by Ritter Ames
“I’d better take this,” Jack said, frowning at the screen.
“Come back later if he lets you free,” I said.
“I’ll walk you up—”
“No. Answer your phone before Cecil gets an ulcer. He’s not going to like what you have to tell him anyway. Making him wait will makes things doubly worse.”
The ringing stopped as the call went to voicemail, and Jack leaned down to give me a kiss that promised much more in the future.
Then the ringing began anew.
“Go.” I gave him a little shove toward the revolving door. He gave me his “I’m sorry” smile and answered the cell.
A quick sidestep by the front desk, and I learned the only messages I had were from my boss, who expected me to come by the New York office as soon as possible tomorrow. And call him. And email him. And text him. And call…I wadded up the pink notes and handed them back to the desk clerk. “Please file these in the trash for me, James.”
“Yes, Miss Beacham.”
I wasn’t worried about Max getting an ulcer. He was too good at giving them to people.
For once, the elevator was sitting on the first floor when I hit the call button, so I was at my hotel room in less than a minute. I opened my door and was puzzled as the aroma of Obsession cologne immediately hit me. My first clue something was off. I figured there was trouble when I found the bronzed-skin woman in the red Vera Wang lying on the floor, the mauve carpeting and her mess of long golden hair covered in blood. However, I knew trouble was my shadow when I recognized the dead woman as Melanie Weems, the woman I’d argued with in public earlier this evening, and who had bitch slapped me twice before I could get away. Oh, and I also assumed the telescoping baton beside her, the one that probably cracked her skull, was likely the one I’d had in my possession a few months ago. The telescoping baton which happened to also be covered in blood.
The baton concerned me. Moran gave me one exactly like it the night I shared my last nearly lethal tête-à-tête with Simon Babbage on the outside ledge of a Baden-Baden hotel as he tried to kill me. Simon originally had my job with the Beacham Foundation, until I discovered he was also working for Moran. Around the same time Rollie, Moran’s grandson, got suspicious and learned Simon was double-agenting on both of our organizations and aligned with Colle too. I hadn’t killed Simon with a baton, just used the weapon to trick him into losing his footing and falling several floors to the pavement. He was still alive, if battered when I escaped. Before I could decide what to do next, Rollie, up-and-coming criminal mastermind legacy that he was, had Simon retrieved and killed.
That night, Rollie returned everything I dropped except the baton confiscated by his henchmen. I couldn’t prove they had it, but since the other things I’d dropped with the baton made it back to me, I’d presumed they kept the baton for themselves. I had no qualms about them taking it at the time. It was Moran’s property originally, and I was heading back to England and couldn’t possess that weapon in the U.K. without getting into trouble. Except here I was in London and so was a similar—if not the very same—baton. Along with a dead woman whom everyone at the party knew hated me as much as I couldn’t stand her. Dead in my room.
If I was a betting woman—which I was—I wouldn’t have been surprised if at least one of my fingerprints was still on that baton. Mine, and no others.
Damn. I was being set up. Was it Rollie? Or someone new?
Finally, I was positive I was in trouble when I heard the be-bop of Met Police sirens for the second time that night. Because of the strobing lights filtering through my curtains, I knew they’d parked in the circle driveway below.
I stepped into the bedroom of my suite and looked at my packed suitcases, ready to grab for the a.m. flight, and equally ready for my flight right then from the room. A second later, I decided to travel light, with just the essentials. I yanked open the closet door and grabbed my Prada purse, which had the night off for the party, and scooped up the locked case of gizmos I couldn’t live without. With the gadget case in the big bag, I pushed the strap high on my shoulder and raced out of the suite. I stood for a second in the hall, contemplating my options. Then I heard the ding of the elevator. Before the doors completely opened I’d pushed through the stairwell entrance. The door’s automatic close routine continued making its slow progress as I flew down toward ground level.
Then I stopped. What was I doing running away? I’d be helping whoever was framing me. I chewed my lower lip and pulled out my phone to call Jack.
I heard a stairwell door open high above me and wondered if it was a cop or a killer.
Five
I dashed out the door to the lobby and raced to the front desk. Flashing lights filled the paved circle outside the front doors, at least two Met police cars and one ambulance.
James looked dazed, and his eyes widened even more when he saw me. “Miss Beacham, the police—”
“There’s someone hurt in my room! Or…worse.” I tried to keep my voice down, but panic was setting in. I didn’t have to exaggerate my response. “Can you get the police to my room?”
James waved and a young uniformed constable who had been left at the elevators hurried toward me.
“I ran down the stairs,” I babbled, grabbing the officer’s arm. “The elevator dinged and I thought it might be the…” I dropped my voice again, “You know, killer, coming back.”
Actually, I figured the elevator held the police all along, but I hadn’t been ready to talk to them on my floor. I’d been in flight mode. My anxiety was genuine, and I really wished I’d let Jack walk me to my door like he’d suggested.
