Coming Soon

He knew a couple of concierges and they were notoriously close-mouthed. He had no doubt Mia Traverse was the same. But he also knew that the concierge of a hotel could be a font of information. A central clearing house for juicy tidbits about the staff and the guests.

He’d find out what she knew. She might believe that discretion was the better part of valor, but there was no valor in a slit throat.

“Is that all, Detective?”

He looked at her once more. At her wispy haircut with the short bangs, at the artfully applied makeup that highlighted her big eyes. He wondered briefly if they’d hired her just for her looks, then dismissed the thought. This was one hell of a famous hotel, owned by the one celebrity heiress who seemed to have gotten her act together, but still, Hush was known as the sex hotel. Someone had told him each room came equipped with sex toys. Not only that, but video cameras. “Interesting.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just…”

The way she looked at him, her big eyes wide, her lips slightly parted… Her skin looked soft and sweet and he wondered how old she was. For her job at this kind of hotel he’d have guessed she would have to be around his age, but she didn’t have that jaded New Yorker look.

“Detective?”

“You just focus on taking care of the paying guests,” he said, his tone gruffer than he’d intended. “We’ve got this covered, you understand?”

The surprise on her face wasn’t nearly as revealing as the pink blush that covered her cheeks. He’d hit the nail on the head. She could be useful, if he played her just the right way. This was going to be a high-profile case, hitting the papers with a roar. He was the lead on this, and it was going to be one of his last. No way he was leaving without solving this one. Whatever it took.

MIA PICKED HER WAY OUT of Exhibit A, careful not to disturb anything. She even managed not to look at Geiger’s body. At the thought she shivered again, something that had been happening a lot. It surprised her that she’d been clearheaded at all as she talked to that detective.

Two things niggled at her as she headed for the employee lounge and her locker. The first was that last thing the detective had said. As if he’d known somehow that she planned on doing a bit of investigating on her own. After all, this was her hotel, and if she could use her sources to get to the bottom of things, all the better. But still, how had he…?

She nodded at a couple of graveyard-shift folks sitting at the tables in the cafeteria, sipping coffee. Casual, as if a murder on the premises didn’t faze them. Or maybe they didn’t know yet. She expected that to change within the hour. One thing about Hush—gossip was a constant, mostly to do with the employees themselves, but sometimes about the guests. She had every reason to believe that the murder would stir up all kinds of information and she intended to be smack dab in the middle of that.

She pushed through the door that led to the lockers and as she reached for her lock, she remembered the other niggle. Detective Milligan was way the heck too hot.

He probably wouldn’t appeal to Carlane or Jenna. They favored the pretty ones, like Danny Austen. Not her. She liked her men rugged. Lived in. A strategic scar never hurt anything, either.

She’d always been that way. She’d preferred Bogie to Cary Grant in the old films, and even today her celebrity tastes slid more toward Clive Owen than Brad Pitt.

She gathered her things together slowly as she recalled the detective’s dark eyes and that strong jaw. His hair was short, but not fatally so, and messy in a good way. He must have been a foot taller than her, and wow, his hands had been really large. Wouldn’t they feel just incredible on her back? Or lower?

She turned to make sure she was alone, suddenly embarrassed by her own thoughts. Not that she didn’t have erotic thoughts. She did. As many as any other healthy woman. Nothing wrong with that at all, unless maybe you had them five seconds after finding a dead body.

Okay, so not five seconds, but close enough. Sheesh.

She’d never seen a dead body before. Even though she watched all those shows that pride themselves on how gross they can get, she still hadn’t been prepared for the real deal.

Gerry Geiger had crossed someone’s line. Crossed it big-time. So he’d been killed. And his ever-present camera snatched.

So what had he captured that had been worth his death? That was the big question. The major puzzle.

She slammed her locker shut and walked toward the back entrance. No public transportation for her tonight. She was taking a cab all the way to Brooklyn Heights, cost be damned.

