I lowered my gaze to the floor and bobbed my head.

"You work here all alone?" He scribbled hectically on his little pad.

"Yes, there is not that much to do in the middle of the night. Not many people checking in and out."

The officer nodded. "But he did?"

"Yes, he came earlier tonight."

"I need to see a copy of the identification you took when he checked in."

I suddenly fell sick to my stomach. "I didn't get any identification. I asked him but he refused. He paid in cash."

The cop stared at me with annoyance. "You know it's the law to acquire identification of any guests in a hotel?"

"No, I didn't know that," I replied as my gaze fell to the floor.

"He's dead alright," the paramedic interrupted. He removed his stethoscope from his ears and stood up. "Nothing more we can do here, except take him away."

"Any clue as to the cause of death?" the cop asked.

"An autopsy would tell for sure, but a heart attack is very likely." The other paramedic rolled out the stretcher he had brought, and they carefully placed the dead man on it.

"Okay, I guess that will do for now," the officer said and pocketed his notepad. "Oh, by the way, was anyone with him?" He glanced at his watch and then in the direction of the door, as if he was getting bored with the questioning and just wanted to get this over with, as if the loss of a man's life was interrupting his usual three a.m. nap.

"Yes, he came with a woman. She was the one who notified me that he had collapsed." I pointed at the dead guy, who was now covered with a dark blanket. I stepped back as the paramedics wheeled the body past the two of us and out to the elevator. One of them gave me a wink as he rolled past, just at the moment the cop looked away.

"And where is she?"

I pursed my lips and snapped my attention back to the cop. "She-"

"Oh, let me guess. She bailed, right?" he interrupted.

"Yeah." I nodded. "I didn't get her name or anything."

The cop noticed the dead man's clothes still on the chair.

"Did you touch any of this?" he asked, pointing his black ink pen at the clothes.

"No, I figured I had better get downstairs right away, you know, to let you guys in...so I left. I never looked, I just left." I answered with what I hoped was a straight face and forced myself to look directly at him as I spoke. As soon as he appeared satisfied with the answer, I broke my stare and turned to walk toward the door so he could no longer see my face. I felt tense and desperately wanted to take in a long deep breath of air, but I didn't. I paused at the door with my hand on the knob and turned back to say, "I should get back down to the front desk, officer. So if there's nothing more you need from me..."

He scratched a few more notes on that ubiquitous notepad and nodded, then spoke without looking up, "Just don't leave the hotel. Stay at the front desk. I'll need one more thing before we go."

I gave a meek smile to hide the fact that my heart had just jumped up into my throat, then quickly slipped out the door. I couldn't breathe. What "one more thing" does he need? To slap handcuffs on me and throw me into the backseat of the patrol car? My stomach was in knots and my fists were two balls of white knuckles.

The paramedics had already taken the body down, so I was the only one getting on the elevator. I plowed through the elevator doors and leaned up against the inside wall of the elevator car, hoping the firmness of the steel construction would somehow ooze into my body and still my nerves. The second the doors were shut, my lungs exploded with a gush of air. It felt like I had been holding my breath for hours.

When I got back to the lobby, nobody was there. I got behind the front desk and perched myself on an old worn stool, staring at the restroom door that lay across the expanse of the dreary lobby area. I had picked up my novel from the side office and pressed open the pages to a random section of the book. The paper felt smooth and calming as I passed the palm of my hand across its surface. I wanted to look as normal as possible when the police officer came down from Room 1215. The words on the page couldn't hold my focus. Instead the large round black and white clock on the wall pulled my attention. The hands on its face seemed to stand still, with barely a noticeable movement to be seen, and the thumping of my heartbeat was the only audible sound I was aware of in the silent lobby. I wanted the police to hurry the hell up and leave.

The familiar elevator ding startled me. I was so wired with nervousness, I nearly jumped off the stool. The officer sauntered over to the desk and handed me his business card.

