“I’m familiar with most working girls, and working guys too. We keep similar hours,” she said. “It’s rude to speak ill of the dead, but I didnotlike that woman. She wasn’t good enough for my sweet, innocent niece.”
Andreas almost spat out his beer.
“Did you see anyone on your way in?” he asked, coughing.
“I came back by the cathedral around the corner, where I saw a man in an alcove. Dressed kinda peculiar, in a bright-red shirt, like a bullfighter. He was tall and good-looking! But he was crying. I asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head.”
“Notice anything else about him?”
“He had short hair. Jet-black, tousled at the top. I thought he’d been here, on account of his bed head. But when I asked, he ran off.”
“Did he have a mole?”
“No. He had a mustache.”
“Could you describe him to a sketch artist?” asked Andreas.
“My eyes aren’t as good as my voice, but I’ll try, if you’ll be there, handsome.”
The question was if police had a sketch artist willing to work in the middle of the night.
“There was one thing,” she said, scratching beneath her wig. “Therewere clothes strewn around on the steps down from the church. A white shirt, suspenders, and black pants. Like tear-away stripper clothes. Reminded me of a quick-change act I saw once. I dropped the clothes in the church donation box and continued home,” she said, yawning. “Now, young man, I need my beauty sleep. I’m gonna go wash my face. I’ll leave you lovebirds to smooch good night, but no funny business with my baby doll.”
“Ritaaaa,” whined Sterling, massaging her forehead.
“No funny business, Miss L’Amour, I swear,” said Andreas, grinning.
Rita shut the bathroom door. The sink ran, and her humming became blubbery as she scrubbed her face.
They left her to it. Andreas looked dazed in the elevator ride down.
“You good?” asked Sterling.
“I think I’m in love with her,” he said.
“Get in line. Unfortunately, you’re a little old for Rita. Husband number seven needs to be able to keep up with her.”
“Damn,” he said, stepping into the lobby.
After collecting his overcoat from Room 5, they lingered by the front door. She drew back the curtain while he dressed. “Andreas?”
He looked at her. “Sterling?”
“Why are you helping me? With what you mentioned before. About holding off on calling Immigration.”
“It’s in my best interest to avoid extra paperwork, seeing as we’re buried under it already.”
“Nice try. You love that stuff.”
His shoulders drooped. “Because I get it. My dad’s Turkish. My mother’s Bulgarian and Hungarian.”
She nodded empathetically. That was a rough combination in Austria.
“So you understand it can be complicated coming here,” she said.
“It’s not my business until it’s relevant to the case. I’m not helping, I’m just doing nothing.”
“Well, thanks fornothing,” she said with a soft smile.
