"...OK, OK, look at it this way. Like they always say, like Hume, you could count all the white swans in the world, but if you never came across a black swan, you wouldn't know that all swans aren't white. So you've got to look, and keep looking."

~ The Hermit, to Zandra

"Yeah, but you have to be nuts enough to believe in black swans first."

~ Zandra, to The Hermit

With Chad and Bexley laying flat in the bed behind her, Zandra hobbles into the passenger's seat of a pickup truck. For looking like it rolled down a hill, the pickup is a quiet runner. The Crocodile drives while Zandra takes in her surroundings.

Nice neighborhood. This must be in Plover, one town over from Stevens Point.

Don't ever get be fooled by "nice" neighborhoods. They're the domain of the overleveraged, cash-poor members of society, every bit as desperate for a break as those living in the "bad" neighborhoods.

Appearances, as always, are deceiving. Speaking of which.

The ride back to the assisted living facility gives Zandra a chance to get a baseline of The Crocodile. Although tattoos serve as excellent indicators of background and personality, there's too much information to decode on The Crocodile, beyond the obvious sprint to look like a crocodile.

"You like fixing up trucks? That your job?" Zandra says as the pickup approaches the parking lot by Emile's assisted living facility.

"I'm not giving you anything to work with," The Crocodile says.

"So we do know each other," Zandra says.

The Crocodile grunts.

"You gave your friends back there the idea to kidnap me, didn't you?" Zandra says. "It's your thing."

The Crocodile grunts again, and then says, "I'd better get my money. Now get the fuck out."

The Crocodile drops Zandra off in the parking lot. Chad peeks his head over the side of the pickup bed as the truck pulls away, and Zandra blows him a sarcastic kiss. The kiss is interrupted by a stray meteor of phlegm that falls to the pavement.

After the stars clear from her vision, Zandra makes her way to the white SUV, pausing against a door to rub the pain out of her left ankle.

She expects to find Sunglasses, but he's still nowhere to be found. Zandra circles the SUV and looks through the windows on the chance he's sleeping inside the vehicle. Still nothing.

He can't be far. I was only gone for a couple hours.

"Zandra," comes a voice from the other side of the parking lot. It's Sunglasses.

"Where the hell have you been?" Zandra says as he jogs over.

"I was wondering the same thing," Sunglasses says, nearly out of breath.

Zandra fills him in on the kidnapping, The Crocodile, Bexley, Chad, the meat mallet, and the invitation.

"You invited them? But you don't even know these people. I can't see how this helps us get any closer to keeping you safe," Sunglasses says.

Psychic powers aren't real, but convenient coincidences certainly can be. Best to just go with them when they happen. Ride the chaos.

"If you had a better idea for getting me out of that garage, maybe you should've been there to tell us about it," Zandra says. "Where did you run off to? I told you to wait for me while I talked to Emile."

Zandra pays extra attention to the way Sunglasses responds next.

He can wear as many pairs of sunglasses he wants, but the eyes don't own the monopoly on "tells." The thing about body language is it never shuts off completely.

"I had no idea when you were going to return, so I maximized my time by checking the perimeter of the assisted living facility for threats," Sunglasses says. His body posture is unchanged, and there isn't a gap between Zandra's question and his response.

It's like a student acing tests over and over again. Perfection is the enemy of good.

"And did you continue to maximize your time after I was gone? Just kept circling the parking lot like a drunk pigeon looking for French fries?" Zandra says.

"I thought you were inside with Emile, so I waited. I'm not here to tell you how to do your job," Sunglasses says.

"Well, let me give you a tip for how to do yours," Zandra says. "Stop trying to be helpful. You were so great at providing security that you missed me getting kidnapped."

Sunglasses unlocks the SUV and heads into the driver's seat. Zandra follows into the passenger's side.

"None of this would be an issue if you let me come with you when you meet these people. I don't know why you're so insistent on my staying put," Sunglasses says as he twists the key in the ignition.

