Betrayal in Death (2 page)

She glanced around the ballroom, scanning her things, things that had once been vital to her, with amusement. "It should bring a good price, and help get The Magda Lane Foundation for the Performing Arts off the ground. So many bits and pieces of a career, of a life, going on the block before much longer."

She turned, studying a display arranged like a lady's boudoir, with a shimmering nightgown, an open jewelry case where chains and stones spilled gloriously onto a gleaming dressing table. "That's a lovely bit of female business, isn't it?"

"Yeah, if you're into that."

Magda swiveled back, smiling. "At one time I was desperately into that. But, a smart woman doesn't survive a fickle career like acting without regularly reinventing herself."

"What are you now?"

"Yes, yes," Magda murmured. "I like you very much. People ask me why I'm doing this, why I'm giving so much of it up. Do you know what I say?"

"No, what?"

"That I intend to live and to work for a great deal longer. Time enough to collect more." She gave that lusty laugh again, turned back to Eve. "That's true enough, but there's more. The Foundation's a dream of mine, a cherished one. Acting's been good to me. I want to pass it on, while I'm still around and young enough to enjoy it all. Grants, scholarships, facilities for all that new blood to swim in. It pleases me that a young actor or director might get his or her start from a break given in my name. That's vanity."

"I don't think so. I think it's wisdom."

"Oh. Now I like you even more. Ah, there's Vince, giving me the eye. My son," Magda explained. "He's handling the media and assisting in the security for this extravaganza. Such a demanding young man," she added, signaling across the room. "God knows where he got that particular trait. So that's my cue to get back to work." She rose. "I'm going to be in New York for the next several weeks. I hope we'll see each other again."

"That would be nice."

"Ah, Roarke, perfect timing." Magda turned to beam at him as he walked to the table. "I have to abandon your delightful wife as duty calls. I expect an invitation to dinner, very soon, so I can spend more time with both of you, and indulge in one of those spectacular meals your man arranges. What is his name?"

"Summerset," Eve said, lip curling.

"Yes, of course. Summerset. Soon," she said, and kissed both Roarke's cheeks before gliding off.

"You were right. I did like her."

"I was sure you would." As he spoke, he began to guide her smoothly toward the exit. "I'm sorry to interrupt your evening off, but we have some trouble."

"A problem with security? Somebody try to duck out with a pocketful of baubles?"

"No. It's nothing to do with theft, and everything to do with murder."

Her eyes changed. Woman to cop. "Who's dead?"

"One of the housekeeping staff, from what I'm told." He kept her arm, steered her toward a bank of elevators. "She's in the south tower, forty-sixth floor. I don't know the details," he said shortly before she could interrupt. "My head of hotel security just informed me."

"Have the police been contacted?"

"I've contacted you, haven't I?" Eyes grim, he waited while the elevator shot up to the south tower. "Security knew I was on site, and that you were with me. It was decided to inform me -- and you -- first."

"Okay, don't get testy. We don't even know if it's a homicide yet. People are always yelling murder at unattended deaths. Mostly they're accidents or natural causes."

The minute she stepped off the elevator, her eyes narrowed to slits. Too many people in the hallway, including one hysterical female in a housekeeper's uniform, lots of guys in suits, and several people who were obviously guests who'd popped out of their rooms to see what the commotion was.

She reached into her foolish little purse, pulled out her badge, and held it up as she strode forward.

"NYPSD, clear this area. You people go back in your rooms, anyone with hotel security stand by. And somebody deal with this woman here. Who's security chief?"

"That would be me." A tall lean man with a coffee-colored complexion and mirror-sheened bald head stepped forward. "John Brigham."

"Brigham, you're with me." Since she didn't have her master code, she gestured to the door.

When he opened it, she stepped through, scanned the parlor area.

Sumptuous, chock-full of fancy furniture, including a full bar setup. And tidy as a church. The privacy screens on the generous windows were engaged, and the lights on full.