Someone led me to one of the chairs in the lobby, and someone else brought me tea. A minute later, a Met official in plain clothes got off the elevator and came my way.
“Miss Beacham.”
“Laurel,” I said, shaking his hand. He held out his warrant card, but I waved it away.
He was stocky and practically gray-headed. He sat down in the chair next to me and offered one of his cards. “I’m Detective Inspector Timms. It’s my understanding you entered your room and found the body.”
I nodded and pulled my keycard from my purse. “You might need this.”
“Thank you.” His eyes held a wary look. I was a suspect, obviously. He took the card by balancing the thin sides between his thumb and finger, then asked, “Can you tell me when you returned to the hotel this evening?”
“A minute or two before I entered my room. You can get the time from the key card. Also, James, the desk clerk, and I spoke very briefly when I came home.” I remembered Jack looking at his watch when we came out of the subway. “We exited the Underground around half past ten.”
“You live here in the hotel?”
“I travel a lot with my job. I’m in charge of the London office of the Beacham Foundation. Living here makes more sense when I’m in the city,” I said. To be truthful, it probably didn’t, but I hadn’t had the time—or really the inclination—to do any house hunting. The board promoted me into the position after I’d outted Simon Babbage, the previous London head of Beacham Ltd., as a crook and a spy for criminals that he truly was. We suspected he gave away art entrusted to him for the foundation.
“You’re American,” he said. “This is your family’s business?”
I didn’t want to go into details. “My grandfather was the driving force behind the foundation, but after he passed away the nonprofit organization was sold for shares. An executive director and board run things from the New York office, but the London office handles the daily challenges of European concerns. I’m just an employee.”
“I see.”
No, he most likely did not. I decided to speed things along. “The person in the room. Was she—?” But before I could finish, the elevator dinged, and a gurney came out loaded with a zipped-up body bag. Instead of going through the lobby, however, they
disappeared into the back hall. I checked out the windows and realized the ambulance was no longer in front. So, the body was going out the service bay. Even though I truly couldn’t stand Melanie, it made me sad this happened. But knowing she was in my room, and likely killed there to frame me, left me angry.
“Did you know the woman?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes, she was Melanie Weems. We’re old acquaintances. She’s American, like me, and we have both been connected with the art world since college. But she shouldn’t have been in my room at all, nor her killer. The hotel has cameras on every floor—”
“It seems the ones on your floor were temporarily disabled.”
“Then I do hope there are fingerprints. Maybe the killer left some DNA.” I was babbling again. I bit my lower lip to stop.
“Yes, the crime scene unit will look for evidence of another person with her.”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud. I wasn’t trying to suggest how to do your job.”
He smiled, but his dark gray eyes carried a calculating look that unnerved me. “No need to apologize. I think all the detective shows have made everyone tend to sort out crimes automatically.” Then he switched back to the situation at hand. “Does anyone else have access to your lodgings?”
“No, I should have the only keycard to my room. Other than the service people with master keys of course.”
“Of course. We’ll need to get your fingerprints and the fingerprints of anyone who frequently visits. For elimination purposes, you understand.”
“You can get that information from Superintendent Whatley of Scotland Yard. He can give you my prints and those of the people who work with me. We had a break-in at our offices the first of the year, and he oversaw the investigation. You should also be able to get the prints of Jack Hawkes. He’s a frequent visitor here. The superintendent can vouch for him as well and give you further information.”
“And this Mr. Hawkes couldn’t have been in your room—”
“No, he and I attended a big birthday party at a club this evening. The party broke up around ten when police came to tell the host and hostess there was a robbery at their residence in Knightsbridge.”
I chewed my lower lip, contemplating whether to mention that Melanie had been at the party too. But if the inspector was worth his salt he should be able to get that information from the guest list, and I didn’t want to have to explain Melanie’s long harbored dislike of me and why she slapped me twice. Time enough for that later.
Besides, my head was pounding by this point. “Inspector, unless there’s anything else, I need to see about getting a place to stay tonight. And I’m scheduled on an early flight to New York, so if I could get my packed bags from my room—”
“I’m afraid it would be preferable for our purposes if you postponed your trip.”
I knew this was coming and probably welcomed the opportunity to avoid New York without it looking like I didn’t want to go. But it also wouldn’t look good if I played things too easy for the inspector either. “I understand, but I will have to call and see what arrangements can be made. Appointments have been set up, and several were difficult to schedule with all the individuals in question.”
“I appreciate the effort,” he said. One of the constables stepped up and whispered something to him. “Okay, thank you,” he answered the constable. “Tell them I’ll be right there.” Then he turned back to me. “I think we’ve covered what is needed presently. I would like you to go back into your suite and look around once the crime scene people are finished. Just to see if there’s anything that should or shouldn’t be there.”
“Will I have to do it tonight?” I asked. “I’m not feeling too chipper. I might spot things better in the morning.”
