Beate tucked a coy strand of hair behind her ear, blushing.Oida.
The heat inside was unbearable. He loosened his tie, looking for a window to open. Fresh air would clear their heads. A bit ofStoßlüftencured all ills.
So.He asked himself what he was doing. He’d come here for a reason. He pried his focus from the redhead’s cleavage as he searched his mind for what it was. Right. Two dead bodies.
He coughed. Beate quit fawning and shook herself back to attention.
“We need to see the, uh…” He trailed off, distracted by the redhead’s gold lapel pin.Keeper of Secrets.
Beate leaned to his ear and whispered, “Crime scene.We’re here to see thecrime scene.”
Andreas cocked his head towards Beate. “What she said.”
A shadow fell over him from behind. A heavy hand grasped his shoulder. When he turned, his eyes were level with the gold pocket square in the charcoal suit covering the broad chest of a giant man. He craned his neck to see the dapper hulk’s face, which loomed over the door frame. He was the sort of handsome that earned a man as many enemies as it did friends, with a chiseled jaw that jealous fellows likely longed to dent with their fists. His thick, dirty-blond hair was slicked back, and his broad hand was held out, offering a shake, which Andreas accepted. It hurt.
Ah, this was why she’d been stalling. Waiting on her boss.
“Officers, thank you for coming. We’re shocked by this tragic accident. Let us know how we can assist,” he said, his hospitable toneironed crisp as a bedsheet. “I’m the Hotel owner. Please direct any concerns to me or my Concierge. I see you’re already in her capable hands.”
The Concierge waved, wiggling her fingers at him, which were smudged with ink on the side. She was left-handed.
Beate consulted her tablet, which was malfunctioning. Odd. It worked an hour ago.
“If you’re… the owner,” she muttered, tapping the green-striped screen in frustration, where a document flashed momentarily into view. “That must make you… Herr Kleinmann?”
She was giving away her Tyrolean background. Everyone in Vienna already knew his name.
He laughed, his voice deep and booming. “Please, Herr Kleinmann was my father,” he said, lifting her hand and floating a kiss above it. “Call me Mr. K.”
— 11 —Elf
Sterling could have chosen a more vanilla suite for interviews, but where would the fun be in that? Instead, she crammed the detectives into Room 8.
The Mona Lisa Suite’s innermost door was lined with leather and sound-absorbing cushioning, and left open. The aged outer door was warped wood with fogged glass windows through which she saw Mr. K’s shadow pacing back and forth like a pendulum counting down the final moments of her employment.
The detectives sat across from her on a curved lavender couch, tapping their tablet screens as they flashed neon-green stripes.
“This damn thing,” muttered Andreas.
“Try turning it on and off again,” said Beate.
“It won’t work in here,” said Sterling, sliding pens and Hotel stationery across the table. “You’ll have to do things the old-fashioned way.”
They took the pens and paper. “Let’s start with a simple question. What’s your name?” asked Andreas.
“We don’t use real names here. Anonymity is part of our ethos,” said Sterling. She smirked. Andreas sighed.
“Let’s try this again: Your name?” asked Beate.
She took a deep breath, unsure which name to give. Her real one or the one listed on her ID? She chose the latter. “Sterling Lockwood.”
The walls creaked.
“Miss Lockwood, can you tell us what happened last night?”
Mr. K paced past the door.
“Only what’s relevant. Last night, two guests checked into Room 5 as Mr. and Mrs. Lime. They overstayed. This morning, we looked in on them and found them dead.”