"Where is she?" Eve asked Brigham.

"Bedroom, to the left."

"Was the door open or closed as it is now when you arrived on scene?"

"It was closed when I got here. But I can't say it was that way before. Ms. Hilo from Housekeeping found her."

"That's the woman in the hall?"

"That's right."

"All right, let's see what we've got." She moved to the door, opened it.

Music poured out. The lights were on full here as well, and shone harshly on the body lying on the bed like a broken doll that had been tossed there by a spoiled child.

One arm was cocked at an impossible angle, her face was raw and blackened from a vicious beating, and her uniform skirt was hiked up to her waist. The thin silver wire used to strangle her cut deep into her throat like a slender and deadly necklace.

"I think you can rule out natural causes," Roarke murmured.

"Yeah. Brigham, who's been in this suite besides you and the housekeeper since the body was found?"

"No one."

"Did you approach the body, touch it or anything other than the doors in any way?"

"I know the drill, Lieutenant. I was on the job -- Chicago PSD, Anti-Crime Division. Twelve years. Hilo alerted me. She was screaming into her communicator. I got here within two minutes. She'd run back to her base on the fortieth floor. I entered the suite, came to the doorway here, determined by visual that the victim was deceased. Aware that Roarke was on site, and accompanied by you, I contacted him immediately, then secured the suite, sent for Hilo, and waited for your arrival."

"I appreciate it, Brigham. Since you were on the job, you know how many times a crime scene's corrupted by helping hands. Did you know the victim?"

"No. Hilo called her Darlene. Little Darlene. That's all I could get out of her."

Eve was scanning the scene, keeping herself back from it, and calculating the steps that had led to murder. "You could do me a big favor and get Hilo somewhere quiet and private where she can't talk to anyone but you until I send for her. I'm going to call this in. I don't want to go into the room until I can seal up."

Brigham reached in his pocket, pulled out a minican of Seal-It. "I had one of my men bring this up. And a recorder," he added, handing her a collar clip. "Didn't figure you'd have a field kit with you."

"Good thinking. Do you mind sticking with Hilo for a while?"

"I'll take care of it. You can tag me when you want to talk to her. Meanwhile, I'll leave a couple of men at the door until your crime scene unit gets here."

"Thanks." Idly she shook the can. "Why'd you go off the job?"

For the first time Brigham smiled. "My current employer made me a hell of an offer."

"I bet you did," Eve said to Roarke when Brigham stepped out. "He's got a cool head, good eyes." She started to spray her shoes, then decided she'd do a hell of a lot better without them. After stepping out of them, she sprayed her feet, her hands, passed off the can, then the clip, to Roarke.

"I'll need you to record the scene." She pulled out her communicator and called it in.

"Her name's Darlene French." Roarke read off the data he'd called up from his PPC. "She's worked here for just over a year. She was twenty-two."

"I'm sorry." She touched his arm, waited until he shifted those hot, angry eyes to hers. "I'm going to take care of her now. Record on, okay?"

"Yes, all right." He slipped the PPC back in his pocket, engaged the clip recorder.

"The victim is identified as Darlene French, female, age twenty-two, employed as housekeeper, The Roarke Palace Hotel. Apparent homicide, this location, Suite 4602. Present and acting as primary, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also present and acting as temporary aide in recording this log, Roarke. Dispatch has been notified."

Now Eve approached the body. "The scene shows little sign of struggle, but the body shows bruising and lacerations consistent with a violent beating, particularly around the face. Blood spatter pattern indicates that beating was administered while the victim was on the bed."

She glanced around the room again, noted the beeper on the floor just outside the bath.

"The right arm is broken," she continued. "Other bruising on the victim's thighs and vaginal area indicates pre-mortem rape."

Gently, Eve lifted one of the limp hands. Wishing for microgoggles, she examined it carefully. "Got a little skin here," she murmured. "Managed to get a swipe in, didn't you, Darlene? Good for you. We have skin, possibly hair and fiber under victim's fingernails."