“I quite understand. And morning would be preferable for our people as well.”
I gave him one of my business cards. “You can reach me at the cell phone number listed on the back. Or if you call the office number it will be forwarded to my assistant and she always knows how to reach me.”
“Very good.” He slipped the card into a pocket, made sure I had one of the cards with his contact information, and joined the constable.
Once they were both in the elevator, I called Jack. My call was sent to voicemail after several rings, so I assumed the debriefing was still in progress with he and Cecil talking strategy as well. A text was more likely to get his attention faster, so I typed Melanie dead in my room. Police here and hit send.
Fifteen seconds later my phone rang.
“Are you okay? Where are you?”
“My hotel lobby.”
“Stay there. I’m on my way.”
In an incredibly short time, a government car pulled into the circle outside and Jack barreled through the door. The driver waited in the car.
“Come on,” Jack said, extending a hand. “You’re staying with me.”
“Since you’re here, the inspector might want to talk to you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, then moved to the window and gave the driver a sign to move on. When he turned back to me, he said, “I’ll go up, but I don’t really want to leave you here.”
I held up the DI’s card. “You can call him. Tell him you’re here and see if he wants to come down again.”
“Good thinking.” He pulled out his phone. Timms returned to the lobby a minute later.
“I realize you’d like to keep Miss Beacham in your sights and all,” Timms said, after shaking hands with Jack and introducing himself. “But I prefer to conduct this interview in private.” He waved over the constable manning the elevators. “Jenkins will be here.”
“I understand,” Jack said. He squeezed my shoulder and I touched his hand with mine.
“I’ll be fine.” I pointed toward the bar. “You can probably find a quiet spot in there. Unless you’d like me to go in, so you can use the lobby.”
“No, you’re settled here,” Timms said. “Mr. Hawkes, if you’ll follow me.”
Several people came in the front door after gawking at the police cars outside, and Jenkins stopped them to make sure which floors they were staying on. My floor was apparently off limits. I figured they’d let me in to get clothes sometime the next day, but I didn’t relish the idea of leaving Jack’s place tomorrow looking like I was doing the walk of shame in my party dress.
I texted Cassie. Are you still up?
Yeah, why?
Wondering if I can borrow some clothes.
Sure, but why?
I can’t get into my hotel suite.
Why?
I sighed. There was no easy way to say this. Found Melanie Weems dead on the floor. Police are gathering evidence now.
WHAT!?!
Yeah. All my stuff is off limits until they’re through processing the crime scene.
Do you want to stay here tonight?
Jack said I’m staying with him.
No surprise there. Is he fully in his white knight persona?
I chuckled. He hasn’t had time yet. The DI is interviewing him.
Why leave Melanie dead in your room? Do you think it was Rollie?
I chewed my lower lip. My subconscious had been working on these same questions, but I hadn’t figured anything out yet. Maybe, I answered. Then I expanded. My first thought was that I was being framed by him, or even Colle. But the security cameras in the hotel will show when I entered and hopefully will show who entered with Melanie. The cameras were messed with on my floor.
It couldn’t be suicide?
I shuddered. Not unless she was capable of inflicting multiple blows to her head with a telescoping baton before she died.
Multiple implies passion.
Yeah, I’m thinking someone really didn’t like her. Besides me, of course.
After a beat, she texted, You don’t want to
say anything like that around the police.
Which is exactly why we’re texting, I answered. Besides, you and I both know I didn’t kill her.
Jenkins was heading back, so I ended with, Have to go. Jack and I will stop by later.
Okay. I’ll put on coffee.
Six
In about an hour, we were lounging around Cassie’s historic and well-secured flat. Well, I was lounging. Jack was trying to set a time with Danny to check all the CCTV feeds leading to my hotel, and Cass was back to her pink, spikey-haired self and offering snacks and drinks none of us really wanted, but we accepted because she was in mother hen mode. Her flat was the real estate equivalent to my friend, crisp navy and white kitchen, as well as monochromatic shades from medium blue to robin’s egg in the bedrooms and bath. Beyond the calming colors, the flat always carried the scent of either lavender or vanilla. A place to be cocooned, to go for backup, something to count on—just like Cassie.
I was still in my LBD, but I kicked off my heels. Cassie had already swapped my Lycra cat suit for velour sweats in a slightly hotter pink than the tint in her hair. Jack’s coat and tie were history, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. We were ready to work.
I set my cup on the table when Jack finished his call and Cassie headed back to the kitchenette. “Okay, let’s see where we stand on information and leaps of logic.”
“I was just going to make a pot of decaf,” she said.
“Forget it. I doubt we’ll get any real sleep tonight. We may as well keep drinking the good stuff.”
“I’ll take a beer,” Jack said.
“Be right back.”
He gave me a cocky grin as she disappeared.
I rolled my eyes and pulled a pad and paper from my Prada. “Before we go any further we need to figure out what we know and what we need to do.”