Even at this ungodly hour the paps were in force. Naturally they’d seen the police vehicles and they were chomping at the bit to find out what had happened. She was escorted past them by one of the extra security guys and put into a taxi. Once she settled in for the ride, she thought again about what Geiger could have seen. It would have to be something really terrible. It wasn’t that long ago that her first thought would have been adultery. But nowadays, who cared enough about that to kill? According to the tabloids, people, especially show biz people, cheated every day. Revolving beds were the norm. So, no, she didn’t think it was about cheating.

Her best guess was that it somehow involved money. Lots and lots of money. That was what those people seemed to love most. That’s what they protected at all costs. But what kind of photo could cost someone millions?

She’d have to think about that. But not until tomorrow. She didn’t feel tired, but she knew that was just adrenaline, and by the time she got home, that would have dissipated and she’d crash. Which was good. The last thing she needed was to remember any details. Unless those details were all about one particular detective.

Her head fell on the seat back. Nope, even the delectable detective wasn’t going to keep her awake tonight. Today. Whatever.

“GEIGER WAS A BASTARD. There wasn’t a person on the set who didn’t want him dead.”

Bax leaned back in the leather executive chair as he listened to yet another crock of bullshit from yet another movie big shot.

Piper Devon, the owner of the hotel, had given him an office in the lower level so he could conduct his interviews in relative peace. So far he’d spoken to the cinematographer, the script supervisor and two actors, both of whom thought Geiger’s murder would somehow benefit their careers. None of them had given him anything useful. He’d tried to get to the producer, but Oscar Weinberg had flown to Los Angeles early this morning. Of course he’d checked, and the travel plans had been made earlier in the week, but he still had Weinberg on his list. According to the associate producer, he would be back in three days. For now, Bax settled for talking to the director.

Peter Eccles was in his forties and his Hollywood life was written all over his face. Lines, wrinkles, fake perfect teeth, hair plugs and a completely immobile forehead made him appear more puppet than man. He was angry and nervous but his face looked weathered yet serene. Weird.

“Look, I had nothing to do with his death. I don’t know who killed him and I’ve got to completely rearrange my shooting schedule because your people won’t let us have the nightclub, so if you’re done—”

“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Bax said. “When’s the last time you saw Gerry Geiger?”

“Yesterday. He was standing outside the hotel all afternoon.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“No.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

Eccles raised a hand to his head, but stopped just before running it through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t recall. We never actually spoke. It was more me yelling at him to get the hell away from my actors. Not what you’d call real dialogue.”

“And you have no idea who would want to slit his throat?”

“I told you. Everyone. All of them. Probably hundreds of people I don’t even know. He was a prick. A vampire. A waste of space.”

“Did he ever take pictures of you?”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Were any of them compromising?”

“You mean with my pants down? No. He never got that close.”

Bax made a point of writing in his notebook, but it was mostly a list of what he needed to pick up at the store on his way home.

Across from him, Eccles tapped his leg with his fingers, his unease and impatience telegraphed from his very pores. “Are we done?” he asked again.

Bax wrote down cereal and cream, then checked the list to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. When he was satisfied he looked into Peter Eccles’s dark, furious eyes. “For now.”

Eccles shot up and marched out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Bax thought about smiling, but it wasn’t worth it. Eccles was a jerk. They were all jerks. He doubted he’d get anything useful from even one of the players. He’d have to do some serious digging. Talk to Geiger’s paparazzi buddies. He’d put the wheels in motion to get a background check on all these movie people and on Gerry and Sheila Geiger. Grunwald was going to have his hands full.

And then he’d talk to Mia Traverse. He still wasn’t sure about his approach yet, but one thing was in her favor. She was young, eager. It was a pretty safe bet she was already digging around the hotel, trying to find out all she could about Geiger and the movie crew. Bax wanted to know it all. Every detail. But he didn’t want to come right out and ask her to be his informant. He knew her first priority was the hotel and her job, which didn’t negate the fact that she was plugged into the world of Hush. No, this was going to be about finesse, not force.

