Her name tag read:
NIA ROBINSON
“You with me?” she asked.
Walter nodded.
“Just cold.”
“Come sit by the fire.”
Pierce looked at her sharply.
“Nia.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Nobody is using that fire tonight.”
She guided Walter toward a chair.
Then disappeared into the staff corridor.
She returned holding a plastic container.
“Chicken stew.”
Walter looked at it.
“Your dinner?”
“My mom made it.”
“That’s your dinner.”
Nia shrugged.
“I had a big lunch.”
Walter knew she was lying.
He also knew hunger when he saw it.
He had known it himself once.
He accepted the container.
“Thank you.”
Nia smiled.
“Don’t thank me until you taste it.”
Walter took one spoonful.
He stopped.
“Your mother can cook.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“Why?”
“She’ll get a big head.”
Walter laughed.
Across the lobby, Grant Pierce watched them.
And while Walter ate Nia Robinson’s dinner beside the Ashford’s fire, he quietly began learning exactly what kind of hotel he had just bought.
The paperwork would close Monday morning.
At nine o’clock the next day, the staff was supposed to meet its mysterious new owner.
Pierce believed that man would arrive in a black sedan wearing an expensive coat.
He had no idea the owner was already sitting ten yards away.
And Walter had already seen enough to know the Ashford’s beautiful lobby was hiding something ugly.
He just had no idea yet how ugly.
Three days earlier, Walter had sat across from his daughter, Camille, in an Atlanta conference room.
She slid the final acquisition papers toward him.
“It’s yours, Dad.”
Walter looked at the photograph on the front.
The Ashford Hotel.
Twenty-two floors.
Two hundred eighty rooms.
Built in 1926.
Renovated twice.
Strong occupancy.
High guest ratings.
Excellent revenue.
“The numbers say it’s the best-run hotel in Chicago,” Camille said.
Walter smiled.
“They’re very good numbers.”
She knew that tone.
“What?”
“Numbers behave.”
“Meaning?”
“They show you what people tell them to show you.”
Camille leaned back.
Walter had spent most of his career buying distressed properties, repairing them, then turning them over to his daughter’s hospitality company.
He trusted audits.
He trusted balance sheets.
But he trusted behavior more.
“I want to see it from the cheap seats,” he said.
Camille shook her head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re seventy-four years old.”
“I noticed.”
“It’s winter in Chicago.”
“I noticed that too.”
“Take security.”
“No.”
“At least wear the good coat.”
“That defeats the point.”
Camille sighed.
“You’re going to dress like you have nothing and wander into your own hotel.”
“Future hotel.”
“Same thing.”
Walter smiled.
“I want to see what they do when nobody important is looking.”
