by Steven Henry
“That's manageable,” Webb said. “Jones, get on the phone to the Port Authority. I want a list of those ships, for the last three days.”
“That's not counting passenger ships,” Jones said. “Of course, there aren't many true passenger liners these days, but lots of ships carry passengers. Just because these guys are wearing clothes from Britain doesn't mean—“
“I know that,” Webb said. “But it's a place to start. Neshenko, put in a request to Interpol for a check on these prints. If they're European, they may have records overseas.”
“What should I do?” Erin asked.
“I think maybe—“ Webb began, but she never found out what he was going to say. His phone rang mid-sentence. The Lieutenant held up a hand as he fished out the phone and answered. “Webb.”
He listened a moment. “Understood,” he said. “I'll send someone.” He disconnected and stared at the phone for a moment without saying anything else.
“What's going on, sir?” Erin asked.
“We've got another one,” he sighed.
“Another body?” Jones asked.
He nodded.
“Where'd this one wash up?” Vic wondered.
“It didn't,” Webb said. “It's unrelated. We've got a female found locked in a hotel room.”
“Suicide?” Vic said.
“They wouldn't have called us for a suicide,” Jones said.
“Probably not,” Webb agreed. “O'Reilly, get over to the DoubleTree. This one's yours.”
“What about the other two bodies?” she asked.
“We're Major Crimes,” Webb said. “That doesn't always mean one crime at a time. We'll keep working these two, you see what you can turn up on the new one. We'll compare notes. Go.”
Police work often required officers to shift gears on short notice. Erin had been on the force too long to be badly thrown by it. “Will do,” she said, grabbing her K-9’s leash. “Hier, Rolf.”
Erin pulled up to the front of the hotel in her Charger. She was still enjoying the new-car smell. Her last car had been totaled near the end of her previous case. If a good partner was one who'd take a bullet for her, then that car had been a very good partner indeed, absorbing enough rifle rounds that the guys at the repair lot had just shaken their heads and told her to put in the paperwork for a replacement. She'd only had the new car for a week, and it handled like a dream.
She parked in the police space. There was no sign of other officers out front. She got out of the car and took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her vest. She'd been wearing body armor under her outer clothes on duty ever since the gunfights with the Russians. Department regulations didn't absolutely require it for plainclothes work, and in late summer it was heavy and uncomfortable, but she didn't care. Every time she thought she might leave it behind, she remembered seeing AK rounds punching holes in her windshield. She'd taken to carrying a backup gun, too; a five-shot revolver in an ankle holster.
Rolf was another matter. The poor dog couldn't even sweat, so if she didn't think there was a chance of trouble, she left his armor off. She didn't feel quite right about that, but sometimes there just wasn't a right decision to be made.
A foot patrolman was in the lobby, standing at the front desk with the manager. The hotel's guy was skinny and nervous, with a sorry little mustache that looked as unhappy as its owner.
Erin squared her shoulders and walked up to the desk. This was her first time flying solo as a detective. The uniform glanced at her without much interest and turned back to the manager.
“You were saying, sir?” he prompted.
Erin bristled. She flipped out her shield. “Detective O'Reilly, Major Crimes,” she said. “What's the situation?”
The patrolman did a double-take. He looked her over with the slow scan that too many male officers gave to a female cop, especially a good-looking one. Erin let his gaze slide off her. She'd done this dance too many times to be too bothered by it.
“When you're ready, Officer,” she said coolly.
He cleared his throat, having the decency to be a little embarrassed. “Right. I'm Barton. Hickman—that's my partner—and I took the call. The maid found something when she was doing the rooms. Door was locked. She knocked and called, got no answer, and got worried. Hotel security spooked and phoned it in. We figured maybe a 10-54C, so we made entry.”
The code Barton had used indicated a potential ambulance case, cardiac arrest. “You kicked in the door?” Erin asked.
“Had to,” Barton said with a shrug. “Night lock was engaged.”
