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“Despite your routine claims, I don’t actually own everything. And this?”
He tucked his hands in his pockets, studied the building as she did. “The location’s good, but the architecture doesn’t appeal to me. That Post-Urban War utility feel combined with the dignified to the point of boring. It’s not nearly old enough to warrant the sort of face-lift I’d want to give it. And there’s the interior, which I’d need to rehab and reconfigure to suit my own vision. Generally, it runs at only fifty-percent capacity. It’s overpriced for its ambiance and its service, and lacks a restaurant of any note.”
She rocked back on her heels. “And here I just thought the building was kind of ugly.”
“Well, that’s the short answer.”
“You thought about buying it.”
“No. I looked into it. I look into things, darling, which is one of the many things we have in common. I assume you’re here to look into something and we’re not just standing on the sidewalk at half-two in the morning to take in the air and study unattractive architecture.”
“They’ll be coming along pretty soon. They’ll come straight back after the night they’ve had, go to their rooms. Or to each other’s rooms for comfort, for a rehash. But she won’t. She’ll want to be alone.”
“The side dish.”
“Yeah. My money’s on the blond singer.”
“They were all blondes.”
“Yeah, they were. The blond singer with the biggest rack.”
“As not all men go for large breasts—as I can attest—I’ll also assume you’re basing your money on the replay, and the large-breasted blonde who fell to her knees to weep.”
She poked a finger at his shoulder. “You watched the replay.”
“Looking into things.”
“And your take?”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “I wouldn’t bet against you.”
Eve turned as a limo glided to the curb behind her police issue. She watched people come out. A man, a woman, another couple, another man, then the singing quartet. They clumped together like a puffy blue ball, and rolled into the hotel.
“We’ll give them a couple minutes, let them get to their rooms. Could wait to do this in the morning,” she said, half to herself, “but she might be easier to open now, and in her room. Away from the venue, from everyone else.”
“And if she admits to being his lover, what does it tell you?”
“I don’t know. It depends. One angle leads to another. It could be motive. She wanted more; he wouldn’t give it. Or there’s a jealous boyfriend, or former lover. Or . . . I’ve got some others cooking. Okay. Let’s go intimidate the night clerk. No bribing,” she added. “It takes the fun out of it.”
She went in, strode across the lobby with its boring gray floors and unfortunate floral upholstery. She had her swagger on, Roarke noted. It never failed to entertain him.
She slapped her badge on the counter where a droid in a severe black suit manned the front desk.
“Good evening,” he said, and Roarke wondered whose idea it had been to program the droid with such a pussified Brit accent. “Welcome to the Mark.”
“Ulla Pintz. I need her room number.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge the room numbers of our guests. Ordinarily, I’d be happy to ring the guest room for you, and obtain that permission, but Ms. Pintz just came in, and requested a Do Not Disturb. There’s been a terrible tragedy.”
“Yeah. Dead guy. I’m a cop.” She lifted her badge, wagged it in front of his face. “Guess why I’m here.”
He only stared blankly, which Eve admitted was the trouble with service droids. They didn’t usually get sarcasm or subtlety.
“Let’s put this in short sentences,” Eve decided. “Ms. Pintz is a witness to said terrible tragedy. I’m the primary investigator of same. Give me her room number, or I haul all your circuits down to Central, where we’ll get a warrant to shut you down due to obstruction of justice.”
“Here at the Mark, our guests’ wishes are sacrosanct.”
“Try this: How are you going to serve your guests’ wishes when you’re down at Central and the jokers in EDD are playing with you?”
