“Oida. She was probably making an assumption based on the Hotel’s reputation.” Beate’s cell rang, and she answered. She toyed with her hair as she listened, blushing in a manner she couldn’t blame on the cold.
After a brief exchange with someone, she hung up.
“Who’s got you smiling? Was a certain redheadedFlitscherlcalling?” he asked.
“Jetzt isch gnuag. Sei amol ruhig,” she teased, warning him that was enough, and to be quiet for once. “Also, you can’t call a woman aFlitscherl. Sterling has a lead on the next guest, but needs more time.”
“You can’t call anyone anything these days. She’s dated half of Vienna, I’d guess she’s been called worse,” he said.
“Watch it before I callyousomething worse. You sound like an old grump,” said Beate.
“Thank you.”
— 20 —Zwanzig
People came to the Hotel Orient for many reasons. To be with someone else, or to be someone else. To luxuriate in pleasure, to escape pain, or, sometimes, to beg for it obediently. They came in pairs or groups, hoping to melt their misery in another’s warm embrace. But they all tangled in the sheets as one.
On rare occasions, guests came alone.
Such was the case with the second suspect on Sterling’s list: the Ear.
The search began in her memory, in the smoky halls of her mind hotel. The Ear had been an irregular regular for years. A slender man with dark eyes that he kept lowered whenever conversing with Sterling. Not staring at her cleavage, like most men, but at the floor.
He always arrived solo. On his first visit, when she’d asked if he needed help finding company and offered the “Wine” List, he’d shuddered at the suggestion. Although he hadn’t wanted a date, he did have two demands. He wanted a fourth hour added to his stay and requested Room 12, the Orient Express Suite. In a place where peculiarity was the norm, this was an odd ask.
The Orient Express Suite was last renovated in the 1930s, decked out like a train car from the famous steam locomotive. It had a shower, but the toilet was separate, across the first floor and down a long stretch of dimly lit hallway. Dangerous open territory where you risked being spotted. Most guests would shudder atthatthought.
The Ear was a feast of nervous habits, his Adam’s apple bobbed each time Sterling smiled, highlighting the distinct tan line running across his neck like a dog collar. That was her first clue.
She began her search at Smart Café, a local BDSM joint where out front they served you schnitzel on pleather-decked high-tops and in back your submissive served you for dessert. No luck.
Besides, the leather in the Ear’s attire was limited to brown sandals he wore all year, even in winter. Those were her second clue.
The third was the lingering incense aroma he left in Room 12 when he departed each visit in a rush at four thirty a.m.
It took Sterling a few days, but she finally located the Ear right down the street. The Benedictine monks at Our Lady of Scots held the only five a.m. Mass in walking distance. Sterling couldn’t recall if the service was Lauds or Vigils, but it wasn’t the fun one with wine.
She entered the church, pausing to admire the ceiling fresco of a hot monk. The stone holy water basin was drained. It held a meager glass bowl with a splash provided for the sparse visitors on a Monday.
The Ear knelt in prayer in the second pew, his head haloed by a dust-speckled haze of midday sun beaming through stained glass.
Sterling knelt beside him. “Greetings, Father.”
She hoped he’d recognize her voice, since she’d concealed her signature green ensemble under a gray nun’s habit. The uniform of a convent in Melk known for their humorless nuns, dark rye bread, and covert support of the queer community. Sterling kept friends in high, low, and holy places.
Years back, she’d lured a sister in Salzburg out of both the closet and the convent. Ah, Maria. She’d been a skillful lover. Never underestimate the sinful capabilities of the devout. Alas, she’d ended up marrying a guy with an army of children. Sterling shuddered atthatthought.
Sterling liked a challenge. She liked to be loved more than God. But enough reminiscing, she was here on a mission.
“I need your help,” she whispered so as not to disturb the scattered faithful. Her disrespect for the Ear, who’d recently been banned from the Hotel for life, didn’t extend to his parishioners. People praying on a Monday afternoon usually had tragic reasons. Grieving, longing, or awaiting a call from a doctor.
He released an irritated breath that fluttered the flimsy pages of the open Bible balanced on his palm. “Not here,” he begged. Whether his request was directed to God or Sterling was unclear, but she replied first.
“Father, a lost lamb needs guidance. She’s at that wretched love hotel. Do you have time to speak with her?”
“I always have time to tend my flock,Sister,” he said through gritted teeth, rising. She followed him out, reminding herself not to sway her hips as she passed the wall of candles. Of the hundreds, only a few were lit.
After checking for prying eyes, she hitched up her habit to grab spare change from her garter purse, then smoothed it back down. The coin dropped into the empty coffer with a muted thud. She stole flame for her candle from someone else’s prayer and notched it into place.