“Sir, madam, please,” the manager said, waving his hands in agitation. “Can we perhaps discuss this in a more, ah, discreet location?”
Erin glanced around the room. They were certainly attracting attention. A half-dozen spectators in the lobby were watching them. One, a teenage boy, was filming with his phone. She'd probably be a minor Internet star on his social-media page by the end of the day.
“Why don't we go up to the room, sir,” she suggested. “Officer Barton, is Hickman there now?”
“Yeah,” Barton said. “He's securing the scene.”
“Did you call for a bus?” she asked as they got on the elevator.
Barton shook his head. “She was cold when we got there.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“It's a chick. I mean, a girl. That is, a young woman.” Barton was getting flustered.
“I know what a chick is, Barton,” she said.
The elevator started rising. She noted there was a security camera in it. “Do those work?” she asked the manager.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “They are a closed-circuit, ah, system. The film runs to the, ah, security station.”
“I'll need the recordings,” she said.
The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor which, Erin reflected, was really the thirteenth, in that weird architect superstition. It was obvious room 1410 was the right one. The door was closed, but another NYPD patrolman was standing opposite with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. He straightened up when he saw them and gave Erin a once-over.
“O'Reilly, Major Crimes,” she said, walking up to the door and pulling on a pair of disposable rubber gloves from the roll she kept in a pocket. “You've been inside?”
“Yeah,” Hickman said. “But we didn't touch anything.”
“Except the victim,” she prompted.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “But just to check her vitals.”
“And you were certain she was dead?”
“Yeah,” Hickman said.
“Certain enough you didn't call a bus?”
“Yeah.” Apparently that was his favorite word.
Erin braced herself. If there was any chance the victim had still been alive, proper procedure would've been to call an ambulance. That they hadn't bothered suggested this was going to be a messy one. Maybe the girl's head was lying on the bedside table or something. She'd seen some pretty screwed-up things in her time with Patrol. She took a breath. “Okay,” she said and carefully opened the door.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. She'd been expecting the smell of death; blood and other body fluids, mixed with that sickly-sweet scent that was hard to describe but impossible to forget. What she got instead was perfume. It was a heavy, rich scent, so strong she could almost see it in the air, like a crimson haze. Rolf snorted and sneezed. Under ordinary circumstances, Erin would’ve found it a pleasant smell, if maybe a little heavy and sensual. Not a scent she’d wear herself.
The room was a little small for the king-size bed that took up most of the space. A window on the far wall looked out over the river. There was a desk-unit on the opposite wall from the bed, with a rolling chair, a coffeemaker under the TV, and a wine bottle and cut-glass goblet on top of it. And on the bed lay the victim.
Erin had never seen a tidier crime scene—if that was even what it was. A pretty blonde lay on top of the neatly-made bed. No, not pretty, Erin thought. She
was beautiful. Her hair was carefully styled, resting in golden waves on the pillow. She wore a black cocktail dress, brand-new from the look of it and cut to show off a very attractive figure, with black nylons and high-heeled black shoes. Her hands were clasped on her stomach. A bouquet of red roses was gripped in her fingers. The flowers hadn't started to wilt yet.
Erin walked across the room, taking care not to touch or disturb anything. Up close, she could see the woman was wearing makeup, a full, professional job. The lipstick was bright red and looked freshly-applied.
Nonetheless, the woman was obviously dead. Even under the lipstick, Erin could see the bluish tint to the lips. There was no sign of breath or movement. She checked for a pulse anyway. Nothing.
The two patrolmen were standing in the doorway. She could feel them watching her. “This how you found her?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Hickman predictably replied.
“You said the night-lock was engaged?” she asked Barton.
He pointed to the part of the door in question. It was an old-style chain that could be slid into place as an extra safeguard. More to the point, it was operated from the inside, not the outside, of the room. It was broken now, hanging by a loose screw.
“You clear the bathroom?”
“Yeah,” Hickman said.
