by J. D. Robb
She ordered the copy, drummed her fingers. “It’s a disrupted view, but it angled well enough. No blood. The blood had already been washed off when this recorded. I couldn’t see the vic’s purse, whether it was open or closed when Marlo went at it. We’ll see what she says about that detail.”
“If this was real, the killer cleaned up the blood, took the recording—so he or she knew about the recording.”
“Assuming there was a recording. And assuming there was, let’s go find it.”
By Eve’s order K.T. Harris’s hotel suite and trailer had both been locked and sealed. The hotel manager wasn’t happy about it.
“The police seal is upsetting to our guests,” she told Eve as she escorted them—at her insistence—to the suite.
“I bet the need for the police seal probably bums out your former, now dead, guest.”
The manager flattened her lips as she strode briskly out of the elevator on high, thin heels. “All of us at the Winslow are very sorry about Ms. Harris’s death. But we do have a responsibility to our guests. It’s not as if Ms. Harris was killed here. The suite isn’t a crime scene.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, I’m the manager of this hotel.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. I won’t tell you how to manage your hotel. Don’t tell me how to manage a homicide investigation.”
At the door, Eve broke the police seal. “I want the data from the key card or cards for this suite for the day before yesterday, yesterday, and today.”
“No one has entered this room since it was sealed last night by two police officers.”
“Then the data will so confirm, won’t it?”
“If you’re doubting my word, or the security of this hotel—”
“I’m not doing either—yet,” Eve said as her patience went as thin as the manager’s lips. “I’m doing my job. Now you can unlock the door as you brought your master, or I can use mine. Either way you can go back to doing your job.”
The manager swiped the card with an angry jerk of the wrist. “When will the room be unsealed, and Ms. Harris’s belongings removed?”
“Her belongings will be taken into evidence later today. The room will be unsealed when I’m satisfied there’s nothing in said room that pertains to my investigation. You’ll be notified. Until then—” Eve opened the door, waiting until Peabody went in, then turned and shut the door in the manager’s face.
“I don’t think she likes you.”
“Oh, come on. I was really warming up to her.”
Eve set her hands on her hips, looked around. They’d come into a parlor, one with plenty of space, color, and fancy touches.
A plush sofa in rich, textured gold curved against a wall covered with mirrors of varying sizes and shapes. Flanking it were tables topped with tall lamps shaped like peacocks. Chairs of peacock blue faced the sofa over the expanse of a boldly patterned rug. Another set of chairs, smaller in scale, circled a table by the window with its view of downtown. A small bowl of fruit centered on the table.
An enameled cabinet—peacocks again—spread over another wall.
Curious, Eve opened it to find an entertainment screen, a bar, fully stocked, and an impressive library of vid and book discs.
“Nice,” Peabody said. “And there’s a little kitchen through here. AutoChef, full-size fridge, dishwasher, glassware, dishes. “Everything’s clean, shiny, and tidy.”
“They’d have done their evening service before we sealed the room. Little powder room here, and the end of the tp roll’s folded in a point—a sure sign nobody used the john since housekeeping was in.”
“I like when they do that. My aunt used to do it when I’d stay at her place. And she’d leave a piece of her homemade candy on the pillow.”
Eve walked into the bedroom. “Maybe your aunt’s been here.” She glanced at the gold-foiled chocolate, the neatly folded coverlet. The basket on it held slippers, a folded robe with the hotel’s logo, and a printed card wishing Ms. Harris sweet dreams.
Eve sometimes wondered if the dead dreamed, wherever they went, wherever they waited. But she doubted the murdered dead’s dreams were sweet.
“What do you see, Peabody?”
“Lots of pillows, good linens, good service. It’s a mag layout for reading or watching some screen in bed. And it’s quiet. Good soundproofing. You can hardly hear New York.”
“What don’t you see?”
