French Silk(28)

Following a knock on his office door, a young man in a room service waiter's uniform stepped in. "Are you done with your tray?"

"I'm finished, yes." Critically he assessed the young waiter's appearance and technique as he replaced the lids on the serving dishes and loaded them onto the tray.

"Will that be all for you tonight, Mr. Philippi?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You bet."

Andre frowned over the idiomatic parting words, but, generally speaking, the waiter had performed well. No doubt he would return to the kitchen and joke with his friends among the hotel's staff until his next assignment. Andre didn't have many friends.

He'd attended the finest private schools, including Loyola University. But because he could never claim his father, and vice versa, he'd always been a social outcast. He didn't mind. The only world that existed for him was the hotel. What went on outside its walls was of only negligible interest or importance to him. He wasn't ambitious. He didn't have his eye on a corporate position. For him, heaven would be to die while on duty at the Fairmont. His cramped apartment was within walking distance of the hotel, but he actually resented the time he had to spend there. If it were allowed, he would never leave the Fairmont.

Andre had but one vice. He indulged it now, as a gourmand might savor an after-dinner liqueur. Opening the lap drawer of his desk, he gazed down at the framed, autographed picture. Ah, Yasmine. So exquisite. So beautiful. "To a hell of a guy," she'd written before signing her name with a plethora of curlicues.

He was more than just an ardent fan. For years, he'd had an affection for her that bordered on obsession. It wasn't a sexual attraction. That would have been profane. No, he worshipped her as an art enthusiast might covet an unattainable painting. He admired and adored her and yearned for her happiness, as he had yearned for his beautiful maman to be happy.

Eventually he shut the drawer, knowing that there would be other opportunities tonight for him to gaze at the breathtaking face that was never far from his mind. Now, however, it was time for his hourly inspection of the front desk. Things seemed to be running smoothly. He spotted a cigarette butt on the carpet in front of the elevators, but at a snap of his fingers a bellman rushed forward to dispose of it. He pinched a wilting rose off one of the floral arrangements and inquired courteously of returning guests if they were finding everything to their lung. They assured him that, as usual, everything was perfect.

As he traversed the lobby, he shuddered to recall that horrible morning following the Jackson Wilde murder. What an appalling incident to have happened in his hotel!

He didn't regret that the televangelist was dead, particularly. The man had served his own needs before serving others'. His smile had camouflaged a nasty disposition. He had laughed too loudly, spoken too abrasively, shaken hands too heartily. Andre had extended the man and his family every courtesy, but his heart hadn't been in it because he had a distinct personal dislike for Jackson Wilde.

Andre was still holding a grudge. Wilde's murder had cast a pall over the hotel. No hotel could guarantee that such a thing would never occur in one of its rooms, no matter what security precautions were taken. Nevertheless, some local journalists had outrageously suggested that the hotel should share liability.

Well, the lawyers were handling that aspect of it. That was beyond Andre's realm. But it made him queasy to remember the chaotic aftermath—this serene lobby crawling with policemen and reporters and rightfully disgruntled guests who had been interrogated like miscreants. It had been like witnessing a regal dowager being mauled by street thugs.

What should be obvious to the authorities was that someone had walked in off the street, taken an elevator up to the seventh floor, and been welcomed into Wilde's room. After shooting him, and without attracting anyone's attention, the killer had left the same way. Should all the guests in the hotel that night be treated as suspects? Were the police justified to suspect everyone? Andre didn't think so. That's why he had no qualms about protecting those who couldn't possibly have had a quarrel with Jackson Wilde.

As a matter of routine, the policemen had questioned him, too. They seemed not to doubt his statements. Mr. Cassidy, however, was another matter. He had been more thorough and more dogged than that disheveled detective with two first names. Cassidy hadn't outright accused Andre of lying, but the prosecutor seemed to know that he was concealing information.

"Look, Mr. Philippi," he had said, scooting closer to Andre in a gesture designed to inspire confidence, "I don't care what drug deals might have gone down in the rooms upstairs that night. Nobody's going to get hauled in by vice if they were with a prostitute who handcuffed them to the furniture and took dirty pictures. I don't care who was banging whose wife. What I do need to know is the identity of every person who came through the doors that night. I know you keep a tough vigil on the lobby area. You see a lot of people. Someone you consider insignificant might not be. Any scrap of information could be vital."

"I understand, Mr. Cassidy," Andre had replied, his face impassive. "But I've already listed everyone I saw that night. I've instructed the staff to give you their full cooperation. You have access to our computer."

"Which you and I both know saves only what it's told to save. Data can be deleted more easily than it's entered." Cassidy had raised his voice, demonstrating his impatience. When he realized this, he took another tack, assuming the tone of a caring parent about to administer punishment. "Why don't you come clean with me, Andre? If you're caught withholding information, you could be implicated. I'd hate for it to come to that, wouldn't you?"