Apprentice in Death Read online

  She had to give the group props just for showing up.

  Soft, tinkling music played under the instructors soft, tinkling voice. Eve decided she’d probably want to wrap the woman’s legs around her neck, tie her ankles in a knot, before the end of a single session.

  But that was just her.

  Eve stepped back, tried the adjoining dance studio.

  Another wall of mirrors, more music played low. But this time, the music had a fierce, hard beat, and the lone woman in the room covered the floor to it—feet flying, legs flashing, hips rocking.

  She executed three whipping spins, bounced into a one-handed handspring. And ended, right on that beat, with her arms thrown up, head back.

  She said, panting but enthusiastically: “Shit!”

  “Looked good to me.”

  The woman, black skin wet with sweat, grabbed a towel, swiped off as she studied Eve.

  “Missed the count twice, forgot the damn head roll. Sorry, are you looking for a class?”

  “No.” Eve pulled out her badge.

  This time the woman said: “Uh-oh.”

  “Just a couple questions. Let’s start with who are you?”

  “Donnie Shaddery. It’s my studio—I mean I rent the space.”

  “Did you have classes yesterday?”

  “Every day, seven days a week.”

  “My background indicates no classes yesterday between three and five P.M.”

  “That’s right. Morning classes. Seven to eight, eight-thirty to nine-thirty. Ten to eleven, eleven to twelve—break twelve to one. One to one-thirty’s sort of freestyle, then afternoon class from one-thirty to two-thirty. Then except for Fridays, I break until five.”

  “You’re the instructor?”

  “There are two of us. I had morning and afternoon yesterday, my partner had evening. Why?”

  Not the place, Eve thought, with the schedule that tight. But.

  “I need to know if anyone was here, or in the studio next door, between three and four P.M.”

  “I was here. I’ve got a call-back—for a new musical—today. I’ve been working on the damn routine every chance I get. I was here from about six-thirty yesterday morning until five.”

  “What about the yoga studio?”

  “I know Sensa was here before seven. And she did her afternoon meditation about three—at least she always does, I didn’t actually look in. She’s got two other instructors, and one of them—that’s Paula—came in around three, after the afternoon class, because she’s a dancer, too, and she came over and watched me practice for a while.”

  “So, basically, someone was in the space all afternoon.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did anyone else come in during that time frame?”

  “Not that I saw. Or heard. Should we be worried about something?”

  “I don’t think so.” Eve walked over to the windows. “Seven days a week,” she repeated. “And someone’s generally here—on the floor—in the afternoons.”

  “That’s right. If we leave, we lock up. We have a sign—Sensa and I split the rent for the floor, and we share an excuse for an office, and keep some stuff in here. Extra mats, some costumes—we co-teach a belly-dancing class on this side twice a week. It’s not much to steal, but we lock up. Was there a break-in?”

  Eve scanned the space again. It just didn’t fit. “No, I don’t think so. One more question. Why ‘break a leg’? How the hell can you dance if you break a leg?”

  “Sorry, I— Oh, the saying. Theater suspicion. Saying ‘good luck’ is bad luck. So you say ‘break a leg’ when you mean ‘good luck.’”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Nope.” Donnie gulped from a water bottle. “But that’s showbiz.”

  5

  Eve covered an office building, a residential building. She felt one apartment in the residential might warrant a trip back, and certainly a full run on the tenant. Single man in his mid-thirties, who’d served in the Army for five years.

  The quick run she did, while hoofing it to the next building, showed he’d served as a supply officer—minimal weapons training—but she marked him down to be interviewed either when he was in residence or at his place of employment.

  The ugly, incessant sleet began to thin, just a little, as she walked east from Third Avenue to Second.

  She hit a flop, a struggling art studio, more offices.

  Got no buzz at all.

  The hotel, her next stop on Second, looked old but well kept. Low- to mid-range. “Family friendly,” according to its billing, with some rooms boasting a kitchenette.

  The lobby, quiet and small, held a skinny cafe, a closet-sized gift shop, and a single clerk at the desk. He smiled broadly.

  “Good morning. Such a dreary day to be out and about. How can I help you?”

  He had such a pleasant face, all round and cheerful with a voice to match, Eve almost felt bad about pulling out her badge. He blinked at it.

