If he was following his usual schedule, he would still be in Chicago.
I called the hotel.
I didn’t pretend to be Ryan’s assistant or claim to have a right to his room information. I simply asked whether a package I’d arranged to be delivered to the property could be left at the front desk.
The employee explained the hotel’s delivery policy.
I thanked her and hung up.
I wasn’t going to trick anyone into revealing private information.
Instead, I decided to visit the public lobby.
I wanted to see whether Ryan was there.
And if he wasn’t, I would return to the hospital and focus on my mother.
That was the plan.
It lasted less than an hour.
The hotel lobby was elegant, with polished floors, soft lighting, and a row of armchairs facing the windows.
I arrived shortly after lunch.
At first, I saw nothing unusual.
Business travelers crossed the lobby carrying briefcases. A couple stood near the reception desk. Someone was speaking loudly into a phone.