Meticulous, she moved up the body. The uniform was still buttoned over the breasts. "He didn't bother with much foreplay. Didn't rip at her clothes or bother to take them off her. Just beat her, broke her, raped her. A thin wire, silver in appearance, has been used, garrote-style, to strangle the victim. The ends of the wire were crossed in front, then twisted into small loops, indicate the killer strangled her face-to-face, while he was ranged over her, and she was down. Have you got this from all angles?" she asked Roarke.

"Yes."

With a nod, she lifted the victim's head, tilting her own so that she could see the back of the wire. "Get this," she ordered. "It might shift a little when we turn her. The wire's unbroken in the back, and the bleeding's minimal. He didn't use it until he'd finished the beating, until he'd finished the rape. Straddling her," she said, narrowing her eyes to bring it into focus. "One knee on either side. She's not putting up much of a fight, if any, by this point. He just slips the wire over her head, crosses the ends in front, then pulls, opposite directions. It wouldn't have taken long."

But she'd have bucked, her body instinctively struggling to throw off the weight, her throat burning from the wire and the trapped screams of pain and terror. Her heart would have pounded, and that storm-at-sea sound would have exploded in her ears at the lack of oxygen.

Heels drumming, hands clawing for air. Until the blood begins to burst in the head, behind the eyes, and that frantic heart surrenders.

Eve stepped back. There was little more she could do without a field kit. "I need to know who this room is registered to. What the housekeeping routine is. I'll need to talk to Hilo," she added as she walked to the closet, glanced in. "And it would help for me to be able to interview anyone on staff who knew her well." She checked the dresser.

"No clothes. Not even a lint ball. A couple of used towels she might have dropped or simply set down on her way out of the bathroom. Was anyone registered to this room?"

"I'll find out. You'll want her next of kin."

"Yeah." Eve sighed. "Husband, if she had one. Boyfriends, lovers, exes. Nine times out of ten that's what you find in a sexual homicide. But I think this is number ten. Nothing personal about this, nothing intimate or passionate. He wasn't mad, wasn't particularly involved."

"There's nothing intimate about rape."

"There can be," Eve corrected. And she knew that, better than most. "When there's knowledge between the assailant and the victim, any sort of history -- even just a fantasy on the part of the assailant, it lends intimacy. This was cold. Just ram it in and get off. I bet he spent more time beating her than he did with the rape. Some men enjoy the first more. It's their foreplay."

Roarke switched off the recorder. "Eve. Turn the case over to someone else."

"What?" She blinked herself back to the moment. "Why would I do that?"

"Don't put yourself through this." He touched her cheek. "It hurts you."

He was being careful, she noted, not to mention her father. The beatings, the rapes, the terror she'd lived with until she was eight.

"They all hurt if you let them," she said simply, and turned back to look at Darlene French. "I won't turn her over to someone else, Roarke. I can't. She's already mine."

CHAPTER TWO

The suite was registered to one James Priory of Milwaukee. He'd checked in that afternoon at three-twenty, and had booked his accommodations three weeks in advance with a planned two-night stay.

Payment for the room, and any incidentals, was to be made through his debit card, which had been recorded and verified at check-in.

In the parlor of that suite while the crime scene unit and sweepers handled the crime scene, Eve watched the security disc Brigham had sent up to her.

The check-in recording showed Priory to be a mixed-race male, mid to late forties, dressed in the conservative dark suit of the successful businessman who could afford a high-priced suite in a high-priced hotel for a couple of nights. An expense account look, Eve noted.

But under the natty suit and well-styled hair, she saw thug.

He was burly, wide-chested, and easily weighed twice what his victim had. His hands were square, the fingers long and blunted. His eyes were the color of the scrim that forms on street puddles in January. A cold and dirty gray.

