Chapter 5 - THE LADDER IN THE RAIN
Thirty minutes later, the autumn drizzle had deteriorated into a steady, freezing rain that swept off Lake Michigan, turning the granite sidewalks outside the Wexford Hotel into slick, dark mirrors reflecting the amber headlights of Chicago's evening rush.
The grand front entrance of the hotel was flanked by massive, two-story arched display windows framed in polished bronze and black granite. Beneath the soaring copper portico, uniformed doormen in charcoal trench coats held oversized black umbrellas, ushering corporate executives and wealthy socialites into waiting taxis.
Ten yards to the right of the revolving doors, standing on a sturdy, industrial-grade aluminum step ladder, was Rosalind Hartley.
She had not left property yet. Under the draconian terms of the Wexford’s non-union manual, an employee terminated mid-shift was required to complete their assigned daily maintenance punch-out or forfeit their final week’s accrued wages. Gerald, in his final act of petty vengeance, had reassigned her final ninety minutes to exterior window washing—a task usually reserved for specialized facilities teams, knowing full well that Rosalind could not afford to lose a single dollar of her final paycheck.
Rosalind stood securely on the wide, ribbed platform of the stable ladder, three feet off the wet pavement. Over her gray housekeeping tunic, she wore only a thin, water-repellent navy work windbreaker that did nothing to stop the biting chill of the wind. Her blonde hair was soaked, dark strands plastered against her neck and cheekbones.
In her right hand, she held an industrial brass squeegee; in her left, she clutched her sodden gray microfiber cloth.
She pressed the rubber blade against the cold glass, drawing it downward in smooth, straight strokes, wiping the edge with the cloth between each pass. Her hands were raw, bright crimson from the freezing water, shaking so violently from the cold that the metal handle of the squeegee vibrated against her knuckles.
Every drop of rain that hit her face felt like an indictment.
What am I going to tell Daisy?
The thought hammered inside her skull with every beat of her heart. Tomorrow was Thursday. The specialty pharmacy on Clark Street required a three-hundred-dollar copay for Daisy’s compounded albuterol solutions. If the check cleared without her full hours, the bank account would overdraft. Her master keycard was gone. Her locker was empty. In less than an hour, she would have to walk into their small, third-floor walk-up apartment and look her little girl in the face.
She wiped the blade again, her breath coming in ragged, white plumes in the frigid air.
A deep, concussive rumble reverberated through the wet pavement.
A bespoke, armored Mercedes-Maybach sedan, finished in deep obsidian black, glided smoothly up the hotel’s circular driveway. Its heavily tinted windows reflected the rain, its massive chrome grille catching the warm light of the entrance chandeliers.
The vehicle did not stop at the regular guest drop-off. It pulled directly beneath the central portico, stopping alongside the brass luggage stanchions.
The front passenger door opened instantly. A private security driver stepped out, holding a massive black umbrella, and opened the rear door.
Lincoln Marsh stepped out into the freezing rain.
He had removed his silk tie, leaving the top button of his white dress shirt unfastened beneath his black suit jacket, but his long cashmere overcoat hung open around his broad shoulders, completely indifferent to the weather. On his left wrist, resting firmly against his pulse, was the vintage, scratched gold watch.
Lincoln turned toward the hotel doors, his dark eyes sweeping the entrance with customary, razor-sharp vigilance.
Then, his gaze flicked to the right.
He saw the stable aluminum ladder standing against the bronze window mullions. He saw the thin navy windbreaker soaked with rain. And he saw the slender, shivering woman whose blonde hair clung to her pale, exhausted face, carefully wiping the glass with a gray cleaning cloth.
May you like
Lincoln stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes locked onto her profile. The breath left his chest in a sharp, stunned hiss. It was the woman from the lobby. The woman who had found his mother's watch in the cushions of Suite 1804 and walked away without asking for a dime.
