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“Why didn’t he tell you about it?”
“Bad P.R. He seemed to be more worried about the food-poisoning outbreak and what it says about his shiny new kitchen than he was about the discovery of Pettijohn’s body in the penthouse suite.”
“You wanted to see me?”
Both turned. The doctor was young enough to have acne, but the eyes behind his wire-framed glasses looked old, tired, and sleep-deprived. His green scrubs and white lab coat were wrinkled and sweat-stained. His photo ID read RODNEY C. ARNOLD.
Smilow flashed his badge again. “I need to question the people brought in with food poisoning from Charles Towne Plaza.”
“Question them about what?”
“They could be material witnesses to a murder that took place in the hotel this afternoon.”
“The new hotel? You’re kidding.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“This afternoon? Like yesterday?”
“Until the M.E. can give us a more definite time, we’re estimating the victim died anywhere between four and six P.M.”
The resident smiled grimly. “Detective, at that time last evening these folks were either having acute diarrhea or puking their guts up, or both. The only thing they were eyewitness to was the bottom of the commode bowl. If they were l
ucky enough to get to a commode in time, which I heard some of them weren’t.”
“I understand they were very sick—”
“Not were. Are.”
Steffi stepped forward and identified herself. “Dr. Arnold, I don’t think you understand the importance of our questioning these people. Some were occupying rooms on the fifth floor where the murder took place. One could have vital information and not even be aware of it. The only way to find out is to question them.”
“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “Check in with the main admissions desk tomorrow. I’m sure some of them will still be here, but by then they’ll have been assigned to rooms.” He turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” Steffi said. “We need to see them now.”
“Now?” Dr. Arnold divided an incredulous glance between them. “Sorry. No can do. Some of these folks are still in extreme gastrointestinal distress. Extreme. Distress,” he repeated, separating the words for emphasis.
“We’re giving them fluids through IVs. The ones lucky enough to have passed the crisis are resting, and after the ordeal their intestines have put them through, they need it. Come back tomorrow. Possibly early afternoon. Preferably evening. By then—”
“That’s not soon enough.”
“It’ll have to be,” the doctor stated. “Because nobody’s talking to any of them tonight. Now please excuse me. I’ve got patients waiting.” With that he turned and pushed through the doors separating the lobby from the examination rooms.
“Dammit,” Steffi swore. “Are you going to let him get by with that?”
“You want me to storm the emergency room and start hassling patients in extreme… et cetera? Talk about bad P.R.” Returning to the desk nurse, Smilow asked her to give Dr. Arnold his business card. “If any of the patients begin feeling better, tell him to call me. Any hour.”
“I don’t have any confidence in the doctor’s willingness to help,” Steffi remarked when Smilow rejoined her.
“Me either. He seems to enjoy being ruler of his small domain.”
Steffi looked at him with an arch smile. “To which you can relate.”
“And you can’t?” he returned. “Don’t you think I know why you want this case so badly?”
Smilow was an excellent detective because of his insight. But sometimes that perception made him uncomfortable to be around. “Can we take five? I need some caffeine.” She moved to a vending machine and fed coins into it. “Buy you a Coke?”
“No, thanks.”