His face was square as well, with a blocky nose and a thin mouth. The dark brown hair, carefully styled and graying at the temples, struck her as an affectation. Or a disguise.

He made no attempt to conceal his face, even managed a brief smile for the desk clerk before he let the bellman lead him to the elevators.

He had a single suitcase.

With the next disc, she watched the bellman open the door to his suite and step back to let Priory enter first. According to the logs, he did not leave the suite again before the murder.

He used the AutoChef in the kitchenette for a meal -- steak, rare, white potato, baked, sour dough roll, coffee, and cheesecake -- rather than contact room service.

The service bar in the parlor had been lightly used, some macadamias and a soft drink.

No liquor, Eve noted. Clear head.

The next disc showed Darlene French wheeling her maid's cart to the door of 4602.

A pretty girl in a spiffy uniform and sensible shoes who had a.dreamy look in big brown eyes. Delicate build. Small hands that played with the little gold heart on a thin gold chain she tugged from under her blouse.

She buzzed, idly rubbed the small of her back, then buzzed again. Slipped the heart and chain neatly under her blouse. Only then did she slide the passcode from her apron pocket into the slot, press her right thumb to the Identi-pad. She opened the door, called out cheerfully, then gathered fresh towels from her cart.

She closed the door behind her at 8:26 p.m.

At 8:58, Priory, suitcase and towels in hand, stepped out of the room. He closed the door behind him, neatly dropped the towels inside the cart before he skirted around it. Then strolled -- like a man without a care in the world -- to the door leading to the stairs.

It had taken him only thirty-two minutes to beat, rape, and murder Darlene French.

"A clear head," Eve said aloud. "A cold, clear head."

"Lieutenant?"

Eve shook her head, held up a hand to hold her aide off a moment longer.

Peabody zipped her lip, waited. She'd been working homicides with Eve for a year, and believed she had her lieutenant's rhythm.

Her eyes, nearly as dark as her straight chin-length hair, shifted to the screen where Eve continued to study the frozen image of a killer.

Looks mean, Peabody thought, but said nothing.

"What have you got for me?" Eve said at length.

"Priory, James, exec in sales at Alliance Insurance Company, based in Milwaukee. Deceased, January five of this year. Vehicular accident."

"Well, this guy's alive and kicking. Anything wonky about Milwaukee Priory's vehicular?"

"It doesn't appear so, sir. The report states a driver of a jet-truck nodded off at the wheel, took out Priory and another driver. We have a number of other Priorys in Milwaukee, but this is the only James that popped."

"Hold off running them. This guy's got a sheet somewhere. I know it. Tag Feeney at home. Shoot him this disc image and ask him to run it through IRCCA -- the International Resource Center on Criminal Activity. That's an E-Division job, and IRCCA's his personal darling. He'll pop this guy out quicker than anyone else." She checked her wrist unit. "I want to talk to Hilo. She should be coherent by now. Where's Roarke?" she demanded, glancing around the parlor.

Peabody straightened her shoulders, looked directly at the opposite wall. "I couldn't say."

"Damn it." Eve strode out, pinned the guard at the door. "Hilo."

"She's in 4020, Lieutenant."

"Nobody goes in this room without a badge. Nobody." She walked to the elevator, jabbed the button. The fact that Roarke had left the crime scene meant only one thing. He was up to something.

The good news was Hilo was indeed coherent. She was pale, red-eyed, but sat quietly in the parlor area of one of the hotel's smaller suites. There was a teapot on the table in front of her, and a cup in her hand, which she set down when Eve walked in.

"Ms. Hilo, I'm Lieutenant Dallas with the NYPSD."

"Yes, yes, I know. Roarke explained that you wanted me to wait for you here with Mr. Brigham."

Eve shot a look toward Brigham, who stood staring, with apparent fascination, at the painting on the far wall. "Roarke explained?" Eve repeated.

"Yes, he came down to sit with me awhile. Ordered this tea for me himself. It's just like him. He's a lovely man."