“Clutter. No clothes or shoes, no personal debris. No personal anything,” Peabody realized. “No pictures or mementos. She’d have stayed here for weeks. Months really. And there’s nothing of her out here. Or in the parlor.”
“Exactly. Nothing to make it feel like home. She must have liked being in a hotel. The service, again, the lack of the personal. Comfortable, spacious, well-appointed, and anonymous.”
Eve opened a closet. “Plenty of clothes. Stylish, designer—even the casual stuff. Laundry hamper—it’s empty. She must have used their valet service. Let’s find out when they picked up her laundry, get a list. Get it back.”
“You got it.”
Eve stepped into the master bath. Oversized jet tub, separate multi-head shower, drying tube—pounds of thick white towels for those who preferred them.
The long gold counter boasted wide double sinks, a tray of full-sized hotel amenities.
“Kept her face and hair gunk in drawers,” Eve said after opening a few. “Your basic stuff, too. Tooth stuff, deodorant, blockers, mild tranq—prescription. Most people tend to leave something out on the counter, right? Hairbrush, toothbrush, something. But she keeps it all closed up in drawers. Don’t look at my stuff. Mine, mine, mine.”
“Maybe she was just really tidy and organized.”
“It’s not put away tidy and organized. It’s jumbled some. Put it away, shut the drawer. It’s all anonymous again. Start on the drawers,” Eve decided. “I’ll take the closet. Full-out search.”
Valet service, definitely, Eve thought. Everything was hung perfectly, and in order by type, by color within type. Shoes, and plenty of them, stood on the shelves running along the side wall. Handbags nestled in cubbies, with one hanging on a hook.
Current day bag, Eve concluded, and from the weight, the vic liked to carry half her life with her. Eve hauled it out, dumped it on the bed.
“Jesus, who needs all this stuff? And this is what she carried in addition to what she had in her evening bag last night.”
“Some people like to be prepared for anything.”
“Like famine, pestilence, alien invasion?”
“Any of that could happen.”
“So a loaded handbag is a sign of paranoia. Good to know.”
Eve sorted through the electronics, the snack food, the breath mints, the enhancers, the case of pills—blockers, she noted—and a couple of those tranqs.
She sniffed at the contents of a go-cup. “Vodka,” she announced. “Pretty sure. We’ll have it checked. Looks like she also wanted to be prepared for drought and a return of Prohibition.”
“Either of which could happen.”
Amused, Eve shook her head. “No recorder. Also no money, no plastic, and she wasn’t carrying enough of either on her at TOD for it to be all. She must be using the safe.”
“I’ve got nothing so far but really beautifully folded underwear. The valet must be top-notch here. It’s sexy heading toward slutty underwear, by the way.”
Interesting, Eve thought, and contacted management for the hotel bypass code for the safe.
Perhaps in retaliation for the door in the face, the manager refused to relay the code. Instead she insisted on sending up someone from Security.
While she waited, Eve continued the search.
“She’s got a tell on the safe,” she called out. “A single hair loosely taped to the lower corner.”
“That is paranoid,” Peabody decided. “She had a framed picture of Matthew buried under all that underwear. That’s kind of sad.”
“Take it out
of the frame.”
Loose credits and coins, Eve noted, checking pockets. More breath fresheners. A mini-flask. Had to be vodka, Eve decided after a sniff.
“How did you know!” Peabody hustled to the closet waving a key.
“Because she’s paranoid, so she hides things. And she’s obsessed. Matthew’s the current obsession. Safe box key.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Bag it and keep going,” Eve ordered at the sharp ding of the doorbell. “That’s Security for the safe.”
Security was big and burly with a hard handshake and little to say. He had the safe open quickly, gave her a nod, then strode out again.
“Safe’s loaded,” she told Peabody. “Cash, plastic, jewelry, notebook. Oops, tsk-tsk. This looks to be most of a dime bag of zoner. Envelope here of photos—probably the PI shots—of Matthew, Matthew and Marlo. Some in disguise, some not. Matthew and Julian, Matthew and Roundtree, and so on. And a small lockbox. Safe in a safe. Paranoia.”