Not finding her lighter, Zandra chews a fingernail loose instead of sparking a cigarette inside the SUV. She cracks the window and flicks the nail out.

Trust is a hard thing to earn in this business. Can't trust someone unless you see them at their authentic selves. Sunglasses is just too damned hard to read.

But he's got a point, too.

"I'm ready for another shower and an early supper. Need to get the Chad stink off of me," Zandra says.

"Hotel?"

"Hotel."

Not long later, Zandra and Sunglasses take the elevator up from the Holiday Inn lobby. They agree to meet again in 30 minutes, but the timeline gets cut short when Zandra enters her room.

The clothes previously set on the bed now lay crumpled in every corner of the room. The mattress stands vertically against the wall. Shreds from the newspaper Zandra used to strop the lawnmower knife earlier scatter about the floor like confetti.

Zandra's few possessions remain in her pockets, so she's not out anything personally. The room itself isn't missing anything, either, something Zandra discovers as she picks her way through the mess. The appliances, such as the TV and the minifridge, are untouched. So is the miniature coffee machine.

This wasn't a robbery.

Zandra looks at the angle of the spread of shredded newspapers made on the floor. As one walks into the room, the newspaper used to sit on a desk on the left side. The shreds make a rough arrow that points further into the room and to the right.

The fabric in the middle of the top of the box spring of the bed is scuffed in two places about eight inches apart.

The door and lock show no signs of forced entry.

She picks up the landline phone on the stand next to the bed and dials Sunglasses's room. He picks up after a single ring.

"You're wearing flipflops still, right?" Zandra says without first saying hello.

"I am."

"Describe the bottoms of them to me," Zandra says.

Sunglasses doesn't hesitate. "They're smooth. Why?"

"Someone sent me a message," Zandra says, careful not to reveal exactly what that means.

"A message? Who did?" Sunglasses says.

The last word of my question matches the second word of his response, and his response is framed as a question. I'm paying attention, Sunglasses.

"Someone who was right-handed and wearing boots or shoes with an aggressive tread. Shorter than average height. This person had a key card. Could be staff or someone who gained access to key cards," Zandra says. She pauses for effect. "That's as far as my vision can reach right now."

"What did the message say?" Sunglasses says.

"That I need room service," Zandra says. She breathes in deep through her nose, scanning for any lingering perfume or cologne or some other unfamiliar fragrance. Decades of enthusiastic smoking don't exactly help her efforts.

"Room service?"

He's asking a lot of questions.

Zandra rubs the spot between her eyebrows. This time it's not for show. She says, "Stay in your room."

"We discussed this," Sunglasses says.

"I know, but stay there until I call you again," Zandra says and ends the call. Taking care not to disturb any of the mess in the room, she hurries out into the hallway to catch an elevator down to the lobby.

Zandra approaches the front desk worker, but she pauses at the key card game she aced earlier.

The yawning man wore dress shoes. What were the mother and daughter wearing on their feet?

"You can only win once a day," the front desk worker says, walking over to Zandra with a grin.

Zandra doesn't return the grin. She says, "How many people have access to my room? No, wait, don't answer that. How many key cards are active right now for access into my room?"

"Uh, let me check," the worker says and returns to a computer. "Only two."

"I mean total cards. I know that I have access to my own room," Zandra says. She scans the lobby. No one else is about.

"Like staff, too?"

"Yes, like staff."

"Well, in that case it'd be about a dozen. Is something wrong?" the worker says. The grin is gone.

Zandra keeps the pace of conversation up to avoid answering. "A man booked a room for myself and himself at the same time. Do you remember him? This would've been a couple days ago or so."

"I think so, yes."

"Good. He must've signed for the room, right? An agreement to cover any incidental costs?"

"That's standard, yeah. What's going on?" the worker says.

"I need to see that sheet of paper."

The worker hesitates. "I think I should call my manager."

They train people to be helpless and then wonder why the customer service sucks.

"No, you don't. Get me that paper. It covers my incidentals, too, so this shouldn't be an issue," Zandra says.