Erin checked it anyway, having formed a low impression of Hickman's personal initiative. It was empty, except for a black faux-leather purse by the sink. She looked in the purse, hoping for ID.
She got more than she bargained for. In addition to a cosmetic kit, a packet of condoms, a roll of breath mints, and some keys, she found a billfold. Inside it was some cash, a driver's license for Penelope Jackson, and another driver's license in the name Jennifer Paxton. Both licenses showed the same face, a face matching the one on the body cooling in the next room.
“Son of a bitch,” Erin muttered.
“What?” Barton asked, poking his head into the bathroom.
“Never mind,” she said, replacing the billfold exactly as she'd found it. She was glad to see the money. She'd heard of uniforms responding to crime scenes and pocketing any loose cash they found lying around. The bills still being there meant these two probably hadn't rifled the scene.
Erin went back outside and looked over the desk. The wine bottle was bothering her. She crouched and stared at it. Hotel-brand red wine, nothing too fancy. The cork was in it, but it had obviously been opened and re-corked. She could smell the wine if she got close, even over the perfume. The glass next to the bottle had a little bit of wine still at the bottom.
“She had a drink,” Erin said to herself. “Then... what? She lay down on the bed, without taking her shoes off, and died?”
That didn't make any sense. She shook her head and closed her eyes, doing a trick her dad had taught her. Slowly, she opened them again, taking the scene in again as if for the first time.
She saw Rolf sniffing at a patch of carpet next to the bed. That carpet section was darker than the others. Erin stepped quickly forward and dropped down to take a closer look. At first she thought it was a bloodstain, which also didn't make any sense. The girl on the bed didn't have a mark on her. Then she realized it was a wine spill. Maybe the girl hadn't had her drink after all. It was the only thing in the room that indicated any sort of struggle.
Erin's first look at the scene was over. She'd need CSU to take a look at this. And she'd need Levine. The Medical Examiner was going to have a busy couple of days. Erin got on her radio and called Dispatch to send the reinforcements. She hoped they'd find something, because at the moment, she didn't have the slightest idea what had happened here.
Her first solo scene investigation, and it was a genuine locked-room mystery.
Chapter 3
When Levine got to the scene, Erin was still trying to figure what had happened. Penelope Jackson—or Jennifer Paxton—was twenty-two years old, or twenty-three, depending on which fake ID she believed. Both were fakes, she was sure of that. Reasonably good ones, but still fake. She'd checked out plenty of licenses in her time on Patrol, and knew the look and feel of a real one.
The ME came in, glanced around, and approached the body. She didn't say anything to Erin. Since the corpse was in plain view, there was clearly nothing the detective needed to tell her.
“Sorry for the extra work,” Erin offered.
“What do you mean?” Levine asked, bending over the victim.
“That's number three today,” Erin said.
“So?”
“What can you tell me?” she asked, giving up on small talk.
“Probably cyanide poisoning,” Levine said.
“You sure?”
“I wouldn't say 'probably' if I was sure. I'd say I was sure.”
“Right,” Erin said, determined to play nice. “Why do you think so?”
“Cyanosis on the lips,” Levine said. “You can see it under the lipstick. Classic oxygen deprivation. Cyanide prevents tissues from utilizing oxygen in the bloodstream.”
“What else could've caused it?”
Levine shrugged. “Asphyxiation. Carbon monoxide, maybe. Strangulation.”
“Not strangulation,” Erin said.
“No ligature marks,” Levine agreed. She gently opened one of the victim's eyes partway with a gloved fingertip. “No hemorrhage in the eyeball. Poisoning or oxygen deprivation. Probably poison.”
“This room's not airtight,” Erin said. “Someone could've piped gas through the vents.”
“The building has central air,” Levine said.
“They'd have gassed half the floor, then,” Erin said. “How much cyanide would you need to kill someone?”
“Not much if it's a gas, but it's lighter than air. You need a sealed environment for it to be really effective.”
