“Sterling, what are you doing?”
She knew if she said nothing and moved a millimeter closer, he’d be hers.
“Flirting with you,” she whispered.
“Can’t you be serious for a moment?”
“Flirting is serious business.”
“No. Murder is.” He moved away.
Her internal clock, wound while she was inside the Orient, chimed. It was showtime.
“Come along. I’ll make you a coffee,” she said.
“Isn’t it late for that?”
“It’s early, actually. It’s three.”
“Alter Schwede.I have to go,” he said, rubbing his forehead, then rushing to collect his jacket.
“Not so fast. I have somethingseriousto show you,” she said, halting him with her gaze. She pulled off his glasses, fogged them with her breath, polished them on the hem of her skirt, and returned them. She curled her finger, beckoning him, and led him through the dark lobby into the kitchen. She poured twoMelange. The drink was made differently at every café, each one insisting its method was correct. Sterling’s version was espresso with steamed milk and foam. He downed his, set the mug on the steel counter, then rubbed his jaw, staring bewildered at the kitchen clock. It read 3:23.
“Oida. I need to go home.”
“Relax, darling, it’s Saturday.”
“I don’t take days off during a case.”
“Good, because I have a surprise for you. But promise you won’t be annoyed,” said Sterling, walking towards the lobby, motioning for him to follow.
“I’m already annoyed, as a precaution,” he said.
She counted down.Three, two, one.
The front door creaked open.
“Detective, meet your next suspect. Rita L’Amour.”
— 30 —Dreißig
Rita careened towards the elevator in an ebullient, beer-soaked mood. Miss L’Amour sang jazz five nights a week at the Eden Bar, also owned by the Kleinmann family. She was the Orient’s only other long-term resident, and at eighty-four, she had more stories to tell than you’d think could fit into a single life. But her recall was fuzzy during the daytime and crystal clear at night. Like the Hotel, she awoke when most of the city slept. This was the hour to question her.
Andreas lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Rita tossed her coat aside. Sterling caught it. Her fuchsia gown’s bell-shaped sleeves draped to the floor, sequins catching the green glow of the exit sign. She patted her dramatic curls into place with thin hands. She was wearing her favorite wig, a promising omen that she’d be chatty. They say dress for the job you want, and Rita dressed like a full-time crooner and part-time fortune teller. She cackled, offered her hand to the detective like a queen, and greeted him in North Carolina–accented Denglish. “Goo-ten Ab-End. My, oh my, what awun-dar-bahdee-light my niece has brought me to-night!”
When she released Andreas’s hand, it remained suspended in the air, as if time had frozen. Rita glided past him towards the elevator, her snow-dipped dress train snaking across the floor.
“Go ahead, say it. Everyone does,” said Sterling.
“She’samazing,” said Andreas.
“Right?”
“She looks like she’s predicted the date of my death.”
“Honey, I know so much more than that,” said Rita, pressing the lift button. The frosted-glass elevator cast an enchanting glow as it descended towards the dark lobby, tracing Rita’s silhouette like a spotlight. She posed before the opening doors, one hip jutting out, neck turned so the light framed a cameo of her profile. “Now I gotta get to bed, but you can help me unzip my dress while you two ask your pretty little questions.”
Rita held the elevator open with a shaky hand, eyeing Andreas. “You comin’, handsome?”
