Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(28)

“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 checked 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.