The Drawer

The drawer was never locked.

Tomasz told me so in the supply corridor behind the vending machines at 10:24, with a mop bucket between us. His hands were shaking. He held out his phone.

"I was topping off the ice at the desk while Slate shook hands with a man in a golf visor," he said. "Left side, under the register. Nobody looks at the ice boy."

The first photo showed a spiral notebook with a rubber band around it. The second showed it open. Nine lines in blue ballpoint: initials, a date, a suite number that didn't exist, and one figure repeated nine times. $600.

The third photo showed the envelopes underneath. Nine of them, thick, rubber-banded into one brick. The timestamp read 10:21 a.m.

I read the initials and matched them to the faces I had counted. The first pair of initials fit the man in the golf visor. The second fit the woman with the pastries. I had counted them myself an hour ago, and here were their prices.

"Nine wristbands," I said.

"Nine lines." Tomasz swallowed. "Ma'am, I wrote three of those letters."

"I know," I said. "I read them all."

He stared at me. He was twenty-four years old, and I watched a whole new question arrive on his face and decide not to be asked. "Who are you?" he finally said.

"Someone who needs one more hour," I told him. "Send me those photos, Tomasz. Then go back to your ice."

He sent them. My phone shivered in my pocket, and I saw the picture of the notebook arrive on the screen. I studied the timestamps once more, then the initials, then the price.

Then the phone shivered a second time, and a different name lit up. Not Tomasz. A name from the top of my short list, the one I only called when something was wrong on a ship.

Lucia.

She never called me on a Saturday morning at sailing hour. I let it ring. I watched it ring until it stopped.