She rolled her eyes. They’d reached Tiefer Graben, the no-tell hotel’s street. It lingered at the far end of the road, past the bridge, but he already recognized the distinct awning through the arch. Tiefer Graben meant “deep moat.” Until the 1400s, it was a canal that formed the city center’s western border. The now-infamous hotel predated written records, and historians had contentious opinions about its founding date. But legend said it’d been thereforever.It was first documented in the 1600s as a tavern with no name, housing Asian sailors from the spice trade and thus earning its title from the locals: Hotel Orient. The moniker stuck. The Austrian fetish for nostalgia was second only to its fetish for bureaucracy. Even if the owners wanted to change the name, they couldn’t.
There was a strange calm in the air. Something seemed off. Thereshould have been tape over the door, and police lights flashing, and at least one uniformed officer outside. But on a busy weekday in the bustling city center, this corner of Vienna was silent.
Andreas quickened his pace, memorizing license plates as he passed. There were a disproportionate number of diplomatic plates for a street this far from the VIC, where the United Nations was headquartered. The lowest digits denoted top positions. WD-47 belonged to the Romanian ambassador.
The temperature dropped when they stepped into the shadow beneath the Hotel awning. Andreas rang the bell, shivering. As the door creaked open, warmth from the lobby caressed his cheek. A bellman in a purple uniform invited them in, bracing his back against the heavy door as wind attempted to claw it closed. Despite the Orient’s famed predilection for rules, it seemed to possess a certain disdain for officers of the law.
Andreas waved Beate into the lobby. “Ladies first.” When he followed her in, wind slapped the door shut behind him, sharp as a whip cracking.
Alter Schwede.The place was amazing. None of the pleather and neon found in most by-the-hour hotels. The lobby had a grandiose style befitting his grandparents’ generation, if not his great-great-grandparents’. Not that his Omama, God rest her soul, would be caught dead in a place like this. She couldn’t have afforded to step this far inside.
The oval-shaped lobby was dark wood. The elevator at the back was glass, encased in an ornate black cage. A deep-red staircase stood to its right, spiraling into shadows upstairs. Underneath the first curve loomed a door marked5,blocked off with a cross of crime scene tape.
He imagined the scene awaiting him, the bodies of two lovers, perhaps still intertwined. He grimaced, picturing the headlines if thisstory broke. A murder here would end up in the newspapers, which his mother read. He’d never hear the end of it. If he was lucky, they could rule it an accident. Better yet, natural causes. Just somebody’s rich grandparents who’d died from simultaneous coitus-induced heart attacks. That’d be convenient. Quick work. Fill out a form 8167. Get a stamp from the Medical Examiner. Boom. Case closed. He sighed, calculating the improbability of a sudden dual heart attack. And the probability of a concerned call from Mama tomorrow morning.Oida.
He returned his focus to the lobby. The bar to his left was small but lush, with massive empty champagne bottles displayed on the mantel over the roaring fire. Kitchen clanging escaped from the hallway behind the bar, which was lined with flocked velvet wallpaper that begged to be caressed. He felt tense as a child visiting a rich woman’s house, scared to touch anything lest his grubby fingers smudge it.
So.He followed Beate into the reception office to their right, where they were greeted by a chubby redhead who leaned beside the desk with her hip jutted out.
Her lips were red. Her uniform was green. She must have been tired when she got ready this morning, because she’d mistakenly laced her lingerie onoutsideher dress, like she’d put the outfit on backward. She scanned him up and down, slowly, exaggerating the tilt of her head and the curve of her waist as she did.
He felt that nervous tension in his hands again, like he might touch something he shouldn’t.
“Hello, gorgeous. How can I be of service?” she said, offering her hand to shake.
He flashed his badge. “Grüß Gott, I’d prefer you call me Detective Wolke, and you are?”
She ignored his question. And him. Instead, she fluttered her lashes at Beate, taking her hand.
“I was addressing your lovely colleague,” she told Andreas, lifting Beate’s hand below her lips without kissing it, a greeting normally performed by a gentleman. She lingered for a millisecond too long.
She craned forward to read Beate’s badge.
“Habe die Ehre,Detective. Forgive my asking, but your name is pronounced ‘Bay-ah-tuh,’ yes?”
Beate nodded.
“A lovely name, though we kindly suggest you adopt an alias during your stay.”
More like they kindly suggest they violate section 225a by falsifying records. These damnStundenhotelswere exempt from so many regulations. The Orient had a handshake agreement with the law books.
“Unfortunately, we have no available rooms, or did you need something else?” said the redhead, ogling him in an unladylike manner.
He recoiled at the indecent frankness of her stare.Alter Schwede. This entire seductress bit was bizarre, her acting like they were guests. She was stalling. Though she played cool, he noticed she’d picked at the stitching on the side seam of her skirt, when otherwise there wasn’t a thread out of place in her outfit.
She caught him staring and turned her hip away. “How can I serve you, Detective?”
Her accent was Viennese, upper class but not snobbish, like she’d attended private schools in the Ninth District instead of the Nineteenth. But something was peculiar about it. Her voice was sultry and deep, butloud.Her entire personality was loud.Achso,he thought, realizing what was wrong with her. She wasAmerican.
Which, much to his chagrin, was still legal.
“You could tell us your name,” he said.
“I’m the Concierge.”
Concierge, sure. The corset shoving her décolletage in his face madeit look like she spent more time lying on a mattress than standing behind a reception desk. His upper lip twitched.
She winked as if she’d read his thought from his face. “Anything you need, Detectives. I’m here to help,” she said, stepping closer before repeating in a husky, hushed tone, “Anything.”
