massive, opulent lobby to the expansive reception area, easily fifty feet wide and crafted from contemporary exotic wood.
“Yes, sir. May I help you?” a young man in a uniform far more elaborate than Cruz’s asked, a trace of disapproval on his face. The Camino Real wasn’t accustomed to armed Federales in the lobby. It was an edifice that reeked of wealth and gentrified exclusivity, and the intrusion by law enforcement wasn’t appreciated.
“Room 321. Call. Now.”
Something in Cruz’s tone sobered the receptionist, and he mutely lifted a telephone handset to his ear and keyed in the room number. He stood, waiting, then hung up.
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message for the guest?” he asked in his smarmiest tone.
“Get someone who can open the room. We’re going up,” Cruz ordered, a look of glacial indifference to the receptionist’s attitude the only warning he was going to offer.
Cruz’s tone arrested any protest the young man was going to make; instead, he lifted the phone and placed another call, then turned away from them as he had a hushed discussion. When he turned back, he gave his most winning professional fake smile and hung up with a noisy decisiveness.
“One moment, sir. Someone will be with you shortly.”
“You have two minutes to get someone who can open the room, and then we’re going to go up and shoot the lock off,” Cruz informed him, trying not to mimic the man’s grin, which took a sudden vacation as he registered Cruz’s words.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary...,” the young man started.
“Two minutes.”
The receptionist lifted the phone again and had another whispered discussion.
Cruz was just about ready to make good on his threat when an imposing figure in a dark gray suit approached him with a neutral smile on his face. Cruz absently wondered where they taught these wonks such phony expressions, then decided it didn’t matter when the man launched into his act.
“Gentlemen. My name is Antonio Arabiera. I’m the manager here. How may I be of assistance today?”
“Unless you can open the door of room 321, you can get someone to meet us there. We’re going up and we need to get in. This is an emergency,” Cruz said.
“I...this is most irregular. Our guests have an expectation of privacy. Unless you have a warrant...”
Cruz took a step towards the man, invading his space, and put a hand on his shoulder, then guided him away from the counter to spare him embarrassment.
“This is an emergency situation. Either you open the door now, or I will make your life miserable, do you read me? That’s my wife in there, and she’s in danger. Now be a nice man and call housekeeping or whoever and have them meet us up there, or you’ll wish you’d never been born, and the rest of your guests will get an experience they’ll be talking about on the internet for years,” Cruz murmured, for all appearances having a friendly discussion of matters requiring discretion.
Arabiera wasn’t the manager because he was stupid, and he wasted no time in finding a key card that would open every room in the building.
“I’ll accompany you gentlemen. This way,” he said with a hand gesture, then began walking across the lobby to the entry to the room wing. Cruz and Briones followed, Briones trying to contain the smile forming on his lips as their boots tromped along the oversized marble slab floor.
When they reached the room, Cruz knocked on the door, his sense of unease growing as they waited for a response. After thirty seconds, he knocked again, this time longer, his knuckles reddening.
Nothing.
“Open it,” Cruz commanded, and Arabiera acquiesced. He slipped the keycard into the slot and then pushed the door open, beckoning to the two officers to have at it.
Cruz led the way, Briones in tow, Arabiera waiting outside, glancing around nervously lest any of his guests spot the intrusion.
Fifteen seconds later, Cruz and Briones were back.
“Seal off the room. Don’t touch anything. I’ll have a crime scene squad here within half an hour,” Cruz ordered, his heart thrashing like a caged animal fighting for escape. The breakfast tray on the floor and the luggage still in the closet told the whole story. He didn’t need to see anything else. He turned to Briones.
“Get them here, now. And put out an APB on her. Circulate the description. It’s a long shot, but we might find someone who saw something,” Cruz said woodenly, on automatic pilot as his mind