredibly cooperative, unlike that Miami couple in the Lucille Ball room.”
“Richard,” said his wife. “I want them to leave immediately!”
“Already on my way,” said Serge. “Sorry for taking up your time. And I have to say I really admire everything about you.”
“You’re- … What?” said Richard.
“Wanted to see the inside of the Elvis suite my whole life-and all the other celebrity rooms in Florida-but the only opportunity on my budget is by working for a travel service. Smile! …” The flash caught Richard off-guard. “You, on the other hand, must be supersuccessful in your chosen field to afford Elvis-level pampering. Bet you were on magazine covers.”
“Well, once. Southern Sheds Quarterly.”
“I knew it!” said Serge.
“Richard!” said his wife.
“Plus, your obvious taste,” Serge continued, “picking this suite without even realizing it was the King’s choice.” He went over to the desk and scribbled an address on a sheet of hotel stationery, then added his signature. “In addition to the DVD, this will get you free admission to the best nightspot in town.” He handed the page to Richard. “But only the right people know about it.” Wink.
“That exclusive?”
“You kidding?” Serge tucked the digital camera back in his pocket. “I only know about it because I’m a travel expert, but it’s going up on our website soon. Tonight may be your last chance to experience its historic state before the social register descends. I can’t imagine visiting Jacksonville and never seeing this place.”
“Sophia …” said Richard.
“You’re not actually thinking of going.” “He said it might be our last chance.” “Look at the hour.”
“It’s not that late.” Richard turned back to Serge and smoothed out the front of his jacket. “Am I dressed appropriately?”
“The tux is perfect…” Serge turned. “… And ma’am, may I say your evening gown is absolutely stunning. Everyone in the club won’t be able to take their eyes off you.”
“Really think so?”
“Trust me: You’ll be the center of attention.” “It’s our last night in town,” Richard told his wife. “We should take advantage of it.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” said Sophia. “One last question,” said Serge. “How’s hotel security?” “Everything seems fine.”
“That’s no surprise. This place has a great reputation, but I’d advise you never to open your door to strangers, even if they have a clipboard. One of the newest scams.”
“Really?”
Serge nodded hard. “Well, that concludes my mission here … Oh, almost forgot…” He took back the piece of stationery from Richard and jotted something on the bottom. “I know the owner of the club personally. Mention my name and he’ll give you the VIP tour.” He handed the page to Richard. “Just ask for Billy Bob.”
NEXT AFTERNOON
A white van with no side windows sat on the far edge of a convention center parking lot. Magnetic signs on side panels advertised affordable electrical repairs for home and office. The two men sitting up front wore overly dark sunglasses and plain baseball caps. An unseen number of additional passengers sat on boxes in the stripped-down cargo area. Gym bags at their feet. The plates were Illinois.