"Here's my card, Miss Carrington. I'll be in touch with you tomorrow. I'm probably going to need more details on the description of the woman for the report. After I write it up, I'll give you a call to make sure the statement is correct. If you have any questions, or need anything else, call me at that number."

I watched the officer until the large plate-glass door swung shut behind him. A blast of cold night air blew in before it shut completely, all the way to where I had posted myself behind the desk on my favorite stool. Although it was getting to be summer in New York, the air in the dead of night could still, on some nights, have the sharp bite of early spring. How ironic, "the dead of night." A saying like that could come to life only at a place like the Greymore Hotel.

The thought gave me a shudder as I leaned my elbows on the countertop and pressed my book flat to the surface. With my head down, I pretended to read. I don't know who I was putting on this act for. No one was in the lobby. Everybody had left. The harsh silence of the night was my only companion.

I waited like that, with my head down, pretending to read, for what I considered to be a sufficient amount of time to pass before I dared to retrieve my "stash" from the restroom stall. I couldn't even think the words, money, loot, booty, or treasure, let alone say them. It was as if it were some kind of prize I had won. I guess I felt it was. To me, it was like winning the lottery-at least that's what I told myself for the time being-a lottery that could land me in jail. That snake I felt earlier running up my spine was probably none other than the snake from the Garden of Eden who had coaxed me to take the money. And just like Eve in the story of temptation, I took the forbidden fruit and the risk that went with it.

I slipped off the stool and glanced around the lobby as I made my way across its emptiness toward my hiding place. My nervousness sharpened my senses as I proceeded, the sense of hearing the most acute. I heard every tick of the wall clock as I carefully turned the latch on the restroom door and opened it gently. I was like a ninja, stealthy and with nerves of steel. I prided myself on how confident I was, then my finger slipped on the latch, and it made a loud click that echoed around the lobby. I froze. My heart pounded faster and faster, louder and louder, until I thought I could barely breathe. Fuck. Forget the ninja shit. I grabbed the briefcase from the stall, and beelined it back to the side office and shut the door. I was alert to any unusual sounds, other than my heart beating out of my chest, that might threaten to interrupt my mission. Once safely in the office, I transferred the bundles of hundred-dollar bills into my backpack. They barely fit. I tugged hard on my spiral notebook filled with notes from Literature class to make room for the bundles. They settled into the deepest part of the backpack as I removed it. I pulled so hard, I nearly flung a couple rubber-band-wrapped bundles onto the floor as the notebook finally pulled free from the tightly compacted space. I zipped the pack shut and shoved it far to the back under the desk, where I stored it every night. I stood up and let out a deep breath. The backpack looked huge and so obvious, but I didn't think that anyone would suspect it contained thousands of hundred-dollar bills.

I grabbed the now-empty briefcase and went to the back alley, where the hotel had a metal industrial garbage dumpster for compacting trash. I stretched the sleeve of my work jacket down over the heel of my hand in hopes that the polyester fabric would remove my fingerprints. I rubbed the latches and handle the best I could, then gave the case a toss into the open rusty-brown container and turned on the machine, watching the briefcase get swallowed by the giant metal monster.

Back at my desk, I glanced at the familiar clock on the wall. Its glass face stared down at me, holding me captive, incarcerated behind this desk for hours. How was I supposed to just sit here and wait after everything that had happened? It was only four at night. I had another three hours before the morning crew arrived, and my body was still brimming with "fight or flight" hormones; the flight ones winning the war with my mind. The urge to run raged inside of me like a powerful Ferrari engine waiting to take off. I pushed my hands through my hair and blew out a deep breath in an attempt to calm my shredded nerves. I shoved my Literature novel aside and settled in for the torturous wait, wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into.

Chapter Five.

When Kathy Reynolds, the day clerk, finally showed up a little before seven a.m., I explained to her everything that had happened, except for the part about the briefcase, of course. I rubbed my temples and feigned tiredness, told her it had been a long crazy night and I just wanted to go home and crash on my bed. I asked her to inform Jerry of all the details and bring him up to speed. Truth was, I was anything but tired. I had a backpack full of adrenaline rubbing up against my back.

