“How was mine placed?”
Marcus turned his laptop toward me.
The status read:
EXECUTIVE HOLD — RV OFFICE
Regional Vice President.
Elliot Voss.
I leaned back.
Marcus said nothing.
I did not want to believe it.
That reaction irritated me.
The chairwoman of a hotel group should not want evidence to be wrong simply because she liked the accused.
But trust is not logical.
Elliot had been at my father’s memorial.
He had helped me restructure the company after the financial crisis.
He had called every December on the anniversary of my husband’s death.
I had promoted him.
Defended him.
Trusted him.
“When did you discover his access?”
“Yesterday.”
“Does Elliot know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why did you leave the hold active?”
“To see whether anyone changed it.”
“And then I accidentally walked into the middle of your trap.”
Marcus gave a humorless laugh.
“Apparently.”
I looked toward the door.
“What do Brittany and Derek know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Derek knew the suite was held.”
“All managers can see that.”
“Why did he lie about availability rather than say it was administratively blocked?”
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
“That’s what worries me.”
My phone vibrated.
Marissa.
I ignored it.
“Where is Elliot?”
“Denver.”
“For sure?”
Marcus did not answer.
“That wasn’t a difficult question.”
“He was scheduled to be in Denver.”
“Where is he actually?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood.
“Call corporate security.”
Marcus stopped me.
“Wait.”
“Why?”
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
Marcus opened a drawer.
Removed an envelope.
Inside was a printed sheet.
At first I thought it was a reservation manifest.
Then I saw the heading.
GUEST FIT INDEX — INTERNAL
I looked at Marcus.
“What the hell is this?”
“I found it on Derek’s workstation last week.”
Rows of categories.
Appearance.
Luggage.
Arrival vehicle.
Loyalty level.
Occupation.
Social profile.
Estimated spend.
Complaint likelihood.
Influence risk.
Each variable assigned points.
At the bottom:
RED — DO NOT UPGRADE / LIMIT PREMIUM ACCESS
AMBER — STANDARD SERVICE
GREEN — PRIORITY RECOVERY / HIGH VISIBILITY
I read it twice.
My stomach turned.
“This isn’t ours.”
“No.”
“It is not a Wren policy.”
“I know.”
“Who made this?”
“We don’t know.”
I scanned the document.
A guest arriving by public transit lost points.
Casual clothing lost points.
Discount booking channels lost points.
No visible luxury brands lost points.
Private car increased points.
Business title increased points.
Large social following dramatically increased points.
“This is why Brittany treated me that way.”
Marcus nodded.
“Possibly.”
“No. Not possibly.”
I pointed.
“Canvas bag. Train. Casual clothing.”
Marcus looked sick.
“You would have scored red.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
“Apparently I’m not suitable for my own hotel.”
Marcus did not smile.
“Claire, I need you to understand something.”
“What?”
“I questioned Brittany about the sheet three days ago.”
“And?”
“She said it was part of a pilot.”
“Authorized by whom?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Why is she still working?”
“Because I wanted to know where it came from.”
Anger returned.
“So you left guests exposed to it?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I instructed supervisors that the document was unauthorized and prohibited its use.”
“Clearly that worked.”
“I know.”
There was genuine regret in his voice.
I looked away.
Through the glass wall, I could see the lobby below.
Brittany stood behind the desk with her arms crossed.
Derek beside her.
Guests moved around them.
How many people had been treated differently?
How many had simply walked away?
How many would never complain because being humiliated makes people want to disappear rather than file forms?
“We audit guest satisfaction constantly,” I said.
Marcus nodded.
“How did nobody catch this?”
“Because satisfied guests answer surveys.”
“And rejected guests?”
“Often don’t become guests.”
That landed hard.
A system designed to measure customers could be blind to anyone prevented from becoming one.
I looked again at the Guest Fit Index.
“This is not just a service issue.”
“No.”
“It’s reputational.”
“Yes.”
“Potentially discriminatory.”
“Yes.”
“Potentially illegal depending on how the profiling works.”
“Yes.”
My phone rang again.
Marissa.
This time I answered.
“Hi.”
“Claire, Elliot Voss is asking where you are.”
I looked at Marcus.
“How does Elliot know I’m traveling?”
“He says he heard your Seattle flight was canceled.”
“Who told him?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
A pause.
“Claire…”
“What?”
