by Jo Leigh
She went over to the bar area, trying to figure out if the small glasses on the counter were drinks to be used in the next scene or just a mess left from the crew. Just as she was about to investigate up close, she tripped, fell forward, saving herself from a serious crash at the last second by catching the edge of the bar.
Shaken, worried she’d ruined some vital piece of movie set, she turned to see what she’d fallen over. Her breath left her in a strangled scream as she saw the body.
It was a guy, a big guy, and oh, God, there was blood, a lot of it, all over the shiny floor. Some seeping around long, thick cables. But her gaze went straight to the face, because he was on his back, he was staring up, and even in the shadows she could see he was dead. Really dead.
She moved toward him, careful not to step in the blood. The guy had on jeans and a plain shirt, and oh, crap, the blood didn’t quite cover a gaping wound that stretched across his neck.
If she moved just a couple of inches to the right the light from behind her would illuminate his face. With a quick gulp of air she steeled herself then moved those few steps. The light fell right on the face. His face.
Gerry Geiger’s face.
Her hand went to her mouth as she fought another scream. As the blood rushed from her head. As the urge to run propelled her toward the door. But then she remembered her job. The hotel. Her responsibility.
With shaking hands, she pulled her personal cell from her purse and dialed 9-1-1. She could be sick later.
2
BAX HATED CELEBRITIES. He hated the paparazzi. He hated movie people in general.
Who was he kidding, he hated pretty much everyone and everything in this town, particularly in this precinct.
His pain was somewhat mitigated by the fact that he’d pulled Grunwald as his partner on this. He was a good detective, hungry, and a fiend for detail. Which meant that Grunwald would be doing the paperwork on this baby, while Bax would focus on the footwork. If only Grunwald’s breath didn’t always smell like an especially foul combination of stale cigarettes and some acid reflux.
They had already been briefed by the first officer on scene, and now it was time for Bax to interview the first witness on scene. He glanced over to where she stood in the corner near all the cameras, lights, director’s chairs and cable. Her name was Mia Traverse and she worked at the hotel. It didn’t surprise him that she was pretty. One of those tiny girls, barely five feet, who looked as if a strong wind could carry them across the street. She hugged herself as she snuck glances at the body.
Bax was anxious to talk to her before the swarm that always surrounded murder descended. As he got closer he saw she wasn’t exactly as delicate as he’d first imagined. She looked upset all right, but her back was straight, her eyes serious and focused. He nodded. “Detective Milligan. You found the body?”
She nodded back. “I came down to see if they were still filming. I hadn’t been to the club since they’d rented it.”
“You always here at two in the morning?”
“I’m a concierge for Hush. My shift ended at five, but I had dinner and drinks here with some friends. They were hoping to meet Danny Austen.”
“And?”
“There’s not much else to say. The club was empty. I was trying to be careful, not to touch anything. I tripped over—”
Her voice had cracked. So she wasn’t quite as in control as she’d like.
A big light came on behind him, and he wondered if they’d used one that was already here, or if the newly arrived CSI guys had brought their own. He kept his eyes on the woman.
Flipping a page in his notebook, he moved a little closer to her. “You’re Mia Traverse?”
“That’s right.”
“Concierge. And you got here…?”
“You mean, to Exhibit A?”
“Yes.”
“Ten after two. I remember looking at my watch as I got out of the elevator.”
“You came down here by yourself.”
She nodded.
“Did you know the deceased?”
“Only to chase him out of the hotel. He was here all the time, always trying to sneak in. Everyone was always on Geiger alert.”
“What do you mean, everyone?”
“All the staff of course, but the movie people, too. No one could stand him. He had no boundaries.”
“What boundary did he cross tonight?”
“He tried to get into the restaurant earlier today. Uh, yesterday. I saw the security guys kick him out. But that was nothing unusual. We’ve found him in guest rooms, in the supply closet. One day he wore a disguise and tried to blend in with the movie crew but they caught him right away.”
“So nothing unusual. No fights, no threats.”
“I wouldn’t swear to no threats. But I personally didn’t see anything you would call unusual.”
Bax jotted down a few things, then looked up. Her face had changed, brightened.
He said nothing. Just waited.
She cleared her throat, her eyes shifted to the right. “I think that’s everything.”
“Do you?”
“I—”
She was interrupted by the “Ride of the Valkyries.” It wasn’t a full orchestra and it was tinny as hell, but there was no mistaking the music. Mia turned sharply and grabbed her purse from the bar top behind her and a few seconds later the music stopped as she answered her phone.
He fought a smile at her choice of ring tones. His phone rang. Just rang. But this slip of a girl, uh, woman had picked Wagner. As she told her caller that she couldn’t talk and would explain things later, he perused his notes. She didn’t seem to know much about what had happened, at least not about the murder, but she knew something. He’d have to watch her, find a way to get her to talk.
He knew a couple of concierges and they were notoriously close-mouthed. He had no doubt Mia Traverse was the same. But he also knew that the concierge of a hotel could be a font of information. A central clearing house for juicy tidbits about the staff and the guests.
