with the blazer was
gesturing toward me. Uh-oh. There goes my star.
The woman walked right up to me and extended a hand.
She moved with a smooth, controlled quality that betrayed
toned muscle. She was good-looking, and you got the impres-
sion that she knew it and had practiced moving so that you
would know it, too. It was a little too studied for my taste, but
it didn’t make her any less attractive.
“Dr. Burke?” It was a rhetorical question and she didn’t even
wait for a reply. “I’m Lori Westmann, the general manager.”
I shook her hand and smiled. She didn’t even bother to
introduce the guy in the hotel blazer. His nametag identified
him as “Roy.” As far as Westmann was concerned, Roy was
invisible. Being in charge means you get to pretty much treat
37
John Donohue
people any way you want. Or at least that’s what I hear. Roy
didn’t seem offended by the omission and just stood respect-
fully at a slight distance from us, ready to serve.
Lori Westmann smiled back at me with even white teeth. It
was a practiced smile that didn’t really communicate much—
just a standard visual cue in the conversational sequence.
“What can I do for you?” I said.
She glanced about her at the guests. “I have a business
proposition for you. Perhaps you’d care to join me for an early
lunch?” She leaned in slightly toward me, cocking her head as if
listening for my silent agreement. Then she moved off without
waiting to see whether I was following or not.
We were seated with a bit of understated hysteria by the
restaurant staff. It was clear that they were all pretty intimi-
dated by their hotel manager. It suggested to me that her looks
were probably deceiving. The blue-eyed blond with the long
legs who was sitting across from me was easy on the eye in the
same way a statue was: hard and cold.
The restaurant was hacienda themed; fake adobe partitions
with rounded timbers jutting from little tile roof sections that
were meant to create a pattern of cozy little nooks for custom-
ers. The focus of the place was inward, to the table and the
meal, but you could look out through the tinted windows that
ran across one end of the restaurant. Inside it was cool and dim,
but out there you could see the hard light pounding down on
the sere landscape in the distance.
The restaurant manager materialized to take our drink
orders. He was almost quivering with attention. Lori West-
mann ordered a chardonnay. I quickly perused the beer list and
ordered a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. I’m on a personal mission to
try every beer ever made. Some varieties merit multiple tastings.
38
Kage
The drinks arrived. “Are you enjoying the conference?’ she
asked. “The accommodations appropriate?” She was running
down a mental checklist. Ms. Westmann didn’t look like some-
one deeply concerned about other people’s enjoyment. She did
seem focused on efficiency, however.
“It’s fine,” I assured her.
She smiled. A flash of white teeth and a tight motion of the
lips. Then back to business.
“I was surprised to see someone like you at this type of con-
ference, Dr. Burke.”
I wondered whether this woman would ever get to the
point and why she was so obviously engaging in small talk. She
didn’t seem the type. But I was in no rush. I shrugged at her
statement and took a sip of the Sierra Nevada. Looked out the
window into the shimmering hills and wondered idly how hot
it was out there. “The accommodations are nice. The beer is
even better,” I said.
She frowned slightly at that—a small crease at the bridge of
her nose. Lori Westmann probably was not exposed to a great
deal of levity from underlings. She gave her head a little shake
as if dislodging a troublesome fly. “I would expect someone like
you at a conference of academics, not mystery writers.”
She was overestimating my place in the scholarly commu-
nity, but I let it go, and explained how I got
Yvette Hines, Monique Lamont