There must’ve been a hundred onlookers tightly pressed around the entrance: tourists carrying cameras, businesspeople on their way to work; others were flashing press credentials and shouting, trying to talk their way in. Across the street, a television news van was already setting up with the backdrop of the hotel’s facade.
After two years spent covering local interest on the Metro desk of the Chronicle, Cindy could feel a story that might jump-start her career. This one made the hairs on her neck stand up.
“Homicide down at the Grand Hyatt,” her city editor, Sid Glass, had informed her after a staffer picked up the police transmission. Suzie Fitzpatrick and Tom Stone, the Chronicle’s usual crime reporters, were both on assignment. “Get right down there,” her boss barked, to her amazement. He didn’t have to say it twice.
But now, outside the Hyatt, Cindy felt her brief run of luck had come to an end.
The street was barricaded. More news crews were pulling up by the second. If she didn’t come up with something now, Fitzpatrick or Stone would soon be handed the story. What she needed was inside. And here she was, out on the curb.
She spotted a line of limos and went up to the first one — a big beige stretch. She rapped on the window.
The driver looked up over his paper, the Chronicle, of course, and lowered the window as she caught his eye.
“You waiting for Steadman?” Cindy asked.
“Uh-uh,” the driver replied. “Eddleson.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She waved. But inside she was beaming. This was her way in.
She lingered in the crowd a few seconds longer, then elbowed her way to the front. A young patrolman blocked her path. “Excuse me,” said Cindy, looking harried. “I’ve got a meeting in the hotel.”
“Name?”
“Eddleson. He’s expecting me.”
The entrance cop paged through a computer printout fastened to a clipboard. “You have a room number?”
Cindy shook her head. “He said to meet him in the Grill Room at eleven.” The Grill Room at the Hyatt was the scene of some of San Francisco’s best power breakfasts.
The entrance cop gave her a careful once-over. In her black leather jacket, jeans, sandals from Earthsake, Cindy figured she didn’t look the part of someone arriving for a power brunch.
“My meeting,” said Cindy, tapping her watch. “Eddleson.”
Distractedly, the cop waved her through.
She was inside. The high glass atrium lobby, gold columns rising to the third floor. It gave her a giggle, all that high-priced talent and all those recognizable faces still outside on the street.
And Cindy Thomas was first in. Now she only had to figure out what to do.
The place was definitely buzzing: cops, business-people checking out, tour groups, crimson-suited hotel staff. The chief had said it was a homicide. A daring one, given the hotel’s prominent
reputation.
She didn’t know which floor. Or when it had taken place. She didn’t even know if it involved a guest.
She may be inside, but she didn’t know shit.
Cindy spotted a cluster of suitcases unattended on the far side of the lobby. They looked as if they were part of some large tour. A bellhop was dragging them outside.
She wandered over and knelt by one of the bags, as if she were taking something out.
A second bellhop passed by. “Need a taxi?”
Cindy shook her head no. “Someone’s picking me up.” Then, sweeping a view of the chaos, she rolled her eyes. “I just woke up. What did I miss?”
“You haven’t heard? You must be the only one. We had some fireworks in the hotel last night.”
Cindy widened her eyes.