He went back to his original notes. It bothered him that the camera hadn’t been found. It bothered him that Geiger was a sleaze, that everyone despised him, that most of the people staying in the hotel were suspects. At the moment the only people he could unequivocally eliminate as suspects were Piper Devon and Mia Traverse. Devon been at a very public function last night, her alibi confirmed by photographs in the New York Post. Traverse had been with her girlfriends in and around the hotel.

He wondered what she might have seen. Who. She may well know the killer’s identity without even realizing it.

That was one interview he wasn’t dreading in the least.

“SLIT. FROM EAR TO EAR. It was beyond horrible.” Mia looked around the cafeteria, sure everyone was staring at her, wondering. Not if she’d killed Geiger, but if she knew something more than she’d told the police.

The truth was, she didn’t. Not yet. But she didn’t do a thing to dissuade people from the idea that she did. Know stuff. Any stuff.

Her lunch companion, Theresa, the head of housekeeping, had been a buddy for a long while and they often ate together, so that wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows. What most of the staff didn’t think about was Theresa’s unbelievable information-gathering resources.

The maids.

It was the same in all hotels in Mia’s experience. Guests, especially the upper echelon, didn’t see the maids. They didn’t speak to them, they didn’t interact with them. Therefore, maids were not real. They were robots that cleaned and vacuumed. Mia had always felt badly that so few patrons tipped the maids, considering the crap the poor things had to put up with.

In this instance, it wasn’t the crap they had to clean that had her hunkering down with Theresa, it was the stuff they saw.

“I saw dead bodies two times,” Theresa said.

She was eating an empanada that smelled so good Mia was cursing her yogurt. But then Theresa was five-ten at least, statuesque and curvy. Not her five-two with barely a curve to be seen.

“One was just an old guy who had a heart attack. That was okay, but the second one, oh, baby.”

“What?”

Theresa leaned closer. “Autoerotic asphyxiation.”

“No.”

“Yes. And you know what was the worst part?”

“What?”

“He was alone. I found him on the bathroom floor, his hand still on his wing wang. He’d strangled himself with his own belt, and let me tell you, it took some doing. He was blue. His tongue stuck out.” She shivered, making her long, dark hair shimmer. “It put me off my soup, you know what I mean?”

Mia nodded as she took another spoon of key lime yogurt. “I do.”

“I’m not surprised,” Theresa said, just before taking another bite. Releasing another dose of that delectable scent into the air. Cumin. Cilantro.

Swallowing her urge to grab the empanada out of her friend’s hand, Mia focused. “Not surprised about Geiger?”

“That’s right, chica. I knew that man was going to get himself into hot water.”

“Why, what do you know?”

“He was inside the director’s suite the night he was killed.”

“Eccles’s suite?”

Theresa nodded.

Mia was almost going to ask her if she was sure, but of course she was. “How did you find out?”

“Room service. Andy served them late last night. He saw Geiger in the mirror. This morning Yolanda found a piece from his camera. It was in a bag with his initials on it. They’d done some serious drinking. Most of the bottle of scotch was gone.”

“Whoa. What did she do with the camera thingy?”

“Nothing. Yolanda knows better than to take something from a guest’s room.”

Mia sat back, stunned. Peter Eccles was a really famous director, although she’d heard somewhere that he’d lost his deal with Paramount, which had cost him a pretty penny. This shoot was supposed to give him that boost he needed to get back on the A list.

She wondered what Eccles had to hide. Had Gerry caught him stealing from the film budget? Sleeping with someone he shouldn’t? She seemed to remember something about Eccles in the tabloids, but it had been too long ago and she hadn’t paid much attention. She wasn’t exactly a tabloid kind of gal.

But she knew someone who was. Dear sweet Carlane. She read the tabloids—all of them, not just Page Six— every single day. Bless her little heart.

“Mia?”

Theresa was looking at her with one of her patented eyebrow raises. That alone kept her housekeeping staff on the ball.

“Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Don’t think too hard, chica. Just because two men had a drink together doesn’t make one of them a killer.”

“I know. But still, it’s curious, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. In fact…” She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Meet me in an hour in housekeeping. I’m going to talk to the girls who work the suites. And I’m going to see if I can get that camera bag.”

“Deal. But don’t do anything foolish, okay?”

“Yolanda told me the bag was half hidden under the couch. If it’s still there, I’m going to grab it. Oh, and Mia?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t get yourself too worked up. I know how you love your mysteries and puzzles but this was asesinato, not a game.

Mia nodded, but she was already thinking about that camera bag, and what Gerry Geiger would be doing with Peter Eccles.

3

IT WAS ALMOST FIVE in the afternoon and Bax had had it with actors. There wasn’t a single one who hadn’t tried to manipulate the hell out of him, and he hadn’t even gotten to the big stars.

The worst had been a woman named Nan Collins who acted like an A-lister when, according to the assistant director, she was no more than a glorified extra. She’d said she was insulted that she was being questioned, but it was pathetically clear that the idea of being associated with the real players was her dream come true. She hadn’t given him anything but a headache. Finally, though, he could take a break. There were still so many people to talk to, particularly those with the most to lose, like Weinberg and the two big stars. The thought made his head throb.

He left his temporary office and took his time as he made his way to the lobby, debating whether to go home and get some sleep or continue the interviews. He let his gaze wander as he stepped off the elevator. The hotel’s décor was art deco, the pictures were all nudes of the period and the air felt rarified, as if a bad smell wouldn’t dare.

There were people here, most of them on the young side, the men in expensive suits, the women dressed in designer clothes with impossible heels.

He looked down at his brown jacket, his brown pants, his brown shoes. The only thing not brown about him was his shirt, which was beige. He hadn’t been home to change since yesterday and it showed.

Screw it. It had been one hell of a frustrating day, full of sound and fury, signifying squat. There were so many fingerprints on the scene as to render them useless. Motives had clearly been on sale for a nickel, because everyone he talked to seemed to have more than one. At least he’d managed to keep the basement nightclub a crime scene despite some extraordinary pressure from the producer.

Bax thought about his interview with Geiger’s wife. He’d seen her at five this morning and it had been a real slice. Sheila Geiger had fallen apart when she heard about her husband’s death. The two of them had been married eight years, and according to her, he was a model husband. Sure, he spent about twelve hours a day chasing down any scandal he could find, but she was adamant that he was a good man, and that the stars were all backstabbing liars who needed him more than he needed them.

She wanted action. She wanted arrests. She wanted his camera back.

“Detective Milligan?”

Bax jumped at the voice behind him. Her voice. Mia Traverse’s voice.

He turned to find her in her uniform, a black tuxedo jacket and skirt, white blouse, pink silk tie, and yep, she was just as pretty as he remembered. She came over, reminding him again how small she was. And that she smelled damn good.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.

“Maybe. I understand the rooms all come with a video recorder.”

She nodded. “Walk with me?”

He did as she headed for the reception area where the concierge services were conducted behind a curved, black lacquered desk. He waited as she went to her station. She checked to make sure there had been no calls, then put on one of those Bluetooth ear deals which always made him think of Uhuru from Star Trek.

“Each room has a small video recorder,” she said, her attention squarely on him, “and each guest is given several blank tape cartridges. It’s all part of the Hush amenities package.”

“It’s actually the tapes I’m interested in.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Those are of a private nature. Meant for couples.”

“I figured. On the other hand, someone might have taped something of a murderous nature.”

She nodded solemnly. “Yes, it’s possible. But I’m not sure how you’d ever find out.”

“I was thinking that maybe together we could come up with a solution to that little problem.”

“I’d love to help in any way I can, Detective, but those tapes are private. They become the property of the guest the moment they check in.”

“What would a maid do if she found a tape that was open in a room where the guests have checked out?”

“Turn it in to lost and found.”