“He specifically asked whether you had reached the Evermont.”
Marcus’s face hardened.
“When?”
I asked.
“About two minutes ago.”
“Tell him you haven’t heard from me.”
“Okay.”
“And Marissa?”
“Yes?”
“Send Jonah and corporate security here quietly.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
She stopped.
“What happened?”
“I’ll explain later.”
I ended the call.
Marcus stared at me.
“He knows.”
“Or suspects.”
“How?”
I thought about the lobby.
Brittany.
Derek.
The system.
“Someone told him.”
Marcus moved toward the door.
“I’ll lock down front-office access.”
“No.”
He turned.
“Why?”
“If Elliot is monitoring this property, I want him to think nothing has changed.”
“Claire, that’s risky.”
“So is announcing we discovered the scheme.”
I looked again at the suite hold.
“Release the Summit Residence.”
Marcus stared.
“What?”
“Release it.”
“You’re not staying there.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“Marcus.”
“Absolutely not.”
His reaction surprised me.
“This is still my hotel.”
“And I am still responsible for your safety while you’re inside it.”
“My safety from what?”
“We do not know who is involved.”
“They’re stealing room revenue, not running an assassination ring.”
“We don’t know that either.”
I stared at him.
He realized how ridiculous the sentence sounded.
Neither of us laughed.
Finally I said, “Fine. We release the suite but nobody stays there.”
“What are you thinking?”
“If someone has been using it for off-book guests, maybe the room itself tells us something.”
Marcus frowned.
“Housekeeping searched.”
“Housekeeping cleans.”
“That’s not the same as searching.”
He looked at me.
“Corporate security first.”
“Agreed.”
We returned to the lobby.
Brittany had stopped crying.
Derek looked as if he had aged ten years.
I approached them.
“Brittany.”
“Yes, Ms. Wren.”
Her voice shook.
“Who gave you the Guest Fit Index?”
Her eyes widened.
Derek turned toward her.
“What index?”
I watched him.
Interesting.
Brittany looked at Marcus.
Then me.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I placed the printed sheet on the desk.
Her face changed immediately.
“You recognize it.”
She said nothing.
“Who gave it to you?”
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“Email.”
“From whom?”
“I deleted it.”
Derek stared at her.
“You told me regional sent that.”
Marcus’s head snapped toward him.
“What?”
Brittany looked furious.
“Derek.”
“You said regional approved it.”
“I said it came from regional guidance.”
“That’s not what you said.”
For the first time, I believed Derek might not be fully involved.
“Derek,” I said. “Who trained staff to use this?”
He looked at me.
“Brittany.”
She turned white.
Marcus swore under his breath.
Brittany shook her head violently.
“No. That’s not fair.”
“How many employees?”
Marcus asked.
“None.”
Derek laughed in disbelief.
“You held two morning briefings.”
“You were there.”
“To discuss VIP recognition.”
“You scored guests in front of us.”
The lobby seemed suddenly too public.
Marcus called security.
Not hotel security.
The two corporate investigators who had arrived through a side entrance.
One was Jonah Price, our chief compliance officer.
Sixty-one years old.
Quiet.
Former federal prosecutor.
When Jonah entered a room, executives who had nothing to hide still became nervous.
Brittany looked at him.
Then at me.
Her resistance collapsed.
“I didn’t create it.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who sent it?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because I signed something.”
Jonah spoke for the first time.
“What did you sign?”
She looked at him.
“A consulting agreement.”
The four of us went back to Marcus’s office.
Brittany sat alone on one side of the conference table.
Derek remained downstairs under supervision.
Jonah placed a recorder between us.
“With your permission.”
Brittany nodded.
Her hands shook.
She began talking.
Six months earlier, a man had contacted her through a professional networking site.
He claimed to work for a guest-experience consultancy.
He knew she wanted to move into luxury brand strategy.
He offered five hundred dollars to complete a survey.
Then another project.
Then a monthly retainer.
“What company?”
Jonah asked.
She whispered, “Halberd.”
I looked at Marcus.
There it was again.
“What were you paid to do?”
“At first? Nothing bad.”
Brittany wiped her face.
“Guest observations. What people wore. How they arrived. What brands they carried.”
“Why?”
“They said they were researching luxury purchasing behavior.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand a month.”
“That didn’t strike you as suspicious?”
She looked ashamed.
“It should have.”
“What changed?”