license. Not even Mike Quinn had set them straight on that, and considering the situation, I didn’t see it as a disadvantage.)
“I’ll be seeing uniforms here first to secure the scene, right?”
“Right,” said Lori. “Are you with the body now?”
“No, I’m in another room at the hotel.”
“Well, smarten up, Cosi. Go seal the room.”
“It’s locked. And I have a
“So what? Housekeeping has a pass key. You can’t take the chance they’ll honor a
“No problem, detective. Thank you.”
I hung up, reassured Madame, and hurried back to the crime scene before that poor maid with the dirty blond ponytail walked in to find more than used towels in the bathroom and no tip on the dresser. As I neared Alicia’s door, however, my steps slowed. Just ten minutes prior, I’d made absolutely sure that Alicia’s room door had locked behind me. Now it stood ajar.
A member of the hotel staff might have entered and left, but wouldn’t Madame and I have heard some kind of reaction? A scream? A shout? A frantic cry to call 911?
Taking a deep breath, I used the sleeve-covered elbow of my arm to push the door open a wee bit more.
I peered inside the dead man’s room. I didn’t see anyone or sense any movement. The place was quieter than a tomb, and if someone were inside, they certainly would have been making noise at the sight of a bloody corpse.
Despite the bright morning sun outside, the room was still gloomy, the heavy curtains drawn. A noise in the hallway—probably someone grabbing their complimentary newspaper—sent me hurrying all the way inside. I shut the door and stepped forward to check on my dead Candy Man.
Only there was no Candy Man. That’s right. No corpse. No knife. No blood. The bed had been stripped down to the quilted mattress. The bloody sheets, the bunched-up blanket, and the rest of the covers were gone.
Four down pillows lay on the sea-green carpet like puffy white mushrooms. Their cases were gone, and so were the empty martini glasses sitting next to the vase of wilting flowers. Even that strange, cloyingly sweet scent had vanished. It was as if the whole scene had been erased—or hadn’t happened in the first place.
I blinked, feeling slightly numb.
The staccato raps gave me a start. They were so forceful I assumed the uniformed officers had arrived. No such luck. When I opened the door, I found a young woman towering over me. Her hazel-green eyes were slightly almond in shape. They widened at the sight of me, then narrowed down to slits.
“Who are you?” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Who am I?” I so cleverly shot back. “Who are you?”
She was young, about my daughter’s age (early twenties), her slender form coltish, her patrician face long and partially obscured by a fall of glossy, honey-colored hair spilling over one shoulder. Its golden color appeared even more striking against the dark backdrop of her charcoal pantsuit and shiny black raincoat.
We stared at each other a moment.
“Do you have the wrong room?” I asked.
She checked the number on the door and returned her sharp gaze to me. “Who
“My name is Clare Cosi. Your turn.”
Instead of replying, Blondie brushed by me, entered the room, and stopped. For a few long seconds, she gawked at the vacant bed, her manicured hand moving to cover her gaping jaw.
“Where is he?” she whispered. “What happened?”
“Just what did you expect to find here? Did you know—”
“You!” She turned on me with one pointy French tip. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
“You said that already.”
In the hall another door opened and closed.
Blondie froze, listened.
“This is a crime scene,” I said calmly. “The police are on their way. So if you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to them, all right?”
I thought that might encourage her to answer my questions—or at least prompt her to have an actual conversation. Instead, she grimaced and fled, elbowing past me so violently I nearly kissed the floor.
“Hey!” I shouted, regaining my balance. “Come back here!”
Of course she didn’t. Nobody ever does.
Five
I rushed out of the room, certain I could catch her at the elevator. But the coltish blonde was galloping in the opposite direction, the end of her patent leather raincoat fluttering like Black Beauty’s tail.
“Stop!” I shouted.
“Clare? What’s happening?”
I turned to find Madame standing in the corridor.
“Guard Alicia’s room!” I shouted over my shoulder. “Tell the police where I’m going! Tell them she might be dangerous!”
“Where
“I’m chasing that blonde in black!”
“Blonde in black!” Madame called. “What blonde in black?”
Looking ahead, I realized the woman had already turned a corner. I picked up speed. She was wearing stilettos. I was in low-heeled boots. It seemed inevitable I’d catch her. What I would do
One thing I was certain of: My simple mention of the police had rattled that woman. She knew something about the butchered Candy Man, most likely something incriminating, and I wasn’t letting a source like that get away.
As soon as I rounded the bend in the hall, I spotted the lighted
On the stairwell landing, I stopped, held my laboring breaths.
Footsteps echoed below me.
I took off again, heading down. This was a service staircase, and I assumed it would lead to a kitchen, a store room, or some kind of back alley door at street level. As fast as I could, I continued descending. When I hit the fourth-floor landing, I heard a stumbling sound below, followed by a hissed curse.
At street level, I tried the exterior door, but it was firmly locked. That’s when I heard a new noise below me—a door opening and closing!
I hurried down two more flights, found an interior door marked
I turned sharply and raced down a long concrete ramp. The stinging stench of bleach and soap grew stronger; the whir of machinery louder. When I finally hit the bare concrete floor, I faced a wall of giant washers and spinning dryers.
Despite the glaring fluorescent lights, much of the room was shrouded by mobile ceiling racks. Acres of
