Coming Soon

She cleared her throat, her eyes shifted to the right. “I think that’s everything.”

“Do you?”

“I—”

She was interrupted by the “Ride of the Valkyries.” It wasn’t a full orchestra and it was tinny as hell, but there was no mistaking the music. Mia turned sharply and grabbed her purse from the bar top behind her and a few seconds later the music stopped as she answered her phone.

He fought a smile at her choice of ring tones. His phone rang. Just rang. But this slip of a girl, uh, woman had picked Wagner. As she told her caller that she couldn’t talk and would explain things later, he perused his notes. She didn’t seem to know much about what had happened, at least not about the murder, but she knew something. He’d have to watch her, find a way to get her to talk.

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.