the upper echelon, didn’t see the maids. They didn’t speak to them, they didn’t interact with them. Therefore, maids were not real. They were robots that cleaned and vacuumed. Mia had always felt badly that so few patrons tipped the maids, considering the crap the poor things had to put up with.
In this instance, it wasn’t the crap they had to clean that had her hunkering down with Theresa, it was the stuff they saw.
“I saw dead bodies two times,” Theresa said.
She was eating an empanada that smelled so good Mia was cursing her yogurt. But then Theresa was five-ten at least, statuesque and curvy. Not her five-two with barely a curve to be seen.
“One was just an old guy who had a heart attack. That was okay, but the second one, oh, baby.”
“What?”
Theresa leaned closer. “Autoerotic asphyxiation.”
“No.”
“Yes. And you know what was the worst part?”
“What?”
“He was alone. I found him on the bathroom floor, his hand still on his wing wang. He’d strangled himself with his own belt, and let me tell you, it took some doing. He was blue. His tongue stuck out.” She shivered, making her long, dark hair shimmer. “It put me off my soup, you know what I mean?”
Mia nodded as she took another spoon of key lime yogurt. “I do.”
“I’m not surprised,” Theresa said, just before taking another bite. Releasing another dose of that delectable scent into the air. Cumin. Cilantro.
Swallowing her urge to grab the empanada out of her friend’s hand, Mia focused. “Not surprised about Geiger?”
“That’s right, chica. I knew that man was going to get himself into hot water.”
“Why, what do you know?”
“He was inside the director’s suite the night he was killed.”
“Eccles’s suite?”
Theresa nodded.
Mia was almost going to ask her if she was sure, but of course she was. “How did you find out?”
“Room service. Andy served them late last night. He saw Geiger in the mirror. This morning Yolanda found a piece from his camera. It was in a bag with his initials on it. They’d done some serious drinking. Most of the bottle of scotch was gone.”
“Whoa. What did she do with the camera thingy?”
“Nothing. Yolanda knows better than to take something from a guest’s room.”
Mia sat back, stunned. Peter Eccles was a really famous director, although she’d heard somewhere that he’d lost his deal with Paramount, which had cost him a pretty penny. This shoot was supposed to give him that boost he needed to get back on the A list.
She wondered what Eccles had to hide. Had Gerry caught him stealing from the film budget? Sleeping with someone he shouldn’t? She seemed to remember something about Eccles in the tabloids, but it had been too long ago and she hadn’t paid much attention. She wasn’t exactly a tabloid kind of gal.
But she knew someone who was. Dear sweet Carlane. She read the tabloids—all of them, not just Page Six— every single day. Bless her little heart.
“Mia?”
Theresa was looking at her with one of her patented eyebrow raises. That alone kept her housekeeping staff on the ball.
“Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“Don’t think too hard, chica. Just because two men had a drink together doesn’t make one of them a killer.”
“I know. But still, it’s curious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. In fact…” She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Meet me in an hour in housekeeping. I’m going to talk to the girls who work the suites. And I’m going to see if I can get that camera bag.”
“Deal. But don’t do anything foolish, okay?”
“Yolanda told me the bag was half hidden under the couch. If it’s still there, I’m going to grab it. Oh, and Mia?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t get yourself too worked up. I know how you love your mysteries and puzzles but this was asesinato, not a game.
Mia nodded, but she was already thinking about that camera bag, and what Gerry Geiger would be doing with Peter Eccles.
3
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE in the afternoon and Bax had had it with actors. There wasn’t a single one who hadn’t tried to manipulate the hell out of him, and he hadn’t even gotten to the big stars.
The worst had been a woman named Nan Collins who acted like an A-lister when, according to the assistant director, she was no more than a glorified extra. She’d said she was insulted that she was being questioned, but it was pathetically clear that the idea of being associated with the real players was her dream come true. She hadn’t given him anything but a headache. Finally, though, he could take a break. There were still so many people to talk to, particularly those with the most to lose, like Weinberg and the two big stars. The thought made his head throb.
He left his temporary office and took his time as he made his way to the lobby, debating whether to go home and get some sleep or continue the interviews. He let his gaze wander as he stepped off the elevator. The hotel’s décor was art deco, the pictures were all nudes of the period and the air felt rarified, as if a bad smell wouldn’t dare.
There were people here, most of them on the young side, the men in expensive suits, the women dressed in designer clothes with impossible heels.
He looked down at his brown jacket, his brown pants, his brown shoes. The only thing not brown about him was his shirt, which was beige. He hadn’t been home to change since yesterday and it showed.
Screw it. It had been one hell of a frustrating day, full of sound and fury, signifying squat. There were so many fingerprints on the scene as to render them useless. Motives had clearly been on sale for a nickel, because everyone he talked to seemed to have more than one. At least he’d managed to keep the basement nightclub a crime scene despite some extraordinary pressure from the producer.
Bax thought about his interview with Geiger’s wife. He’d seen her at five this morning and it had been a real slice. Sheila Geiger had fallen apart when she heard about her husband’s death. The two of them had been married eight years, and according to her, he was a model husband. Sure, he spent about twelve hours a day chasing down any scandal he could find, but she was adamant that he was a good man, and that the stars were all backstabbing liars who needed him more than he needed them.
She wanted action. She wanted arrests. She wanted his camera back.
“Detective Milligan?”
Bax jumped at the voice behind him. Her voice. Mia Traverse’s voice.
He turned to find her in her uniform, a black tuxedo jacket and skirt, white blouse, pink silk tie, and yep, she was just as pretty as he remembered. She came over, reminding him again how small she was. And that she smelled damn good.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.
“Maybe. I understand the rooms all come with a video recorder.”
She nodded. “Walk with me?”
He did as she headed for the reception area where the concierge services were conducted behind a curved, black lacquered desk. He waited as she went to her station. She checked to make sure there had been no calls, then put on one of those Bluetooth ear deals which always made him think of Uhuru from Star Trek.
“Each room has a small video recorder,” she said, her