The worker thinks for a beat, then relents. The paper rests on the front desk moments later. Sure enough, John Smith's name really is John Smith, or Sunglasses to her. She still won't give him the benefit, though.

Sunglasses's signature shows he's right-handed.

Ninety percent of everyone on Earth is right-handed.

Sunglasses has dress shoes. Is he dumb enough to wear them while trashing my room? Did he know I was going to be kidnapped, return to the hotel, and then get tipped off when I would be back?

Shoes and teeth. Shoes and teeth.

Shoes.

"Do you remember what he was wearing when he signed this? Get a good look at his feet? His shoes?" Zandra says.

"Him? Actually, it could've been a woman."

"You said just a minute ago that it was a man," Zandra says. "And that signature is for a man's name, John Smith. Now you're telling me it was a woman?"

"No, actually, I mean, you're right. It was a man. Might not have happened on my shift is what I mean," the worker says.

Then I'm done here.

"Where's your cleaning staff? What floor?" Zandra says.

"Fourth floor. Your room is on the third floor, so it was already cleaned, if that's what you're asking," the worker says.

Sunglasses is on the fifth floor.

"Have they been here all day or did the shifts change over recently?" Zandra says.

"The shift doesn't change over for another hour."

"So who cleaned my room?"

"One of the two cleaners on the fourth floor, I guess."

Zandra leaves without saying goodbye, dragging her bad ankle to the elevator. She presses the button for the fourth floor inside the elevator. The elevator starts with a whir but stops on the second floor for someone on the way up. A man steps inside and presses the button for the third floor.

Wait, is that who I think it is?

It's the yawning man from earlier in the lobby.

The man doesn't make eye contact with Zandra as the elevator pulls up to the third floor a moment later. She looks at his shoes. Tennis shoes. The treads could only be aggressive given the rest of the design.

Zandra motions to follow him out, but stops.

He's on the third floor. That's enough for me to check out later.

The doors start to close as the man slips out of view on the third floor.

There are 25 rooms on each floor of this hotel. What are the odds I'll guess this guy's room number later? No. Act now.

The space between the elevator doors is down to its last 12 inches.

There are five floors. The cleaning staff won't be done for a while even if they're on the fourth.

Zandra stuffs an elbow into the three-inch crack between the doors. The elevator opens wide once again. Zandra waits a few seconds to make sure she's alone in the hallway before stepping out. She catches a glimpse of someone turning a corner down the hallway to her right.

Pushing her balance into the wall, Zandra does her best to stay quiet while trailing the yawning man. It works well, but the awkward gait makes her look drunk.

Fuck it.

Zandra resumes her usual, staggered stride, favoring her bad ankle. She turns the corner just in time to see the door to room 327 close.

"Looking for your room?" a voice from behind Zandra says.

Zandra turns to see one of the cleaning staff behind her, carrying an armful of disinfecting wipe tubes. She immediately looks down at the staffer's footwear. Slip-on walking shoes. Light tread. The cleaner follows the gaze to the shoes, and then turns the treads up one at a time for inspection as if to check for a run-in with a dog pile.

"Your shoes, they seem comfortable," Zandra says, doubling down on the awkward pause.

"Yes, they are, uh, quite comfortable," the cleaner says.

The creak of a door opening behind Zandra has her turning around once again. It's room 327. The yawning man, sans yawn, sticks his head out of the door.

"Oh, good. Thanks for running this up to me," the man says to the cleaner. Zandra takes a shuffled step backward as the cleaner hands him a tube of disinfecting wipes.

Steady words and focused actions. No twitches. No tucking his chin over his throat. Nope, not in the least bit disturbed to see me.

"Your toilet backed up or something?" Zandra says.

The man ignores Zandra and hands the cleaner a cash tip.

A good tipper.

The door to room 327 shuts again.

"I suppose you have get going to the fourth floor, right?" Zandra says to the cleaner.

The cleaner looks surprised. The expression is still there as Zandra leaves to take the stairs to the fourth floor. Even with her bad ankle, it's faster than waiting for the elevator.