“Okay. Would you check that out please? If there were any tapes left, I’ll need to see them.”

“I’ll be happy to, but wouldn’t the killer, if he taped himself murdering Geiger, have made a point to take the evidence with him?”

“I doubt very much the killer would have filmed that session. That’s not what I’m after. I think it’s possible that one of the guests might have taped something that could give us a direction.”

“Oh, I see.”

He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try. “What about security cameras?”

“We do have cameras, although not in Exhibit A, or even that hallway.”

“Where are they?”

“I can put you in touch with security. They know a lot more about it than I—” A chirping sound had come from a cell phone on her desk. She flipped it open and brought it to her ear.

“Concierge, Mia speaking. How may I help you?”

Bax watched and listened as Mia talked to her guest. She was calm, pleasant, and as she talked, she also typed, looking something up on the computer. The conversation was evidently about a pharmacy that delivered.

He checked out her work space, which was as tidy as she was. A large Rolodex, telephone books, three-ring binders. Just what he’d expect to see. He paused, however, when he saw what looked like a camera case. Taking a couple of steps to his right to get a better look, he was surprised to see the initials GG in gold script on the top.

When he looked back at Mia, it was clear from her blush she knew what he’d found. Bax sighed. He’d been right about her. Eager, enthusiastic. Nosy. A perfect informant. Ideal. Only, as an informant, he had to be damn careful with her. Not just so he wouldn’t scare her off, either. He had to make sure that she remained a credible witness. Which meant she was completely hands-off. Which should have been no issue at all.

She finished with her phone call. “I was going to tell you about that.”

“When?”

“Don’t be mad. There’s a story with it and—” The phone chirped again. She flicked her earpiece this time instead of picking up the cell and immediately put the caller on hold. “Tell you what,” she said. “I get off work in fifteen minutes. It’ll take me ten to change out of my uniform. Why don’t you go to the bar and relax. I’ll come get you and we can go to dinner. My treat.”

“Twenty-five minutes?”

“And I’ll be all yours.”

He knew exactly what she meant but that didn’t stop a momentary flash of a completely unprofessional nature.

She returned her attention to the guest as he walked toward the bar, wondering if his attraction to her was about hormones or homicide?

SHE HAD THE CAMERA CASE in her purse as they went to Maxwell’s, a coffee shop she and most of the Hush crew frequented. It was no Amuse Bouche, but they had decent food and for Madison Avenue, they were reasonable.

Mia could tell he wanted answers, but he waited patiently as they were seated and placed their orders.

She brought out the bag as soon as the waitress left. “It’s just a lens,” she said. “No film, no camera.”

“But it did belong to Geiger?”

“It did, yes. But that’s not the interesting part.”

The waitress came back with coffee for him, an iced tea for her. When they were alone again, Mia leaned in. “It was found in Peter Eccles’s suite and it was left there the night Geiger was killed.”

The detective’s expression changed. It wasn’t dramatic. In fact, if she hadn’t been watching closely, she’d have missed it. His eyes, a deep dark brown, widened a hair and his nice broad shoulders straightened.

He really was an attractive man. Even in his dull suit there was something about him that appealed to her. Not just his rugged good looks, either. Obviously, she barely knew the man but still she saw an intelligence about him. He might come off all stoic and unflappable, but there was a brain in there. How she knew, she wasn’t sure, but she knew. She’d known from the first.

Over the years her ability to quickly gauge strangers had been developed and nurtured. Part of being a good concierge was to make and trust first impressions.

Even in the stressful situation of finding a body her radar had been active. Other parts of her had been active, too, which surprised her more.

Honestly, his looks weren’t all that remarkable. Not compared to the movie stars and models who frequented the hotel. But he was sexy in his rumpled suit and his mussed hair. She kept finding herself wanting to touch him.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll pay for dinner if you don’t make me beg.”

She realized she’d been staring instead of talking. “The maid found it in Eccles’s room. Along with the remains of his scotch, which room service had delivered the night before.”