Lara scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand as she climbed the stairway. She was horribly jetlagged, and her brain felt stuffed with wool. Even one day to acclimate herself would have been a massive improvement, as Hillary had tactfully advised, but she was determined to waste no time. Diane would be out at one of the many dinner parties that were given at any convention; Lara wanted to take a look at her belongings before confronting her. A betrayal of friendship it might be, but Lara considered that Diane had broken it already.
The corridor was empty; the conventioneers had pretty much taken over the floor. Lara stopped outside of Diane's room and pressed her ear to the door. Not a sound came through. She pulled out the latest marvel of engineering that Bryce had made for her; it was the size and shape of a regular hotel key card, but Bryce had assured her it would function as a master key. She slipped it into the door lock; three LEDs on the top blipped, and the LED of the door lock switched to green. Lara slipped it back out and quietly opened the door, once again pleased that she had hired the man. He had an attitude, but he certainly had the skills to justify it.
Once inside, she paused for a moment. She had intended to search the room methodically, but the figure lying face-down beside the bed demanded immediate attention. She stooped down and gently, very gently, lifted the head with the toe of her boot. She moved it just enough to see half of the face, which, although it was covered in sticky, drying blood and stared vacantly and inhumanly, was recognizable as Diane's. Lara sighed and gently let the head settle back onto the carpet. She slipped her phone out of her pocket and dialed left-handed as she carefully poked through the room with her gloved right hand.
"Yes, it's me," she said, when Hillary answered. "It looks like Diane did not avoid whatever it was she was trying to avoid when she tried to plant that amber on me."
"Pardon?"
"She's dead," Lara said, flatly.
"Ah." The butler sounded tentative, and it struck Lara as odd for a moment. Then she realized why.
"I didn't kill her. And I'm sorry she's dead." The drawers were empty. Diane's suitcase was partially unpacked on the bed. Lara started to poke through the laptop case. It might have been informative to have poked through the laptop, had it not been smashed. The hard drive had been dropped on the floor and pointedly stomped upon.
"This will be a short trip, then."
"We'll have to see about that. Give Bryce a ring, would you, and tell him to call the hotel and report a disturbance in room 1268. After twenty minutes. And tell him to make it untraceable, there's a dear." Hillary coolly said he would, and Lara hung up, now using both hands to search the bag. She pulled out the folder for the meeting, and flipped through fliers for talks and posters, lists of events, and vendor announcements. Finding nothing of interest, she turned it upside down and fluttered the pages. A handwritten note fell out.
Lara packed the folder back in the bag, and picked up the note. In a square, precise hand, it said, "It is marred. I will stop by for an explanation at 8pm in your room. Make it a good one." It was unsigned. Lara folded it, stuck it in her pocket, and pushed the door open gently. Seeing nobody in the hall, she tiptoed out and hurried to the stairwell, hurrying down to the sixth floor. She used her normal hotel-assigned key to open the door to her room.
Hillary sat on one of the beds, holding his phone and giving the staccato half-phrases of someone being frequently interrupted by the person on the other end of the line. Lara sat down on the other bed and took off her boots with relief. She flung her hand backwards as she started to pull off her socks, and Hillary put the phone in it without preamble. She interrupted Bryce's interruption. "Bryce, look up whoever has flown to San Francisco from Heathrow in the last two days."
"Oi, yeah, that won't be many, will it? Just a list as long as me arm..."
"Check it against who are checked into the convention hotels, and let me know if any names jump out, there's a dear. Thanks!" She handed the phone back and slipped off her clothes, then slipped under the blankets with a contented sigh.
Hillary concluded the conversation somewhat irately. "Do you really think it will be that easy?" he asked as he snapped the phone shut and put it on the bedside table.
"He or she has no reason to think anyone would be following. For all he or she knows, it's just between the two of them. We would not have to be all that lucky." She closed her eyes. "I just need to catch up on a little sleep. Wake me if he calls."
It felt like hardly an hour had passed when Lara woke, and she confirmed that with a glance at the clock. Just a little after midnight, which would be just about when she would wake normally, on her own clock. Hillary had fallen asleep on the other bed, leaving a clean set of skulking clothes folded next to her boots. She dressed quietly and slipped out, missing the feeling of the guns on her hips. It would be ludicrous to try to take them through US airport security, and there seemed to be no need to re-arm here, but still - she felt almost naked without them.
She made her way down to the lobby, which was just busy enough to offer her some sound cover. She sat in an armchair and called Bryce.
He picked up after far too many rings. "Lara, it's bloody early."
"Early to bed and early to rise, Bryce. What have you found out?"