Kathy was quite affected by the news. It was a highly unusual event, after all. Even though I worked at a hotel that had long passed its glory days and we'd had our share of incidents, such as wild bachelor parties where young guys took sport in trashing the rooms, this was the first time someone had actually died at the Greymore, at least to my knowledge.

With the most casual attitude I could muster, I grabbed my backpack stuffed with bills and slung it over my shoulder as I prepared to leave.

"That looks heavy," Kathy commented as she eyed the bulges.

"Well, yeah, it's all my school books. They are heavy as shit." I gave a nonchalant laugh to cover my guilt and hurried out before the Spanish Inquisition could begin.

I flagged a cab and piled into the backseat, finally able to breathe again. I hadn't realized I had been holding my breath as I hurried out of the building. Instinctively I raised my hand to my brow, wiping away beads of sweat with the back of it. During the last couple of hours at work, I had run several ideas of what to do with the money through my mind again and again. Besides paying for Grammy's treatments I wanted to pay off my student loans. But I couldn't just go to the bank and pay off the loans in one go. People would ask questions. A record of that much money would raise a red flag with the FBI or the IRS for sure. I would need to pay it off slowly, a little bit at a time, so as not to raise suspicions.

As soon as the bank opened, I would go there to rent a safe-deposit box. Tell them something like I needed it to safely store some jewelry my "late" grandmother had left me. No one there would know that she was still very much alive. Thinking about Grammy made me realize that as much as I hated it, I would have to lie to her. I would have to tell her I had won the money in the lottery or something like that. That didn't sit well with me. I had never lied to her before. I pushed out a quiet laugh. What the fuck, look at me. Here I was, all worried about lying to Grammy after I had just lied to the police.

Grammy was special, she was family, the one who raised and cared for me when my own mother didn't want me. The one who taught me right from wrong. Now I was behaving as if her lessons had fallen on deaf ears. Being deceitful to her would be shameful, disloyal, rotten...the list of negative descriptors just went on.

But I rationalized that it didn't matter. That old man didn't need the money. I was sure he didn't have anyone who needed it, like a wife, unless he was cheating on her with that hooker. He didn't look like the type that was married. That's for sure. My mouth felt dry and my pulse picked up a notch. Oh no, I was working my way down the list of the seven deadly sins, or was it the Ten Commandments? I forgot.

What was I to tell Grammy? I could tell her I got a raise and set up a payment plan with the hospital for her treatments. Nah, telling her that I won the lottery was better. A simple raise would not be enough money to pay for those treatments. They were expensive.

The thought of lying to her made my stomach twist, but I couldn't figure any other way. The important thing was that she would have the chance to get better. That would more than justify the means...and my path to hell, paved with my good intentions.

As the cab pulled up in front of my apartment, I coped with my misgivings about the money the way I dealt with all of my problems in the past: I shoved them deep down into the back of my brain where my guilty conscience resided and ignored them. I was excited about the possibility that I would finally be able to help the woman who raised me and repay some of her kindness and love. I didn't want that euphoria to be overshadowed by guilt right now.

As I entered my apartment complex, it was quiet. Time to count the money and divide it into neat piles before going to the bank.

To my surprise, I heard a noise coming from the kitchen as I entered the apartment. All the night's many events had made me completely forget that Joey was staying over. She was sitting at the small wooden kitchen table, drinking coffee while texting on her phone.

"You're up early," I said as I plumped down on a chair.

"Yeah, I have to help my mom pick out her wedding dress."

"Wedding dress? What number is this one?"

"I know. Can you believe it? This makes number four."

Joey's mom was only forty-four years old. She must be going for some kind of record.

"How was work?" she asked, her gaze still plastered on her phone. From her raspy voice and her swollen face, I surmised that she was hung over. Clearly it had been a "wet" night. I switched my backpack to my left shoulder after I peeled off my jacket and hung it on a peg inside the coat closet. I didn't want to let loose of the backpack for one minute.

