Victims by Dorothy Uhnak

young mothers. Miranda smiled and waited until things quieted down.
    She went over to the security officer at the desk. She couldn’t resist pointing out to him how lax his security was.
    “I just walked in, with the group of young mothers. I could have been anybody. I tell you this so that you will maybe get a little angry. But with yourself.”
    Her criticism was not appreciated, but, before he could answer, Miranda held her gold shield toward him.
    “There are a group of stewardesses in this building? What apartment number, please?”
    Even with the obvious morning-after look, Miranda would have taken the young woman for a stewardess. There was a perfection just under the sleepy surface: tall, slender but curvaceous, a body that would keep the male passengers interested but not too aroused, a manner that would make even the most tedious flight somewhat pleasant. The smile was automatic. Miranda wondered if the woman was even aware of the fact she was smiling.
    “How may I help you?” she asked. Coffee, tea, a pillow? “Come on in, sit, excuse the mess. We’ve been partying—just a little bit.” She glanced toward a partly opened door, excused herself for a moment. “Be right back. Please, get comfortable. This chair—oh, you settle down here, you’ll never want to get up.”
    Miranda sat on the edge of a contoured leather chair and scanned the large room. It was furnished the way a good hotel suite is furnished: everything right, everything expensive, everything coordinated by a decorator accustomed to providing a neutral, bland decor. A room that would not intrude on or interfere with the occupants: comfort without hominess; style without statement. Leathers and suedes and rough-textured fabrics, all pale and colorless. Bright pillows, large and lush, silks and linens. The sweep of window, overlooking Queens Boulevard, was covered with narrow fabric-covered blinds. Someone had come into this huge room, made a quick drawing, gotten immediate approval, and with a snap of the fingers the transformation from empty space to up-to-the-minute décor had been accomplished. There was no trace whatever of any individual occupant.
    The place was filled with the residue of an all-night party. From what was left over on various tables, on the shiny bar top and in the dining area of the room, Miranda made a quick calculation: the party had been airline style. There was a collection of small bottles—scotch, gin, vodka, liqueur. She wondered whether they also walked off with little dishes and trays of the pseudo food. Or would it spoil between Kennedy and Forest Hills? Or would anyone notice after a couple of the small bottles?
    “There, okay. We got a full house and I’ve got to check the time. A few girls are working tonight. Is it hot out? We keep the air conditioner way up. So, can I get you anything?” The bright, white smile was automatic; the words were by rote.
    “Is Arabella Vidales here? I’d like to speak with her.”
    “Ara? No. Wait a minute.” The girl ducked her head down: the perfectly straight-cut shiny black hair fell over her face. She flung her head up: the hair swung back neatly.
    “No. That was last week. Ara... no, she isn’t here. But I think she is on layover. Yes... but she isn’t here.”
    “Have you any idea where she is? Where I can find her? I’d like to talk with her.”
    “Ara? No. I think... Could you tell me again, please, what it was you said when you came in? I’m a little groggy. We had a big thing here last night.”
    “Are you sure Ara wasn’t here last night? Could she have been here, if you had a big party, maybe she was here?”
    Something in Miranda’s voice, her tone or manner, alerted the stewardess. The smile froze, and for the first time she really looked at and saw Miranda.
    “You say you are a detective? With who?” She glanced around, her eyes darting about the room. She reached out and palmed a small bottle with a tiny Dewars label.
    Miranda leaned