The second cleaning staffer on the fourth floor is easy to spot. An open hotel room door and a cart of cleaning supplies lead Zandra to her target hunched over a toilet bowl in a bathroom. There's no need for small talk. Zandra can see the footwear. Crocs.

Not much tread to be had. Those Crocs have been in service for a long time.

"Tell the window washers to hurry up. I can't leave until they're done," the cleaner says without looking up from the toilet, mistaking Zandra for someone on the cleaning crew.

Window washers?

Zandra exits the bathroom. This time she skips the stairs and opts for the elevator. Her ankle yearns for the days of loafing in cars. When the elevator arrives—empty—she steps inside and hits the button with the number three on the panel.

Less than a minute later, she's back in her room, inspecting its lone window. While most hotel windows cannot be opened from the inside, it's apparent this one was recently from the outside. Fresh, half-circle scratch marks on one of the panes tell the tale.

Zandra takes a closer look at how the window is seated into the wall. It's hard to see, but it seems as if the window could be pushed open from outside with the removal of a couple screws.

Are the window washers still here?

Zandra pauses for a drink from a stray bottle of water in the minifridge before leaving for the elevator once again. On her way out, she hangs a Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle.

In the elevator, Zandra presses the button for the lobby. Instead of descending lower, the elevator heads up to the fifth floor. The doors open, and Zandra finds herself facing Sunglasses.

"I told you to wait for a call," Zandra says as Sunglasses steps inside.

"I got a call on the room landline," he says.

"From who? I didn't call you," Zandra says as the elevator whirs down toward the lobby.

"I don't know. I was occupied."

"Occupied with what?"

"I was, well, occupied. I don't usually eat fast food."

"To the point that you couldn't answer a phone call?" Zandra says. She pauses. "Actually, don't answer that."

The elevator stops and the door opens. They both step out into the lobby.

"You must've seen the number that called you," Zandra says and hacks into her sleeve. Her lungs aren't fans of all this running around, either.

The answer comes from the front desk worker, who calls out to Sunglasses. "There you are. I was trying to call you, sir."

"About what?" Sunglasses says.

"That weirdo psychic lady was asking questions about you. Seemed real strange," the worker says before spotting Zandra next to Sunglasses. "Oh, hi there."

I've been called worse.

"Would a weirdo want to know when the window washing crew first arrived today at the hotel?" Zandra says, embracing the absurdity of the moment.

"See, this is what I was talking about," the worker says. "I mean, what the heck, I don't get paid enough to deal with psychics."

How about the sex trafficking? Don't think I forgot about that.

"Window washers?" Sunglasses says.

"It's a simple question. There's a simple answer," Zandra says. She leaves the lobby for an exit into the sunshine outside. Sunglasses follows behind her.

Zandra spots a van in the parking lot with the name of a local window-washing business on its side. The van is hitched to a trailer with pieces of scaffolding inside. She leads Sunglasses around the side of the hotel.

"There," Zandra says and points to rolling scaffolding resting on a patch of green against the outside of the hotel. A pair of window washers stands at the top of the scaffolding, even to the third-floor windows. Each holds a squeegee on a long pole, which they press against the fifth-floor windows.

Zandra cups a hand to her mouth and says, "Hey you."

One of the washers looks down. "What?"

"You know who I am?" Zandra says.

"Should I?" the washer says.

I very much doubt it was one of the washers breaking into my room. There's no way they'd let someone else up on the scaffolding, unless that someone else saw an open opportunity.

"I'm the new manager. You haven't met me yet. This guy here in the sunglasses is the new assistant manager. We need to know when you went on lunch so I can check your invoice for your hours," Zandra says.

"Oh, yeah? Did they tell you how you still owe us for last time? We don't work for IOUs," the washer says.

"Look, I'm not here to fight. I know the last manager was a gold-medal asshole," Zandra says, leaning into her ruse by making sure her posture reflects the frustration in her words. "That's why I want to get the billing right. I'm settling up."