"Oh yeah, he's just peachy. Ms. Hilo, have you spoken with anyone but Mr. Brigham and Roarke since you've been waiting for me?"

"Oh no. I was told not to." She looked trustingly at Eve with swollen eyes the color of walnuts. "Mrs. Roarke -- "

"Dallas." Eve didn't grit her teeth, but it was close. "Lieutenant Dallas."

"Oh, yes. Of course. Pardon me, Lieutenant Dallas, I want to apologize for causing such a scene before when... before," she finished, and drew in a shaky breath. "I couldn't seem to stop. When I found poor little Darlene... I couldn't seem to stop."

"It's all right."

"No, no." Hilo lifted her hands. She was a small woman, but solidly built. The kind of build, Eve always thought, that kept right on steadily marching after wimpy longdistance runners passed out on the field. "I just ran out and left her there, left her like that. I'm in charge, you see. From six to one, I'm in charge, and I just ran away from her. I didn't even touch her, or cover her up."

"Mrs. Hilo."

"Just Hilo." She managed a small smile that only made her weary face look sadder. "It's Natalie Hilo, but everyone just calls me Hilo."

"All right. Hilo." Eve sat, put off turning on the recorder. "You did exactly what was best. If you had touched her, if you had covered her up, you would have contaminated the crime scene. That would have made it more difficult for me to find the person who hurt her. To find him and make sure he pays."

"That's what Roarke said." Her eyes filled again, but she got a handkerchief from her pocket and briskly wiped the tears away. "He said just that, and that you would find the horrible person who did this to her. He said you wouldn't stop looking until you'd found him."

"That's right. You can help me, and Darlene. Brigham, could Hilo and I have some privacy?"

"Sure. You can reach me at ninety on the house 'link."

"I'm going to record what we talk about," Eve said when they were alone. "All right?"

"Yes." She sniffed, straightened. "I'm ready."

Eve set a recorder on the table. She recited the particulars. "Let's start with you telling me what happened. Why did you go to Suite 4602?"

"Darlene was behind schedule. When the evening routine's finished in each room or suite, the housekeeper presses Code Five on her beeper. This helps us keep track of the staff and the units completed. While it goes toward efficiency, it's also a security measure to protect the guests and the staff."

She sighed a little, and picked up her cup of tea. "Turn-downs generally take between ten and twenty minutes, depending on the size of the unit and the pace of the particular housekeeper. We allow some leeway, of course. Quite often the state of a unit is such that it takes considerably longer. You'd be amazed, Lieutenant, really amazed, at how some people treat a hotel room. It makes you wonder how they live at home."

She shook her head. "Well, be that as it may. We're near full capacity right now, so we were hopping. I didn't notice that Darlene hadn't beeped in from Suite 4602. Forty minutes, give or take. That's long, but it's a large suite and Darlene was slow. Not that she wasn't a good worker, she was, but she tended to take her time."

Hilo began to wring her hands. "I shouldn't have said she was slow. I shouldn't have said that. I meant to say thorough. She was such a good girl. Such a sweet little thing. We all loved her. It's just that she took a bit more time than most to finish her units. She liked being in the bigger rooms, she liked tending to beautiful things."

"It's all right, Hilo. I understand. She was proud of her work, and she made sure she did it well."

"Yes." Hilo pressed a hand to her lips, nodded. "Yes, that's exactly so."

"What did you do when you noticed she hadn't checked in?"

"Oh." Hilo shook herself back. "I beeped her. The procedure is for the housekeeper to signal back or to contact base over a house 'link. Occasionally one of the other guests will detain or delay a housekeeper, asking for more towels or whatever. It's Palace policy to serve the guests, even if they just want to chat for a moment because they're away from home and lonely. This throws off the pace, but we're a service-first facility."