"It was okay, except for this guy dying from a heart attack while having sex with a hooker."

I heard an audible gasp as she raised her gaze from her phone. "That's not funny, Dani. My uncle died of a heart attack."

"Sorry." I adjusted the backpack on one shoulder and started down the hallway toward my bedroom. I paused before I got to the door of my bedroom, and turned back so Joey could hear me from her spot in the kitchen. "I swear. It's true. Some old dude died from a heart attack tonight while banging the shit out of a hooker in room 1215." I walked back down the narrow hallway to the kitchen and stuck my head around the corner and added, "While snorting cocaine..."

Joey rolled her eyes. "And why do you think it was a hooker?"

I took a few more steps into the kitchen. I guessed our conversation wasn't over. I hadn't counted on her being awake this early and in the mood for a chat. I just wanted to get into my bedroom and deal with my secret stash.

"For one, she was thirty years younger than him, and she was in a hurry to get out of there. What else would she be?" I shrugged. "Plus, I've seen her other times at the Greymore, other nights...lots of nights."

Joey frowned and glanced down. Her long dark ponytail fell to one side, spilling down her left shoulder. Joey always looked beautiful, even first thing in the morning with her hair pulled back. She just seemed to always have that look, the kind of look all the guys wanted. "Damn, that must be a tough life. Forced to make a living screwing old guys, just to put food on the table, and then they die on you."

"Anyway, I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

"What's with the heavy backpack?" she suddenly asked.

I shrugged. "Just school books...heavy as shit." With that remark, I escaped into the safety of my room and pushed the door shut. I gently pushed the lock on the door so Joey wouldn't hear the click.

I walked around my bed to the side farthest from the door and dropped the backpack on the small wooden table in front of a wing-backed chair in the corner of the room near the window. I unzipped it and dumped all the money out onto the table.

Oh my fucking god. What a sight. Bundles of hundred-dollar bills covered the entire surface of the table. Never in my life had I seen so much money. I kneeled down next to the table and grabbed one of the bundles, and started counting. There were fifty bills in each. All one-hundred-dollar bills. When I finished stacking the bundles in neat rows on the table, I had counted fifty bundles. I plopped down onto my butt, sitting hard as I landed. I was staring at freaking two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Fuck. That's a lot of money.

Feelings of guilt flooded my body, making my blood rush through my veins. I felt as if a scorching furnace was roaring inside of my belly, blowing fire out to every extremity of my body. I felt hot in my face, like I was embarrassed or...

I swallowed hard. At least no one could see. I was not supposed to do something like this. After all, I had been raised as a good Catholic girl by Grandma. "Thou shalt not steal," right?

Exhaustion overrode any guilt feelings that arose. I hadn't slept since before going to the fight with Joey and Krissy. My mind was beginning to turn into a thick New York style fog. I placated myself with the notion that I was doing this for a good reason. To give Grandma a better life, a longer life.

I found a black trash bag I had shoved in the back of my closet. I stashed the money in there, placing the bag of money back into my backpack.

I glanced at my alarm clock. It was almost eight a.m. Two more hours until the bank opened. There wouldn't be enough time for a solid eight hours' sleep, but I could catch a few winks. I had a long day ahead of me.

Chapter Six.

The room was nondescript and dimly lit. There was a feeble light emanating from several candles placed around a table. I stood before him, gazing at his nakedness as he laid on it, this time with no towel to cover his exposed skin. I gingerly placed my hands on his upper back, letting him suffuse me with his warmth through the skin of my palms. It radiated through my entire body in an instant, like lightning, pushing tingles of excitement all the way to my toes. He murmured a pleasant sound at the moment of contact. He was pleased with me and wanted more. And so did I.

I pressed harder with my palms, pushing and kneading the perfectly developed muscles of his back, working my way down his spine, studying the two-headed dragon tattoo on his upper back. The contrast against his tan skin of the black ink as it swirled over his back sent another rush of adrenaline through me. I couldn't believe I was with him. He must be completely exhausted from his fight. I felt tight muscles under his skin, hard biceps and powerful broad shoulders, as I caressed and stroked his back. This was no therapeutic massage. This was sensual, lustful, and sexual. He moaned again and told me how good it felt.

