“And that?” asked Andreas, pointing to her cleavage with his pen. Realizing what he was doing, he dropped his hand.
“My copy.”
“Must I remind you that you’re not an investigator on this case?”
“You’ll realize you need me once you read it.” It read:
“Hä?”said Andreas, employing a typical Viennese utterance of confusion, the sound of which resembled an exasperated honk made by an incredulous goose. “What’s this?”
“Last night’s guests, listed by alias and sorted by room. I can find them, but I have a few conditions,” said Sterling.
“Go on.”
“First, keep this investigation out of the papers and off the internet. Lock it down until you have an answer.”
“What people talk about online is out of our control.”
“If this leaks, your witnesses will vanish without a trace. Worse, every would-be journalist with one of those digital radio shows will be stalking you.”
“You mean podcasts? You have a point. What’s the other condition?” he said.
“Interview guests here, under my supervision,” said Sterling.
“Ha! Who do you think you are, making demands? Typical American entitlement.”
“I think—no, IknowI’m your only hope of finding those people. And once I do, they won’t talk to you. They’ll talk to me. I provide superior service for my guests. I know what they want. And, darling, they want to be here, with me.”
“That won’t fly with the police department.”
She leaned back, crossing her legs. “Oh, but it will. There are people in this city—hell, all over the world—who can’t risk our guest list going public. You work with some of those people.”
Beate and Andreas glanced at each other.
“Call the boss,” said Beate.
Andreas tried, but his cell wouldn’t connect.
“It won’t work in here. Use the front office phone or go outside,” said Sterling, inspecting her manicure.
He returned ten minutes later, looking grim.
“It’s a deal. You better get started. We’ll meet back here tomorrow,” he said.
“Not so fast. I can already introduce you to your first witnesses,” said Sterling.
“You meansuspects. Which ones?” said Andreas, setting the list down in front of her.
She pointed to an alias. From overhead, a droplet fell onto the paper, blurring the ink like tears on a Dear John letter. Another warm drop hit her hand, then the back of her neck.
It was raining in the Mona Lisa Suite.
She looked up. A damp spot had formed around the chandelier’s mount. Water dripped off the crystals. Sterling leapt to her feet, overturning her chair. She hiked up her pencil skirt, unfastened the thigh-slit snaps to allow her legs more movement, then dashed towards the stairs.
“Where are you going?” called Andreas as he pursued her.
Sterling shouted back as she wound up the spiral staircase.
“To see suspect number one!”