He’d find out what she knew. She might believe that discretion was the better part of valor, but there was no valor in a slit throat.
“Is that all, Detective?”
He looked at her once more. At her wispy haircut with the short bangs, at the artfully applied makeup that highlighted her big eyes. He wondered briefly if they’d hired her just for her looks, then dismissed the thought. This was one hell of a famous hotel, owned by the one celebrity heiress who seemed to have gotten her act together, but still, Hush was known as the sex hotel. Someone had told him each room came equipped with sex toys. Not only that, but video cameras. “Interesting.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just…”
The way she looked at him, her big eyes wide, her lips slightly parted… Her skin looked soft and sweet and he wondered how old she was. For her job at this kind of hotel he’d have guessed she would have to be around his age, but she didn’t have that jaded New Yorker look.
“Detective?”
“You just focus on taking care of the paying guests,” he said, his tone gruffer than he’d intended. “We’ve got this covered, you understand?”
The surprise on her face wasn’t nearly as revealing as the pink blush that covered her cheeks. He’d hit the nail on the head. She could be useful, if he played her just the right way. This was going to be a high-profile case, hitting the papers with a roar. He was the lead on this, and it was going to be one of his last. No way he was leaving without solving this one. Whatever it took.
MIA PICKED HER WAY OUT of Exhibit A, careful not to disturb anything. She even managed not to look at Geiger’s body. At the thought she shivered again, something that had been happening a lot. It surprised her that she’d been clearheaded at all as she talked to that detective.
Two things niggled at her as she headed for the employee lounge and her locker. The first was that last thing the detective had said. As if he’d known
somehow that she planned on doing a bit of investigating on her own. After all, this was her hotel, and if she could use her sources to get to the bottom of things, all the better. But still, how had he…?
She nodded at a couple of graveyard-shift folks sitting at the tables in the cafeteria, sipping coffee. Casual, as if a murder on the premises didn’t faze them. Or maybe they didn’t know yet. She expected that to change within the hour. One thing about Hush—gossip was a constant, mostly to do with the employees themselves, but sometimes about the guests. She had every reason to believe that the murder would stir up all kinds of information and she intended to be smack dab in the middle of that.
She pushed through the door that led to the lockers and as she reached for her lock, she remembered the other niggle. Detective Milligan was way the heck too hot.
He probably wouldn’t appeal to Carlane or Jenna. They favored the pretty ones, like Danny Austen. Not her. She liked her men rugged. Lived in. A strategic scar never hurt anything, either.
She’d always been that way. She’d preferred Bogie to Cary Grant in the old films, and even today her celebrity tastes slid more toward Clive Owen than Brad Pitt.
She gathered her things together slowly as she recalled the detective’s dark eyes and that strong jaw. His hair was short, but not fatally so, and messy in a good way. He must have been a foot taller than her, and wow, his hands had been really large. Wouldn’t they feel just incredible on her back? Or lower?
She turned to make sure she was alone, suddenly embarrassed by her own thoughts. Not that she didn’t have erotic thoughts. She did. As many as any other healthy woman. Nothing wrong with that at all, unless maybe you had them five seconds after finding a dead body.
Okay, so not five seconds, but close enough. Sheesh.
She’d never seen a dead body before. Even though she watched all those shows that pride themselves on how gross they can get, she still hadn’t been prepared for the real deal.
Gerry Geiger had crossed someone’s line. Crossed it big-time. So he’d been killed. And his ever-present camera snatched.
So what had he captured that had been worth his death? That was the big question. The major puzzle.
She slammed her locker shut and walked toward the back entrance. No public transportation for her tonight. She was taking a cab all the way to Brooklyn Heights, cost be damned.
Even at this ungodly hour the paps were in force. Naturally they’d seen the police vehicles and they were chomping at the bit to find out what had happened. She was escorted past them by one of the extra security guys and put into a taxi. Once she settled in for the ride, she thought again about what Geiger could have seen. It would have to be something really terrible. It wasn’t that long ago that her first thought would have been adultery. But nowadays, who cared enough about that to kill? According to the tabloids, people, especially show biz people, cheated every day. Revolving beds were the norm. So, no, she didn’t think it was about cheating.
Her best guess was that it somehow involved money. Lots and lots of money. That was what those people seemed to love most. That’s what they protected at all costs. But what kind of photo could cost someone millions?
She’d have to think about that. But not until tomorrow. She didn’t feel tired, but she knew that was just adrenaline, and by the time she got home, that would have dissipated and she’d crash. Which was good. The last thing she needed was to remember any details. Unless those details were all about one particular detective.
Her head fell on the seat back. Nope, even the delectable detective wasn’t going to keep her awake tonight. Today. Whatever.
“GEIGER WAS A BASTARD. There wasn’t a person on the set who didn’t want him dead.”
Bax leaned back in the leather executive chair as he listened to yet another crock of bullshit from yet another movie big shot.
