I moved on down the corridor and turned a corner into the first of several kitchens that opened off one another like a maze. Six ice machines were lined up along the wall in front of me. I counted twenty rolling metal food carts with racks for trays. The floors were freshly washed, glistening with water and smelling of disinfectant. I walked with care, passing big stainless-steel mixing bowls, soup vats, and industrial dishwashers billowing steam. Occasionally, a food service worker, in a white apron and a hairnet, would glance up at me with interest, but no one seemed to question my presence down there. A black woman was chopping green peppers. A white man was encasing one of the rolling carts with plastic sheeting to protect the food. There were big room-size ovens and stainless-steel refrigerators larger than the morgue at St. Terry's Hospital. More workers in white aprons, hairnets, and plastic gloves were washing salad greens, arranging them on plates that had been laid out on the stainless-steel counter.

I stuck my head into a big storage room the size of a National Guard armory, where there were cartons of ketchup bottles; cases of mustard, olives, pickles; shelves filled with packaged bread; racks of croissants, homemade tarts, cheesecakes, pies, rolls. Plastic bins were filled with fresh produce. The air was saturated with strong smells: cut onions, simmering tomato sauce, cabbage, celery, citrus, yeast; layer upon layer of cooking and cleaning odors. There was something unpleasant about the suffusion of scents, and I was keenly aware of my olfactory nerves conducting a confused array of data to ancient parts of my brain. It was a relief to come out on the far side of the complex. The temperature in the air dropped, and the scents were suddenly as clean as a forest's. I found the main corridor and took a right.

Ahead of me, a regular choo-choo train of linen carts was lined up against the wall. The canvas sides were yellow and bulged with the mountains of soiled sheets and towels. I set off, walking with great purpose, glancing into every room I passed. I paused in the door to the hotel laundry: a vast room filled with wall-mounted washing machines, most of which were much taller than I. A moving track was suspended from the ceiling and enormous mesh bags of linens swung around the curve on a series of hooks. Somewhere I could hear massive dryers at work. The air was dense with the smell of damp cotton and detergent. Two women in uniform were working in tandem with a machine whose function seemed to be the pressing and folding of hotel sheets. The women's motions were repetitious, taking sheets out as the machine finished its twofold process. Each packet was refolded and stacked to one side, with no margin for error as the machine pushed the next newly pressed sheet into range.

I continued down the corridor, slowing my pace. This time I passed a little half door with a narrow shelf that formed a small counter. The sign above the door said Employee Linens. Well, well, well. I paused, looking in on what must have been the laundry facility for employee uniforms. As in a dry cleaning establishment, several hundred matching cotton uniforms had been cleaned and pressed and hung on a mechanical conveyor awaiting pickup by the staff. I leaned across the Dutch door, peering through a thick forest of cleaners' bags. There didn't appear to be anyone in attendance.

"Hello?"

No answer.

I turned the knob and opened the half door, easing in. I sorted through uniforms in rapid succession. Each uniform seemed to consist of a short red cotton skirt with a red tunic worn over it. Impossible to guess what sizes they were. A paper pinned to each hanger gave the first name of the wearer: Lucy, Guadalupe, Historia, Juanita, Lateesha, Mary, Gloria, Nettie. On and on the names went. I selected three at random and eased out again, closing the door behind me.

"Can I help you?"

I jumped, nearly bumping into the hefty white woman in a red uniform who was standing right behind me in the corridor. My mind went completely blank.

The woman's nostrils flared like she could smell deception. "What are you doing with those uniforms?" I could practically see up her nose, and it was not a pretty picture. Her name tag read Mrs. Spitz, Linen Service Supervisor.

"Ah. Good question, Mrs. Spitz. I was just looking for you. I'm Jillian Brace's assistant up in Sales and Marketing." With my free hand, I reached in my blazer pocket and pulled out a business card, which I flashed at her.

She snatched the card and studied it, squinting. "This says Burnham J. Pauley. What's going on here?" She had a big face, and every feature on it seemed to quiver with suspicion.

"Well," I said. "Gosh. I'm glad you asked. Because. As a matter of fact, Corporate is considering new uniforms. For security reasons. And Mr. Pauley told Ms. Brace to show him a sample of what we had on hand."