“I’ve got script pages, notes on the script, what are they—call sheets—in this desk.”
Eve carried the lockbox out, studied it, considered. Roarke could have it opened in two seconds—maybe less—and probably just with the power of his mind.
“Hell with it.” Eve dug out her pocketknife. “What local bank did she use for business in New York?”
“Liberty Mutual, down by Chelsea Piers. McNab’s on those financials.”
“She wouldn’t have used that bank, that branch for whatever’s in the safe box. She’s the ‘spread the chickens in many coops’ type.”
“I think that’s eggs and baskets.”
“Chickens, eggs. Same thing.” Once she’d removed the code plate, Eve tried prying, poking, jimmying.
No one was more surprised than Eve when the lockbox popped open. “It’s not so hard,” she murmured.
“Another notebook, a business card for A. A. Asner, Private Investigations and Security. Stone Street address. And a sealed recording. I’m betting it’s a copy. If she got the original, it’s in that safe box.”
Eve picked up the notebook, tried to open it. “Pass coded.” She thought a moment, then keyed in MATTHEW. The screen flickered on.
“Paranoid, but obvious.” She began flipping through, working from the latest entry back. “She’s got the dinner party in here—time and date, a few pithy comments.
Expect elaborate by Overboard Connie to impress Skinny Bitch and Pleasebody.
“Pleasebody! What the hell.”
“I’m Skinny Bitch, and I barely met her.”
Had enough from Asshole Andi. She’ll shut the fuck up after tonight. And it’s time for Foolian to fall in line. Harlo’s over, and Matthew’s going to come back where he belongs and like it.
Tonight’s the night.
“I guess it was,” Eve said. “Just not the way she figured.”
She flipped back. “I’ve got a note of a cash payment of a hundred grand to Triple A. That would be the PI. Two half payments. First a week from the last entry, second and last three days ago. And there’s a code. 45128. #1337.”
“Lock code and box number?”
“I’d say so,” Eve agreed. “Let’s check banks, Lower West to start, see if she rented a box under her name. Or yours.”
“Mine again?”
“Paranoid,” Eve said again. “And she’s playing you. It’s a natural fit. We finish here, find the bank and box, and pay Triple A a visit.”
Another hour of searching proved they’d already hit the mother lode. While Peabody worked on pinning down the bank, Eve called for sweepers and EDD. She wanted the room processed, the ’links and security checked—and all personal belongings of the vic bagged, sealed, and logged into evidence.
“Still working on it,” Peabody told her.
“We’ll head toward Asner’s office. Keep at it.”
A paranoid, obsessive personality with a substance abuse problem. Why bother to kill her, Eve thought, when she’d probably self-destruct before long anyway?
She could hide her flasks and illegals, but nobody ever hid them well enough. Her colleagues had to have known she had a drinking and an illegals problem. Come at one of them—any one of them could counterweight it with Harris’s secrets.
She considered Matthew and Marlo. They could have killed her, then gone back, made the recording of the discovery. Elaborate, dramatic—but that was their business, wasn’t it? Their nature, to some extent.
The motive seemed weak to her. Sure, having the public consume a vid of them having sex would be embarrassing, but they’d done nothing wrong. The public would goggle, snicker—and sympathize.
Then again, the push/shove/fall, that played like an accident or impulse. It could even be touted as self-defense. She came at me, I pushed her back. She slipped.
The rest might have been panic.
No, it didn’t play like panic. It played like calculation. It said to Eve: I’ve gone this far, let’s just finish it once and for all.
Why take the recording? Why clean off the blood?
Because the recording had value. Because whoever did it was new to the game, assumed her death would be termed accidental drowning as a result of a fall into the pool.
Back to square one. It could have been any of them.
“Got it! New York Financial, and she did use my name.” Peabody hunched her shoulders. “That’s a little creepy.”
