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“I need to see the room.”
“Oh my. Yes, yes, but I’m afraid it’s been cleaned.”
“I need to see it.”
“Let me get Gino to cover the desk, and I’ll take you up myself. Just one moment.”
He bustled. At least that was the word that came to Eve’s mind, moving quickly as a man in a bellman’s navy uniform came out of a side room.
“I didn’t get your name.”
“Oh, I’m Henry. Henry Whipple.”
He actually looked like a Henry Whipple, Eve decided as they stepped on the elevator together. One old enough that it required Henry to push a button for the tenth floor.
“Some guests enjoy the old-fashioned touches,” he explained.
Old-fashioned, she thought. “Do your windows open? The guest rooms.”
“They do, though not fully. Now we have privacy screens—guests expect that, but again some enjoy being able to open the window a few inches in pretty weather. Or because they want to hear New York.”
“Soundproofing?”
“Some, yes, but not what you’d find in newer or more expensive hotels. We’ve been family owned for five generations, and have tried to keep our little home-away-from-home affordable for visitors, especially families.”
“Got it.”
When they stepped out on ten, Eve could hear the murmur of someone’s entertainment screen—not offensive, just the mutter of it through the door of the room. Still, room security wasn’t pitiful, and the corridor itself was as clean as the rest of the building.
She started to reach for her master, saw Whipple had his out, and let him unlock the room.
“Should I wait out here?”
“Just inside, shut the door.”
The lights worked by switches—another old-fashioned touch. Two beds, well made with white duvets, crisply cased pillows, a good-sized dresser, a bathroom so clean she could smell the lemon scent from the cleanser. And a small but efficient kitchen area with a glass-fronted cabinet holding various drinks, another holding snack food.
But the windows were what drew her across the room.
She unlocked one, lifted it. Four, maybe five inches, she judged.
Room enough.
She pulled over one of the two chairs, sat, took out her field glasses.
“Fucking bingo. I just know it.”
She looked down at the carpet—on the thin side, but clean. Took out microgoggles, studied the windowsill, shook her head.
“I’d like to speak with whoever cleaned the room.”
“That would be Tasha. Excuse me, Lieutenant, you’re looking toward Central Park, aren’t you? With binoculars. The media reports . . . This is about what happened yesterday. About those poor people. On the skating rink.”
“Keep it under your hat, Henry.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But I believe I need to sit down, for just a moment. My legs.” Pale, he dropped into the second chair.
“Don’t go fainting on me.” Pulling out her PPC, she did a run on Philip Carson, East Washington.