"About damn time," the washer says. "Yeah, we took a late lunch a couple hours ago."

"For how long?"

"Thirty minutes."

"Only 30?"

"OK, you caught me," the washer says.

"I'll mark you down for 45 and let you slide for the other 15. Deal?" Zandra says.

In the absence of licensure, jargon is the gatekeeper. Learn how to talk like you know what you're talking about, and you're in.

"Deal," the washer says.

Before Zandra leaves, she says, "Hey, do you take the scaffolding down when you leave for lunch?"

"Yeah, of course," comes the reply.

"Don't lie to me twice. I'm the good manager, remember?"

"Fine. It's a pain in the ass to take the scaffolding down. We put up a sign that says for people to not climb on it. Happy?" the washer says.

We'll see.

"Get that invoice to me. We'll talk soon," Zandra says and turns to Sunglasses. "You see any security cameras on this side of the hotel?"

Sunglasses points near the roof. "A couple."

"Follow me," Zandra says. They don't get far before she stops and looks down at two shiny circles near her feet. It's a pair of quarters, face up, minted in the same year. She picks them up and slips them into her pocket. "Never skip a sign from the universe, child."

Zandra and Sunglasses return to the lobby. The front desk worker grimaces as they approach once again.

"Your security cameras. I need to see footage from the west side outside this hotel," Zandra says.

"This is ridiculous. Are you the police? Because if you are, the manual says I have to call my manager to call the hotel lawyer to call you," the exasperated worker says.

Let's roll the dice with this idiot.

"Yes, child, we actually are with the police. My associate here can show you his badge," Zandra says and motions to Sunglasses.

Sunglasses raises an eyebrow.

"Well, come on. Show your badge," Zandra says.

Sunglasses says under his breath, "I don't carry a badge."

A gun, but no badge? Lord help us if we run into real police.

Zandra tries to save face. "Of course you don't carry a badge. This is an undercover operation."

"Undercover?" the worker says, perking up.

That's the spirit. Never underestimate how bored and/or jaded someone making a hair more than minimum wage can be.

The ambient trafficking in the air lends some legitimacy, too. You can't tell me that front desk worker hasn't noticed that blonde woman from earlier in the parking lot going back and forth with different men.

"Yes, child. It's a very important assignment. High stakes. I'm sure this situation happens to you all the time," Zandra says in a hushed voice.

"Oh, yeah, of course," the worker says like it's just another day.

Zandra thumps the desk with her index finger. "We have reason to believe there's illicit activity taking place in this very hotel. Big crime ring. You may have gotten a sense of it in the past. Isn't that right, child?"

"I have, yes," the worker says.

"Of course you have," Zandra says. "That's why we need to see that security camera footage. It could be a big break in the case."

The worker hesitates. "I really think I should call my manager."

No. Don't do that.

Zandra takes a step back and shows off her purple gown. She says, "Look at me, child. Do I look like someone who is joking around? I'm Zandra. The Zandra. I've got nothing to hide, and nothing to gain by lying to you. I am exactly who I present myself as, because who the hell would want to be me? How fucked up do you have to be to walk around pretending to be psychic in order to win people free stays at hotels? This is the real deal, and we really need your help. Lives are on the line."

Confuse your opponent into submission. Make them beg for the inanity to stop.

The profanity offers reassurance, too. A few curse words, but not too many, convey honesty.

The worker shrugs and says, "I mean, I believe you and everything, but I still can't show you any footage."

Zandra throws her hands up in the air. "Why not?"

"Because the outside security cameras are fake. They're just there to scare people into thinking we're watching," the worker says. "My manager says having real cameras makes us responsible if any of the cars are broken into."

Good lord.

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?" Zandra says, at her wit's end.

"I don't know," the worker says in a grunt.

Time for plan B. Or is it C? Maybe D? I don't know.

"Let's go," Zandra says to Sunglasses.

"Where?" Sunglasses says.

"To drop off another invite. Bring your gun."