When I peered into another storage room, my ribs clenched around my lungs. Personal belongings—luggage, bags, outerwear—overloaded the shelves and floor space. I spotted a familiar suitcase, light pink with a flowery name tag. Next to it rested a purple purse and a small carry-on bag. As my stomach inched into my throat, I crossed the room and flipped over the suitcase tag to see the name.
Angelica Taylor.
My vision clouded as a rush of adrenaline poured through me. I unzipped the suitcase and briefly shuffled through the items inside to confirm what I already knew. There was Angelica’s monogrammed bathroom bag and cheap phallic-shaped beads from Marie’s bachelorette party. In her purse, I found her phone, the battery dead, and her wallet with all her IDs and credit cards.
I moved on to the next set of belongings. The suitcase was full of unique designer swimsuits and business cards with Megan Hollows’s information and Instagram handle printed on them.
As expected, the remaining items belonged to the other missing women of Chicago: Britney Fielden, Bianca Mitchell, and Hannah Peterson. Another purse and jacket went unnamed, but I’d bet anything they belonged to Luis’s younger sister.
It appeared the police had failed to acquire one essential piece of information regarding the missing women: they had all stayed at the Saint Angel the night they disappeared.
I fumbled for my phone and dialed a number that I’d programmed into my favorites list. My blood boiled and my stomach surged as the other line rang.
“This is Detective Kate Arnold.”
“Kate, it’s Jacqueline Frye,” I said. “I’ve got something for you.”
Her desk chair squeaked as she straightened up. “What?”
“Evidence.” I stared glumly at the baggage around me. “Lots of evidence.”
“Frye, where are you?”
“At the Murder Castle.”
15
When Kate returned from the thirteenth floor, to which I’d found a readily-accessible yet concealed staircase, she did not sport the triumphant expression I’d expected. Rather, she looked tired and pale, and the weight of her job forced her shoulders to curl in toward one another.
“Well?” I prompted.
The police had kept me away from the floor below, but I hadn’t been able to return to my room. Stuck in between useful and useless, I’d paced along the fourteenth floor hallway until Kate came back to deliver the news.
“Nothing,” she said.
My shoulders slumped, matching hers. “Nothing? You’ve got to be kidding. All their stuff is there!”
“We’re taking the luggage as evidence.” Kate wiped sweat from her brow. “Maybe we can pull some DNA off one of the items, but there’s no sign of the missing women. Not a drop of blood, sweat, hair. Nothing. The sicko must have had his fun somewhere else.”
“You swept the basement?” I pressed. “You checked all the hidden passages I told you about?”
A radio on Kate’s belt blared. She turned the volume down. “My team’s still down there, but they’re coming up short too. This place may be built like Holmes’s Murder Castle, but I’m not seeing gas chambers, a crematorium, or the killer’s workshop. These passageways were most likely built because of Prohibition, not because some jerk wanted to kidnap and confuse women.”
“Regardless, someone’s using them for that purpose,” I said. “You can’t ignore the signs. A private staircase leads up to the penthouse, and I found a hidden room in Jonathan’s—”
Kate lifted a brow as I cut myself off. “You were in Jonathan Godfrey’s penthouse?”
I held my tongue, but Kate wasn’t stupid.
“How’d you get up there?” she asked casually. “Private staircase?”
“The front desk gave me a key card,” I reminded her. “I had access.”
“Presumably, that key card was supposed to be for Pearl Godfrey. How did you get it?”
I looked at my feet. “She dropped it.”
“So you broke in.” Kate, to my utter shock, laughed and shook her head. “Man, I’ve never met a private investigator like you before. Anyway, what about this hidden room?”
I cautiously made eye contact with her. “Wait, that’s it? You’re not going to arrest me for breaking and entering?”
She shrugged. “You technically didn’t break anything. We’ll chalk it up to investigative purposes. Tell me what you found.”
“A padded room,” I said. “The entrance is in the wall between the door that adjoins the two suites. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it.”
“You found it.”
“I knew what to look for,” I said.
Kate counted on her fingers. “So we’ve got a dead rich dude, the missing women’s gear, secret passageways, and a kinky padded room. What’s it add up to? Theories?”
“Wolf Godfrey,” I sighed. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. He’s known as an eccentric loner, and he lives at the Saint Angel. He knows this building better than anyone else. Maybe he’s been feeding his Holmes obsession by seducing women who stay here.”
“Evidence?”
“He tried it with me,” I replied. “He took me to lunch and paid for everything. Told me his whole sad story and tried to pit me against Jonathan. Then he showed me his penthouse, but he freaked out when Jonathan showed up.”
Kate pushed her tongue into her cheek. “What happened after?”
“Wolf shoved me into the secret passageway so Jonathan wouldn’t see me.” I crossed my arms and paced across the short width of the hallway. “Jonathan repeatedly said his father was a liar. Maybe he knew too much about Wolf’s hobbies. Maybe that’s why he killed him.”
“Got a few problems with that theory,” Kate bluntly pointed out. “First of all, by Jonathan’s account, Wolf was out drinking the night of Megan’s murder. Second, I’ve been neck deep in Wolf’s medical reports. He’s in no condition to lug dead bodies around.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “But what if he’s working with someone? Maybe his partner kidnapped Megan while
