Though he sincerely hoped it wasn’t.
He encountered nobody in the elevator to the seventh floor. The doors opened onto a rich burgundy carpet, so thick it devoured the sound of his footfalls. From down the hall, he heard a radio playing, a woman’s unintelligible singing lending an air of home to the otherwise foreign atmosphere, but the blood rushing in his ears almost drowned it out.
He reached Eaton’s door too soon. His room stood opposite, but in the time it had taken him to reach it, he’d already formulated his plan. Joe wanted to know if Monica Halford was still at the hotel. Though Joe made a few suggestions on how to find out, they were only that—suggestions. He told Carlo to do what felt natural. He trusted him not to mess it up. Carlo had every intention to not disappoint him.
Taking a deep breath, he slid the key to his room into Eaton’s. As he expected, it didn’t move, and he made as much noise as possible as he jiggled with the lock.