  “Oh my, is there something wrong, Officer—no, excuse me, I see it’s Lieutenant. Lieutenant!” he repeated before she could speak. “Of course, it’s Lieutenant. Dallas. I loved The Icove Agenda, book and vid. I hope I can help one of the most dedicated public servants in the city.”

  “Me, too. I’m looking for someone who would have had a room yesterday, most likely on the ninth or tenth floor, facing west.”

  “A check-in yesterday. Let me—”

  “Not necessarily a check-in yesterday. Could’ve been prior, but they’d have been in-house yesterday. We’ll start with guests, but I may be looking for one of the staff, someone who could gain access to an empty room.”

  “I see, I see. No, of course I don’t see at all, but let me check the rooms.”

  “It’s likely a male, likely alone. But don’t rule out female or a companion.”

  “Ninth floor, west . . . We have Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Hubble. They’re here for four days, with a checkout tomorrow.”

  “You got a home address on them?”

  “Oh, yes, Des Moines. They’re return guests, this is their third visit. They come for the inventory sales and a show.”

  “Give me somebody who checked out this morning or late yesterday.”

  “All right. This is rather exciting.” His pleasant face turned a little pink to prove it. “We have Mr. Reed Bennett, home address is Boulder, Colorado. I believe he’s a salesman, and here for meetings. He checked in two days ago, checked out this morning. Just about a half hour ago, actually.”

  “Call off housekeeping. I’m going to want to see his room. Who else you got?”

  “Ms. Emily Utts and Ms. Fry. Ladies of a certain age in from Pittsburgh. Here for a little reunion with some classmates—from college. Class of ’19.”

  “Probably not. Any others?”

  “Just one more. Mr. Philip Carson, from East Washington, accompanied by his teenage son, or daughter—I’m not sure, it’s so hard to tell at that age, isn’t it? Especially when they’re wearing one of those hoods and all bundled up. I see here they requested that specific room.”

  A bell rang. “Specific room. Had they stayed here before?”

  “I don’t have that name in our database, but I did think Mr. Carson looked familiar.”

  “Do you remember their luggage?”

  “I . . .” He closed his eyes, squeezed them, then popped them open. “I do! I do because I started to call for Gino to assist them, but Mr. Carson said they didn’t need a bellman. They had two rollies, one each, and the child had a backpack. Mr. Carson had a case—a large metal briefcase.”

  “When did they check out?”

  “Yesterday, though they were booked to stay through the night. They checked in about five the evening prior—I remember as I was about to go off my shift. I’m not sure I saw them at all until they check
ed out about three-thirty yesterday. Mr. Carson said they had a family emergency.”

  “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.

  “No, no, I just need a moment. I’ve worked in hotels for twenty-three years. I’ve seen and heard and dealt with a great deal, as you might expect. But to think I may have . . . the person who did . . . But, he had a child!”

  “Maybe. Is this the guy?”

  Patting his chest, Henry studied the image on screen. “Oh, no, he was younger than this.”

  “How about this guy?”

  “No, not that young. I’m sorry.”

  “Elimination’s good.” And that eliminated the two Philip Carsons in East Washington who were under eighty and over twenty. “Housekeeping, Henry.”

  He let out a long breath before pulling out a ’link, tapping a code. “Tasha, I need you in 1004, right away.”

  “If this room was used, I got really lucky, but luck can happen. Or I could be wrong. Do you have security feed from yesterday?”

  “We— I’m sorry— We don’t have it at all.”

  Another good reason to pick this location, she thought. “Can you describe the man and the kid?”

  “Yes, yes.” Some of his color came back. “I absolutely can do that. I’d be happy to do that.”

  “Okay, you’re going to give me the basics in a minute, then I’m going to have you work with a police artist. Can you come to Central?”

  “I—I just need to have someone come in to take my shift.”

  “How about I send the artist to you?”

  “Thank you. It would be helpful.”

  “You’re helpful, Henry. I’ve got it,” she said at the knock on the door. She opened it to a tiny blond woman with enormous blue eyes.

  “Tasha, this is Lieutenant Dallas. She needs to ask you about the guests who were in this room.”

  “And the room after they left it.”

  “Okay, but I didn’t actually see the guests. They had their privacy light on, so I didn’t see them.”

  “What can you tell me about the room, after they checked out?”

