Free Reluctant Witness by Sara M. Barton Page A

but
at least they were a little more stylish than the ski pants I wore.
There was also a black wool poncho in the bag, a great improvement
over the down jacket. I pulled it over the Kevlar vest before I
slipped my feet back into the police-issued, black rubber-soled
shoes and socks before I put the faux fur hat back on.
    Lincoln was at a small table in the
glass-fronted coffee shop, watching the action in the parking lot.
Most customers used the drive-up window, picking up their to-go
orders, so we were by ourselves as we sat eating our egg
sandwiches, juice, and coffee.
    “How are you holding up?” he wanted to
know.
    “Fair to middling,” I answered, giving him a
tired smile. “It’s been a long day and night.”
    “I’m sure. We’re almost there, Sleepy Beauty.
Atlantic City is just down the road.”
    “That sounds good to me,” I admitted, yawning
again. My eyelids had grown heavy.
    It was my first trip to the legendary
oceanfront gambling Mecca and I had no idea what to expect. As he
took over the driving duties for the last ten miles, Lincoln
promised we’d get a hotel room and settle in for some well-deserved
sleep.
    He found us a spot in a covered parking
garage by a high-rise hotel and we took the elevator to the main
hotel lobby. People wandered in and out, casino zombies with dull
eyes, jaded by their long hours at the slot machines.
    “Room 837,” the clerk announced, sliding the
electronic room keys across the counter. “Take the elevators to
your left. You’re on the concierge floor.”
    “Good, good,” Lincoln nodded, nudging me
forward. “Come on, Suzy. We have just enough time to get a nap
before we hit the casino floor.”
    For a split second, my mind
tried to process the name. Suzy. In my exhausted state, it took time to realize he
was talking to me.
    The elevator glistened with tinted mirror
panels on the walls and purple Berber carpeting, tinged with flecks
of gold, red, green, and blue, on the floor. When the doors opened
on the eighth floor, we spilled out onto a vividly patterned carpet
in a similar color palette, but this looked like casino decor by
Picasso. Wild scribbles and child-like figures danced across the
hallway in a wide swath. We followed the path to the concierge
desk, where a young woman sat at reading. When she noticed our
approach, she slowly stood up and activated the computer screen on
the upper counter.
    “May I help you?”
    “We’re in Room 837,” my companion told
her.
    “This way, please,” was her reply as she came
around to meet us. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt, a purple
vest, black tie, and black slacks. Her name tag identified her as
Mindy.
    We walked down an overly long hall, all the
way to the end, and then continued down another hallway to the
right. At the seventh door down on the left, we stopped. Mindy
waited for Lincoln to swipe the card through the electronic lock,
and once she heard that automatic click, she pushed the lever down
and opened our door.
    I gazed around at my temporary quarters. The
room was dressed with pearl gray walls with contemporary
furnishings that were a little too sterile for my taste. On the
double beds were woven coverlets in a contemporary pattern of
pewter gray, black, and blue. A large-screened flat TV was mounted
on the wall opposite the double beds. By a picture window that
afforded an early morning view of the high-rise coastline sat a
pair of blue club chairs. When Lincoln pulled the blue and silver
drapes, shutting out the emerging sun, the room was instantly
transformed into a sleep cave. I was ready to hibernate for at
least twenty-four hours.
    “Here is your remote control for the
television,” Mindy told us, as she began a short tour around the
room, moving from the dresser to the built-in kitchenette by the
bathroom. “You have a coffeemaker and refrigerator over here.
Please let me know if you need anything. I’ll be happy to assist
you.”
    The red button she pointed to by the door