Betrayal in Death

"Yeah, he's been busy." Eve tapped the file on her open hand, then passed the file to Peabody.

She uncoded the police seal on the door, stepped in.

"How do you pass a few hours in a hotel while you're waiting to kill someone? Enjoy the view, watch a little screen, have some di

She turned into the kitchen, studied the counter, grimy now with the sweepers' dust. In the sink was a neat stack of dishes.

"He uses the AutoChef at six. Plenty of time before turndown. A good hour before the earliest start. Probably he knows the routine, that this particular room gets done around eight most nights. He'd have checked the hotel events calendar, so he'd know a big deal party's going on, a convention's coming in, another's mid-swing. Hotel's near capacity, so housekeeping's not going to come by early. Hey, let's have a steak."

She moved closer to the sink. "He probably ate in front of the screen, on the sofa, or at the dining table. You wouldn't waste a hotshot place like this by eating standing up in the kitchen. Then he has dessert and coffee, pats his belly. He brings his dishes into the kitchen, puts them tidily into the sink. He's used to taking care of himself, picking up for himself. Doesn't like messy dishes in view."

She looked at the way the knife and fork were lined up beside the plate, how the dessert plate, the cup, and saucer were stacked on top. A little pyramid.

"He probably lives alone. Might not even go for a server droid. He doesn't live in hotels, not all the time. You live with maids around, you don't clear your plates from the table."

Peabody nodded. "I noticed something last night. Forgot to mention it."

"What?"

"You know all the goodies hotels like this have for guests. The bathroom stuff – fancy soaps and shampoos, creams, bath bubbles? He took them." She smiled at Eve's speculative look. "Lots of people do, but most of them aren't waiting to kill somebody, or haven't just finished killing somebody."

"Good eye. So he's either frugal or he likes souvenirs. How about towels, the robes, those little slippers they put beside the bed at night?"

"They put slippers beside the bed at night? I've never stayed in a place that – the robes are there," she finished, catching herself before Eve could. "Two of them, bedroom closet, unused. I don't know how many towels you get in a place like this, but there's enough for a family of six in the bathroom. They're unused, too."

"He'd have used towels prior to turndown. A shower after his traveling day maybe." She started toward the bedroom as she spoke. "And a good boy who clears the table would certainly wash his hands after he pees. He didn't hold his bladder for five hours plus."

She paused at the parlor bath, a smaller version of the master with a blue glass shower stall, snowy white towels, and a gleaming John discreetly tucked behind blue glass doors. " Bath amenities are gone from here, too."

"I didn't catch that before. He cleaned the place out."

"Why spend money on soap and shampoo if you can get it free? Particularly when it's top-of-the-line stuff." She continued to the bedroom, sca

This one was huge, with a pond-sized tub, a separate shower offering six jets at adjustable heights and speeds, and a drying tube. She'd spent time in a Roarke hotel before, and knew that the mile-long counter would have been artfully decorated with fancy bottles of creams and lotions. This one was bare.

Frowning, she walked over to the brass rack that held three thick and monogrammed hand towels. "He used this one. Let's have a bag."

"How do you know he used it?"

"The monogram's not centered like the others. He used it. Washed up after he'd finished with her, dried his hands, then, tidy guy that he is, hung it back up. She must've come in, walked straight in here to take the used towels, put in fresh. He's somewhere waiting for her, getting a look at her, figuring.

"Maybe the closet," she said. "She starts to walk through again, carrying the used towels, probably dumps them on the floor. She turns down the bed, doing her job, making it nice for the guests. Then he's on her. Snatches her beeper before she can press an alarm, tosses it over there where we found it."

The rest was done on the bed, Eve thought.

"He didn't give her time to try to run. There's no sign in the suite of a struggle, not that she could have managed much of one against a guy his size. The bed linens got soiled and tangled, but nothing else. Everything else is orderly, so he got her there, did it all there. To music."

"That's the creepy part," Peabody murmured. "The rest of it's nasty, but the music part's creepy."

"When he's done with her, he checks the time. Hey, didn't take so long. He washes his hands, probably tsk-tsks about the little scratches she managed to dig into him, changes his clothes, packs up, scooping his amenities into his case. Then the son of a bitch picks up the towels she dropped and carries them out to her cart. Not going to change the sheets, of course, but we don't want to leave more of a mess than necessary."

"That's cold."

"Oh yeah, it's cold. An easy job. In and out of a plush hotel in a matter of hours, a good meal, a fresh supply of bath products and a big, fat fee. I can figure him, Peabody. I can figure him, but I can't figure who pointed him here, or why."

She stood silent a moment, bringing the image of Darlene French into her mind. And as she did, she heard the sound of the hall door opening. With one hand on her weapon, she signaled Peabody to the side with the other. She moved down the hall quickly, quietly, swung around the corner, weapon in hand.

"Damn it, Roarke! Damn it!" Disgusted, she shoved the weapon back in her holster as he shut the door. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for you."

"This room is sealed. It's a crime scene and sealed."

The seal, she imagined, would have taken him less time to uncode with his clever fingers than it had for her to do so with her master.

"Which is why, when informed you were on the premises, it was the first place I looked. Hello, Peabody."

"What do you want?" Eve snapped before her aide could answer. "I'm working."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I assumed you'd want to follow through on some of the interviews you mentioned last night. Barry Collins is at home, but his supervisor's available at your convenience, as is another maid, Sheila Walker, who was a particular friend of the victim's. She came in to clear out Darlene's locker for the family."

"She can't touch – "

"And so I told her. Not until you clear it. But I've asked her to wait so that you can speak to her."

She sizzled, sparked, then cooled down to smolder. "I could tell you I don't need any help setting up interviews."

"You could," he agreed, so pleasantly she didn't know whether to snarl or laugh.

"But, you saved me some time, so thanks. I will say I don't want you, or anyone else in this room again until I've cleared it."

"Understood. When you're done you can reach me at zero-zero-one on any 'link."

"We're done, for now. Let's start with Sheila Walker."

"I have an office set up for you on the meeting room level."

"No, let me talk to her and the other one on their turf. Let's keep it informal, keep them comfortable."

"Whatever you prefer. She's in the domestic employees' lounge. I'll show you."

"Fine. You might as well hang around, too," Eve said as she walked through the door he opened. "You'll make her feel protected."