  “They were really neat. I could tell they’d used the kitchen, but they’d washed up after themselves. Most people don’t. I still washed everything, Mr. Henry. And they used the honor bar, so I replaced everything.”

  “The rug, over here by the window. Did you notice anything?”

  “Now, it’s funny you should ask. I could see they must’ve brought over the chairs and sat there by the window. You could see the, you know, dents in the rug. And there were a couple other dents. I think maybe they had like a little telescope, and sat there looking at the city. People do that.”

  “Oh my,” Henry murmured. “Oh my.”

  “I vacuumed up really good, Mr. Henry.”

  “I know you did, dear. The room is spotless, as always when you turn one.”

  “What did you do with the trash? They must’ve left some trash.”

  “Oh, that goes straight into the recycler.”

  “Sheets, towels?”

  “Right to Laundry.”

  “I bet you scrubbed down the bathroom, every surface.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. We sanitize.”

  “Lieutenant,” Eve corrected absently. “You wiped down the dresser, the counters, nightstand?”

  “Oh, sure. Clean and comfortable. It’s hotel policy.”

  “Light switches?”

  “Sanitized.”

  “Henry, I’m going to want sweepers—the crime scene unit—to go over the room. Just in case. Thanks,” she said to Tasha, opening the door to nudge her out. “Okay, Henry.” Eve pulled over the chair so she could sit across from him. “What did these two look like? Every detail you can remember, including what they wore.”

  —

  Satisfied she’d squeezed everything she could out of him, Eve sent Henry on his way, pulled out her ’link.

  “Hey.” Peabody’s face—pink-cheeked—filled the screen. “Finished at the college. I’ll write that up, but there’s nothing so far. I’m on my way to the first building on First. Nothing on York I could find.”

  “That’s because I found it on Second. Manhattan East Hotel, room 1004. Let Jenkinson and Reineke know.”

  “You found the nest? Are you sure?”

  “Would I be calling you off otherwise? Head to Second, meet me here. Save the questions,” Eve added before Peabody could ask another. She ended transmission, ordered the sweepers, contacted Detective Yancy, the police artist, then tagged Lowenbaum.

  “That’s some luck you got, Dallas. You oughta be playing the horses.”

  “You’re going to want to see this, Lowenbaum, and I’m going to want you to verify I’m not talking out of my ass when I say the right shooter could’ve made the strikes from here.”
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  “I’m on my way.”

  “Bring the laser rifle you figure with you, and a bipod.”

  “Already on the list.”

  After shoving the ’link back in her pocket, Eve wandered the room.

  On the small side, she thought, but more than adequate.

  Had to scout the room at least once before, alone most likely. Not with the partner. Had to be sure it could be done, and this was the place to do it.

  Quiet hotel, no cams, but solid security on the guest room doors. Nobody’s going to stroll in unexpectedly. Just a guy and his teenage kid traveling to New York—who pays attention?

  Henry Whipple, she thought—and yeah, that was some luck.

  Book the room—bogus ID, but the card used to register has to pass hotel scan, so it’s good bogus. Carry your own bags, come up, lock the door, put on the privacy light, then—

  She kept walking through it as she moved to the door to answer the knock, let in a slightly out-of-breath Peabody.

  “How did you—”

  “Front desk clerk who pays attention. Suspect was traveling with what Henry—front desk—believed was his minor child—teenage type. Not sure on gender. ID’s bogus, but we’ll push on it deeper. Philip Carson, East Washington. Requested this room specifically.”

  Eve pulled out her field glasses. “Have a look.”

  Peabody moved to the window, looked out. “Wow, it’s a really long way, but yeah, it’s a good view of the rink.”

  “Housekeeper’s sanitized the works, but she noticed little dents in the carpet by the window, like a chair and a bipod would make.”

  “If this is it, they had to have been here before, had to know they’d have the shot.”

  “Henry thought the adult male looked familiar. And we’ve got a description—Yancy’s heading in to work with him. Caucasian male, late forties, early fifties, about six feet, on the thin side at about one-sixty, square jaw, short medium-brown hair. Not sure on eye color, but Henry thinks light—blue, green, gray. And maybe he had a cold, or was getting over something. He looked drawn, was the word. And his eyes looked tired. Wearing a black parka, black ski cap, jeans. Carrying a large metal briefcase and a midsized black rolly.”

  “That’s a lot. If Henry’s accurate, that’s a lot.”