The van stopped at the entrance to the Savoy, a large hotel across the boulevard from the beach that had seen better days.
"Just go in there and register as Owen Sanford," John said. "You have a reservation; go up to your room and wait. I'll be right behind you."
Ham got out of the van, got his bag and the case containing the Barrett's rifle, and handed them to a bellman. Five minutes later, he was getting onto an elevator. Just as the doors were closing, John stopped them and got on, not looking at Ham.
"What's my room number?" Ham asked the bellman.
"Two-ten, Mr. Sanford," the bellman replied. "It's a very nice corner room, larger than most."
The elevator stopped, and Ham and the bellman got off. John got off, too, but turned in the opposite direction from Ham. The bellman opened the room door, got Ham settled, collected his tip, then left.
All Ham wanted to do was to use the phone, but as he was lifting it from the receiver, there was a knock on the door. Ham opened it and let John, who was carrying a small bag, into the room.
John looked around the room, then spent a moment looking out the window. It was an L-shaped room, with two sets of windows, set at ninety degrees from each other. "Perfect," he said. He went to the phone and dialed the operator. "This is Mr. Sanford in two-ten," he said. "Please hold all my calls until further notice." He hung up. "How about some
dinner, Ham?"
"Sure, I'm hungry."
John found a room service menu, then called in their order.
Ham noticed that when he hung up the phone, he disconnected the cord from both the phone and the wall, rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket. So much for getting a call out of here, Ham thought. He discreetly patted his pocket to be sure the cell phone was still there.
Daisy lay on the bed and watched Holly get dressed. "Don't look at me like that," Holly said to her. "You're going to stay here and watch TV." She switched on the set and found CNN. Daisy liked CNN. She gave Daisy a pat and left the room. Then-scrubbed, shampooed, made up and lightly perfumed-she walked into the Delano's restaurant, wearing a straight, tight, low-cut brown wool dress that accentuated her height and figure and looked good with her tan. Men around the room turned to look at her, but one stepped up and spoke to her.
"Holly Barker?"
"Yes."
"I'm Chip Beckham," he said. He was a little taller than she, in his mid-forties, fit and good-looking in a conventional sort of way. Holly thought that, with his short haircut and erect bearing, he looked like a military man in civilian clothes.
"Hello, Chip," she said, giving him a big smile.
"Would you like a drink at the bar, or would you like to go to the table now?"
"Let's go to the table," she said.
"I've asked them to put us on the terrace. I hope that's all right."
"Of course. It's a beautiful night."
The headwaiter led them to a good table overlooking the pool. The moon and the stars were out. Holly felt distinctly odd. She had thought she would never have a dinner date with any man except Jackson.
A waiter appeared. "Would you like a drink?"
"A vodka gimlet," Holly said.
"A martini, very dry," Chip said.
"Well," Chip said, when their drinks had arrived. "You're certainly the most beautiful FBI agent I've ever met."
"Thank you, but I'm not an FBI agent. I'm the chief of police in a little town about three hours north of here called Orchid Beach."
"Oh? The terms of my deal with Harry were that he'd buy me dinner at the best restaurant in Miami, with the most beautiful, single FBI agent in his office. Not that I'm complaining."
Holly looked at him. "This was a bet?"
"No, just a trade for information."