She set her cup down again. "I gave Darlene another five minutes, beeped her a second time. When she didn't respond to that, I was irritated. Lieutenant, I was annoyed with her, and now -- "

"Hilo." Eve couldn't have counted the times she'd seen and heard this guilty misery in a survivor. "It was a natural reaction. Darlene would never have blamed you for it. You couldn't help her then, but you can help her now. Tell me what you can."

"Yes, all right. Yes." Hilo drew in a breath, let it out slowly. "Yes. As I said, we were very busy. I went to the suite myself to move her along. I'd hoped her beeper was acting up. They don't very often, but it's been known to happen. Then I saw her cart outside the door, and was very annoyed."

She had to stop a moment, remembering how she'd planned to give Darlene a good piece of her mind. "I buzzed, used my passcode. I could see the parlor was fine. I marched straight to the bedroom, opened the door."

"The door was closed?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure because I remember calling out as I pushed it open. And I saw her, poor little thing, I saw her on the bed. Her face was all swollen and battered, and there was blood around her neck and on the collar of her uniform, and drops of it on the spread she'd turned down. She'd been doing her job, you see."

"She'd turn down the bed," Eve interrupted. "Would that have been the first chore she'd have dealt with on entering the suite?"

"It depends. Everyone has their own routine, more or less. I believe Darlene liked to check the bath first, remove the used towels, and replace them. Then she'd check the bed. Some guests will demand a complete linen change at turndown if they'd had a nap or... made use of the bed in any way. If that was the case, she'd strip off the linens and take them and the towels to her cart, retrieve fresh linens, and so on. She would make a note of the use of inventory on her cart log. Efficiency, again. And it discourages staff pilfering. You see?"

"Yeah. From what you observed, she'd just gotten around to turning down the bed. There was music on. Would she have turned on the entertainment system?"

"Yes, perhaps. But never at that volume. If the guest isn't in the unit during evening turndown, the housekeeper programs the entertainment unit to the guest's requirements, or to a classical station if no requirements have been set. But always at a discreet volume."

"Maybe she intended to turn it down before she left."

"Darlene liked modern music." Hilo managed a smile. "Most of the young staff members do. She'd never have turned on -- it was opera, wasn't it -- that program for her own entertainment."

"Okay." So he'd killed to opera, Eve thought. For his own entertainment. "What then?"

"Then I froze, just froze. And I remember running out again, slamming that door behind me. I heard the crack of it through the screaming. I ran out the front, slammed that door, too. And I couldn't get my legs to move anymore, so I stood there, my back against the door, still screaming when I called Security."

She broke a bit, pressed her hands to her face. "People came out of rooms, ran down the hall. Everything was so confused. Mr. Brigham came, and he went inside. Everything got all muddled in my head, and he brought me down here and told me to lie down. But I couldn't. So I just sat right here and cried until Roarke came and got me tea. Who could have hurt that sweet little girl? Why?"

Eve waited, saying nothing to a question that could never be fully answered, while Hilo rocked herself steady again. "Did Darlene always do turndown on that particular suite?"

"No, but most usually. And traditionally each housekeeper is assigned two floors that remain theirs unless we have an unusual turnover. Darlene's had forty-five and forty-six since she finished her training."

"Do you know if she was involved with anyone? A boyfriend?"

"Yes, I think... Oh, there are so many young people on staff and they're forever having romances. I'm not sure I remember... Barry!" Blowing out a breath of relief, Hilo nearly smiled. "Yes, I'm sure she had a young man named Barry. He's on the bellstaff here. I remember because she was over the moon when he was able to switch to night shift. That way they had more time to spend with each other."

"Do you know his last name?"

"No, I'm sorry. She always lit up when she chattered about him."

"Any spats recently?"

"No, and believe me, I'd have heard about it. When one of them has a fight with a boyfriend or a girlfriend, we all hear about it. I'm sure... Oh. Oh!" The color that had crept into her face drained again. "You don't think he... Lieutenant, the way Darlene spoke of him, he seemed like such a nice young man."