"I found out I don't like gettin' woken up this early," he grumbled. The sound of a yawn, some sighs, and rustling paper came over the line. "Righ'. Well, there's one bloke who's standin' out. Reginald Westblake." He said the name as if it were a contagious rash. "Rich bugger. Collects gems and shows them off to people at public viewings. Loans some of them to museums. He flew out three days ago, and his flight back is," more paper shuffled, "ten peee-emmm. Your time."
"Where's he staying?" Lara asked, glancing covertly about for any sign of someone hovering closely enough to hear. She had her hand over her mouth to discourage lip-reading.
"Same hotel. Two rooms - fifteen twenty and twenty-two. How's that key workin'?"
"Marvelous. Thanks, Bryce. You earn your keep."
"Damn straight I bloody well fecking..." Lara closed the phone on that rant, and stood. Fifteen twenty. She could use Bryce's master key again, but these rooms had balconies.
Lara walked quietly through the room, pausing while Hillary stirred restlessly in his sleep, then sliding the balcony door open when he went back to breathing quietly. She slid it shut again, tucked the crowbar that she had picked up into the back of her shorts, then walked to the edge of the balcony and stood on the railing. "Don't jump!" some drunken wag yelled from below, followed by the giggles of his companions fading as they staggered down the block.
Lara smiled, and then did indeed jump - up, slightly out, catching the base of the railing on the balcony above and pulling herself up onto it. She made her way up to the fifteenth floor, then over to room twenty-two. She peeked in through a gap in the curtains, and saw two big, broad-shouldered men, in jeans and bare to the waist, watching an action movie and drinking. She could just hear their raucous commentary though the thick glass. She quickly trotted over and leapt to the next balcony, peering in at room fifteen twenty. It had just one bed, much larger than the doubles that were in the rooms she and his henchmen had; a man lay sprawled over the bed in just a pair of silk boxers. He had the heavy, soft air of youthful muscle turning to middle-aged fat. He watched whatever was on the television with a dull look in his eyes.
Lara gently wedged the crowbar into the balcony door and popped it open. She strode into the room as soon as the door thunked open, holding the crowbar at her side. "Reggie!" she said, with faux heartiness.
The man's head jerked over, and his eyes widened with surprise. "The hell...?" he said, scrabbling backwards on the bed.
"Just hold still, Reggie," Lara said, calmly but firmly. "I just came by to have a little talk. A little friendly talk."
"Friendly," he snarled, sitting up.
"Yes. I just would like to know a few things, and you seem to be in a position to answer." Lara kept her eyes firmly on Reginald, but scanned the rest of the room with her peripheral vision. No movements caught her attention.
"Yes, what about that. I want to know just what you wanted with my amber," Reginald said, his lofty attitude somewhat ruined by his nervousness.
"Misconception number one," Lara said, tapping her palm with the crowbar. "I did not take it. It was in the bag, true, but Diane planted it there. If your men," she could not help snarling slightly, "had simply asked, we would have figured that out in a much more genteel fashion. I so hate messiness, don't you?"
"Planted it there?" Reginald seemed genuinely bewildered.
"Yes. What is it? Why did you want it? Why did you kill Diane?"
Reginald looked at Lara for a long moment, then seemed to relax. He sat upright on the bed, facing Lara. "Well. I seem to have made some mistakes." He spread his hands. "The amber belonged to me. It is the most beautiful specimens I have ever come across. As big as a man's fist, clear as glass, with one whole insect inclusion." Lara nodded. "Doctor Hamilton contacted me about borrowing it. I lent it to her - with a few conditions, of course. One of which was that it remain intact. When she hedged about returning it, I suspected something. She told me, on her way to the conference, that her technician had nicked it, which is when I sent my men to pick it up. They did. Terribly sorry if they disturbed you, but I think my actions are understandable, don't you?" Reginald sighed and shook his head. "She did damage it. A very fine, neat hole, but you can see it under a microscope."
"No, actually, I think they are rude, not understandable." Lara had gently tapped her palm with the crowbar throughout the speech. "And I do not know why Diane is dead, either."
"That might have nothing to do with me." Reginald gave her a twisted grin.
"And it might." Lara strode forward, then suddenly leapt and hit Reginald's hand, hard, as he pulled a gun off of the bedside table and tried to point it at her. It went flying, and he changed tactics and tackled Lara with a bestial roar. Lara struggled in his crushing embrace; only the arm holding the crowbar was free, and she hit his head, hard, intending to knock him unconscious.
In her startlement, she hit harder than she intended. She heard a noise like a watermelon dropped from a height, and Reginald went quite still.
Lara struggled out from under him. She backed up, sighing. What an end to all of this. Reginald's head was crushed, and he lay on the ground, just like Diane had. Poetic justice, Lara wondered?
Or just plain, stupid, bloody, ridiculous chance?