“But not unpredictable. What address?”
Eve programmed it into the navigation when Peabody read it off. “Only a block from the PI. We’ll go see him first, get a warrant for the box in the meantime.”
Peabody put in the request, then sat back. “All this, over a guy? And one who dumped her, and was hooked with someone else.”
“No, he’s the—what do they call it—McGuffin. All this is about her. If not Matthew, somebody else or something else. It’s about ego and greed. Power plays and a generally pissy nature.”
“I can’t believe I was juiced when they cast her to play me. Please-body,” Peabody muttered. “She didn’t have any respect for me at all. I wish I’d known what a crappy human being she was before she got dead. I’d have shown her a Pleasebody.”
“How long do you figure you’re going to stew over this?”
“Awhile. I’ve never worked on a vic I wished I’d punched in the face before somebody killed her. I’ve been working on my hand-to-hand.”
“Is that so?”
“That is very so. I think I’m improving. Plus I lost two pounds. Well, one-point-seven pounds.”
“One-point-seven.” Eve slanted a look over. “Seriously? You weigh in decimals?”
“Easy for you, Skinny Bitch.”
“Hey, that’s Lieutenant Skinny Bitch to you, Detective Pleasebody.”
That got a lip twitch that spread to a reluctant smile. “But the point is, I’ve been working on that hand-to-hand, on not telegraphing my moves and all that. I could’ve taken her down, one-on-one.”
“Damn right. You’d have mopped the floor with her if she hadn’t gone and got herself killed first. Selfish fucker. The least she could’ve done is lived long enough for you to bloody her.”
“I don’t care how that sounds.” After folding her arms, Peabody jerked up her chin. “It’s true.”
“Maybe when we collar the killer, there’ll be an opportunity for you to engage in a bit of hand-to-hand. If you punch the killer, it should have some level of satisfaction.”
“It would. I think it would. Yeah, I feel better. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Eve decided the fates had rewarded her for placating Peabody when she snagged a street-level slot half a block away. “Maybe you can lose that point-three pound walking to Asner’s office and back.”
11
SINCE ASNER’S OFFICE WAS SITUATED OVER A pierogi place in a pockmarked brick building that squatted between a dingy tattoo parlor and a particularly seedy-looking bar, they added a flight of stairs to the walk.
“Hold your breath,” Eve advised as they started the climb.
As the building squatted between bar and parlor, Asner’s office squatted between a law office Eve figured specialized in repping sleaze-balls and a bail bondsman who no doubt shared clients.
Eve opened the door into a claustrophobic reception area with barely enough room to hold the desk manned by a bored, busty blonde who sat painting her nails murderous red.
Clichés became clichés, Eve deduced, because they were rooted in fact.
“Good afternoon.” The blonde spoke in squeaky Brooklynese as she straightened at the desk. “How can we assist you today?”
Eve took out her badge. “We need to speak to Mr. Asner.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Asner is not in the office presently.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m sorry. I’m unable to give you that information.”
“Did you see this?” Eve tapped her badge.
“Uh-huh.” Cooperatively the blonde nodded, widened her eyes. “If you tell me the nature of your business I can tell Mr. Asner on his return.”
“When is he expected back?”
“I’m sorry. I’m unable to give you that information.”
“Listen, sister. We’re the police, get that? And we’re here on police business. We need your boss’s whereabouts.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t keep reading that same line.”
“But it’s true.” The blonde waved her red-tipped fingers in the air. “I can’t tell you, ’cause I don’t know. He said how he had some outside business, and I should hold the fort.”
“Can you contact him?”
“I tried, ’cause Bobbie came by and said why don’t we go out for a drink, but I can’t go out for a drink if I’m holding the fort. So I tried to tag him to ask when I could stop holding it, but I went right to v-mail.”
“Is this usual?”
“Well … it depends. Sometimes A’s outside business involves, um, wagering. When it does he maybe doesn’t answer his ’link for a while.”