“What if it was eaten or injected?”
“At least ten milligrams,” Levine said. “But to be sure, you need a couple hundred. Even then, ingested cyanide takes several minutes to kill, maybe up to half an hour. It's usually self-administered.”
“Suicide,” Erin said.
“Usually.” Levine agreed.
Erin looked at the room again. “We'll need to test the wine bottle.”
“Bloodwork will show poisoning,” Levine said.
“Suicide,” Erin muttered, trying on the theory. If Jennifer, or Penelope, had decided to kill herself by poison, she very well could've staged the scene. Get the poisoned wine, dress up fancy, lock the room, take the drink, then lie down on the bed and wait.
It explained most of the room. But Erin didn't like it. “Would she be able to lie still, like that, while the poison was taking effect?”
Levine considered. “I doubt it. Asphyxiation is painful. The victim usually convulses.”
“So someone posed her,” Erin said. “But maybe not the person who killed her. Someone could've found her already dead, arranged her...” She stopped. That was a pretty weird thought. Who would've done something like that, but not called the police? That made less sense than murder. She looked at Levine.
“Is this a suicide or a homicide?”
“Too early to make a diagnosis,” the ME said. “If it's a poisoning, it depends how she was poisoned. It could also have been an accidental poisoning.”
Erin sighed. “Okay, get her back to the lab. I know you've got the other two from this morning, but do what you can.”
The CSU guys showed up as Levine was taking another look at the body. Erin pointed out what she had so far. They went to work with cameras, documenting the scene. Erin decided to head back to the precinct. She needed an ID on the victim. A young woman with two false identities seemed like a dead end, but she had an idea where to start.
The office of the head of the Precinct 8 Vice Squad was a converted maintenance closet. It was windowless, cheerless, and almost airless on account of an unreliable vent. Now that, Erin thought, was a room it’d be easy to gas someone in. When she and Rolf arrived in the doorway, Sergeant Brown, the Vice co
mmander, was on the phone. His feet were propped on a desk covered with Chinese takeout boxes, candy wrappers, and sleazy magazines.
“Yeah, Monica, that sounds great,” Brown said, holding up a finger to Erin. “Yeah, I'd love to see you in person. Fantastic. We'll make it a date. You wear that slinky red number you were talking about. Yeah, that one. I'll bring chocolates and you can eat 'em off my stomach. Yeah, like that, babe. You know that's what I like. Hey, honey, looking forward to it. You take care.”
He hung up. “Sorry, O'Reilly. Work. You know how it is.”
“Work,” she repeated.
“Yeah. We got a 900 number we think is a front for a prostitution ring. We're trying to set up face-to-face meets with the girls, haul 'em in, maybe lean on 'em and grab some pimps.” Brown sighed. “Y'know, when I first got put in Vice, I thought it'd be sexy. Guess I'd seen Pretty Woman too many times. I tell ya, nothing makes sex less sexy than working Vice. Now, I see a pretty girl, I just wanna have a normal conversation, y'know? About the weather, maybe, or the Yankees. Guess I oughta see a shrink. Anyway, what's up in the big leagues?”
“I've got a couple IDs I need you to run,” she said, handing photocopies across the desk and being careful not to touch the layer of debris.
Brown dropped his feet to the floor, leaned forward with a squeak of the chair and another sigh, and took the papers. “Penelope Jackson, Jennifer Paxton,” he said. “Huh. Different names, but they look like twins.”
“Same girl,” Erin said. “We pulled them off a Jane Doe in a hotel. I just need to know if Vice has anything under either of these aliases.”
“She a hooker?”
“Could be. Nothing in the system for them, no arrests. We're waiting on prints.”
Brown typed a query into his computer. “Okay, I got bubkis on Jackson. Paxton... huh. Got her listed as an associate of an escort service in central Manhattan. Don't know if that's her real name; we haven't brought her in for questioning yet. Guess we never will now. She's incidental. Her name got mentioned by a CI.”