His response excited me even more, and I was giddy with desire. I wanted to feel his magnificent body against mine, skin to skin. I raked my hands further down and grasped his perfectly tight buttocks, letting out a gasp at how exquisite he felt to my touch. My heart pounded. I wanted him to roll over and take me. To thrust his manhood into me and pound the shit out of me until I screamed out my orgasm.

I wore no clothes either, and I pounced up onto the table with him and raked my teeth across his tight, hard butt cheeks, crawling up over him and pressing the length of my body against his so he could feel my breasts on his back. He wriggled with delight at the touch of my skin against his. My long dark hair fell down and tickled his neck.

I kissed the back of the neck and trailed out over his shoulder, my lips dusting over the tattoo, licking and sucking at his tight skin, dragging my teeth seductively across the epidermis. The fire inside of my body was now concentrated and raging between my legs. Nipping and nibbling, I pressed my hips up against him and stimulated myself with grinding and rotating motions. Fuck, that felt good. It had been a long time since I had sex, too long. It was going to happen fast. I could feel my orgasm coming too quickly. I gasped and sucked in a breath. I pushed my hand through thick black hair on the back of his head and tangled my fingers in it. Thrusting and grinding my hips harder. I bit my lip and sat up, straddling him from behind. Panting, I said, "Luke, take me now, fuck me now, I can't wait..."

"I've been waiting for you to come to me. I can feel how wet you are for what I have. I'm gonna fuck you hard, baby."

He turned over on the massage table but it wasn't Luke, it was the face of the old dead man at the Greymore Hotel, with pale sallow skin and wiry blackish-gray hairs protruding in all directions from the crown of his balding head. I screamed, but no sound came out of my mouth. Instead of my scream, I heard a loud buzzing noise that tore me out of my nightmare. I sprang up in bed and leaned on my elbows. My sweat-drenched, thin cotton sleeping shirt stuck to my body and the grogginess lifted slowly as I realized it wasn't real. Jesus H. Christ, what the hell was that all about? After last night's event, my damn emotions were having a fucking freak-fest, messing with my mind. I certainly couldn't have the hots for some steroid-infused, unconscionable, badass fighter, Luke whatever-his-name-was. That was Joey's realm of fantasy. God love her for taking me to the fights, but this should have been her dream, not mine.

The buzzing sounded again. I glanced over at the nightstand. It was my phone that had woken me. I grabbed it. Two missed calls and a voicemail. Holy crap, it is already two in the afternoon.

I jumped out of bed and managed to complete my shower in a record three minutes. While getting dressed, I pressed play on my voicemail and turned on the speaker mode.

"Miss Carrington, this is Detective Anderson from the New York City Police Department. Please give me a call back at 646-610-5555. There's been a development in the case of Franco Gianni's death and it is very urgent that I see you."

Fuck. I glanced over at my backpack on the table, right where I'd left it before I fell asleep. Did the police know about the missing money?

My hands were shaking like a leaf as I punched in the number to return the call.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...

"Detective Anderson here."

"Yes, hi. This is Daniella Carrington. You wanted to talk to me about the incident at the Greymore Hotel?"

"Oh, yes. Where are you? I need for you to meet me at the station. We've found the body of a woman who matches the description you gave...the one who was with the deceased, Franco Gianni, last night. I need for you to come down and identify her. I'll send a squad car to pick you up. Just give me your address."

"O-okay," I stuttered in shock. "I'm at 804 Bergen Street in Brooklyn."

"Thank you, Miss Carrington. Officer Larkin will be by in twenty minutes or so, to pick you up."

I'm so screwed.

An avalanche of worries came crashing into my mind as soon as I had hung up. This wasn't right. It couldn't be a coincidence that the hooker from last night had turned up dead today. It had to have something to do with the missing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.