Piper Devon, the owner of the hotel, had given him an office in the lower level so he could conduct his interviews in relative peace. So far he’d spoken to the cinematographer, the script supervisor and two actors, both of whom thought Geiger’s murder would somehow benefit their careers. None of them had given him anything useful. He’d tried to get to the producer, but Oscar Weinberg had flown to Los Angeles early this morning. Of course he’d checked, and the travel plans had been made earlier in the week, but he still had Weinberg on his list. According to the associate producer, he would be back in three days. For now, Bax settled for talking to the director.
Peter Eccles was in his forties and his Hollywood life was written all over his face. Lines, wrinkles, fake perfect teeth, hair plugs and a completely immobile forehead made him appear more puppet than man. He was angry and nervous but his face looked weathered yet serene. Weird.
“Look, I had nothing to do with his death. I don’t know who killed him and I’ve got to completely rearrange my shooting schedule because your people won’t let us have the nightclub, so if you’re done—”
“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Bax said. “When’s the last time you saw Gerry Geiger?”
“Yesterday. He was standing outside the hotel all afternoon.”
“Did you speak with him?”
“No.”
“When’s the last time you spoke to him?”
Eccles raised a hand to his head, but stopped just before running it through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t recall. We never actually spoke. It was more me yelling at him to get the hell away from my actors. Not what you’d call real dialogue.”
“And you have no idea who would want to slit his throat?”
“I told you. Everyone. All of them. Probably hundreds of people I don’t even know. He was a prick. A vampire. A waste of space.”
“Did he ever take pictures of you?”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Were any of them compromising?”
“You mean with my pants down? No. He never got that close.”
Bax made a point of writing in his notebook, but it was mostly a list of what he needed to pick up at the store on his way home.
Across from him, Eccles tapped his leg with his fingers, his unease and impatience telegraphed from his very pores. “Are we done?” he asked again.
Bax wrote down cereal and cream, then checked the list to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. When he was satisfied he looked into Peter Eccles’s dark, furious eyes. “For now.”
Eccles shot up and marched out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Bax thought about smiling, but it wasn’t worth it. Eccles was a jerk. They were all jerks. He doubted he’d get anything useful from even one of the players. He’d have to do some serious digging. Talk to Geiger’s paparazzi buddies. He’d put the wheels in motion to get a background check on all these movie people and on Gerry and Sheila Geiger. Grunwald was going to have his hands full.
And then he’d talk to Mia Traverse. He still wasn’t sure about his approach yet, but one thing was in her favor. She was young, eager. It was a pretty safe bet she was already digging around the hotel, trying to find out all she could about Geiger and the movie crew. Bax wanted to know it all. Every detail. But he didn’t want to come right out and ask her to be his informant. He knew her first priority was the hotel and her job, which didn’t negate the fact that she was plugged into the world of Hush. No, this was going to be about finesse, not force.
He went back to his original notes. It bothered him that the camera hadn’t been found. It bothered him that Geiger was a sleaze, that everyone despised him, that most of the people staying in the hotel were suspects. At the moment the only people he could unequivocally eliminate as suspects were Piper Devon and Mia Traverse. Devon been at a very public function last night, her alibi confirmed by photographs in the New York Post. Traverse had been with her girlfriends in and around the hotel.
He wondered what she might have seen. Who. She may well know the killer’s identity without even realizing it.
That was one interview he wasn’t dreadi
ng in the least.
“SLIT. FROM EAR TO EAR. It was beyond horrible.” Mia looked around the cafeteria, sure everyone was staring at her, wondering. Not if she’d killed Geiger, but if she knew something more than she’d told the police.
The truth was, she didn’t. Not yet. But she didn’t do a thing to dissuade people from the idea that she did. Know stuff. Any stuff.
Her lunch companion, Theresa, the head of housekeeping, had been a buddy for a long while and they often ate together, so that wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows. What most of the staff didn’t think about was Theresa’s unbelievable information-gathering resources.
The maids.
It was the same in all hotels in Mia’s experience. Guests, especially the upper echelon, didn’t see the maids. They didn’t speak to them, they didn’t interact with them. Therefore, maids were not real. They were robots that cleaned and vacuumed. Mia had always felt badly that so few patrons tipped the maids, considering the crap the poor things had to put up with.
In this instance, it wasn’t the crap they had to clean that had her hunkering down with Theresa, it was the stuff they saw.
“I saw dead bodies two times,” Theresa said.
She was eating an empanada that smelled so good Mia was cursing her yogurt. But then Theresa was five-ten at least, statuesque and curvy. Not her five-two with barely a curve to be seen.
“One was just an old guy who had a heart attack. That was okay, but the second one, oh, baby.”
“What?”
Theresa leaned closer. “Autoerotic asphyxiation.”
“No.”
“Yes. And you know what was the worst part?”
“What?”
“He was alone. I found him on the bathroom floor, his hand still on his wing wang. He’d strangled himself with his own belt, and let me tell you, it took some doing. He was blue. His tongue stuck out.” She shivered, making her long, dark hair shimmer. “It put me off my soup, you know what I mean?”