Free ColdScheme by Edita Petrick Page A

is
in the penthouse had called the security—and the doctor. Go get him. We’ll be
right behind you.”
    We took the service elevator. It had a mirrored ceiling and
woven artwork panels.
    “What do they move in here?” Ken murmured, looking around.
The art had brass plaques, detailing the artist’s accomplishments.
    “The staff must have a degree from the Mailer Art
Institute,” I snickered.
    “They’re missing courses in PR relations and diplomacy,” he
snickered back.
    “A hotel that hopes to draw a high-end clientele must
protect its guests’ privacy.”
    “There’s been a murder.”
    “They’ll want to keep it quiet.”
    We exited into a corridor. It was decorated in blues and
greens. Once we rounded a corner, we faced another lobby. It was decorated in
brass, glass and muted colors of the sea and shore. The artwork had coral
strips. It provided a touch of whimsy. The crystal fixtures threw sparkles,
just like in the main lobby. It reinforced the impression of grandeur, money
and tradition.
    The Prince was a modern hotel but it liked symbols of
affluence, the pedigreed furnishings and time-honored opulence that the average
citizen associated with the privileged.
    We saw a door at the far end of this elegant lobby. The mob
outside was motley of police uniforms and civilian suits. Even from a distance,
I could see they didn’t come from racks.
    Ken flipped his badge at one of the executives who had
noticed us and approached. He was in his late forties. His face had been
massaged wrinkle-free. All the imperfections that make people human, had been
removed. I wondered whether he shaved or waxed his face. It looked polished. He
oozed displeasure.
    “The police are already inside,” he declared and raised a
hand, like a traffic cop, to halt us.
    “Here are more police,” I flipped out my badge.
    A look of distaste flashed on his face. It creased his
temples. He didn’t want more police presence. It might skew the ratio of
expensive suits and street work clothes.
    “There are already enough police officers inside,” he said
and blocked our way. His voice was polite but impatient. I saw that he wanted
to clap his hands and have everyone who didn’t belong here by virtue of money
or status, disappear.
    “It’s a penthouse,” Ken said evenly. “I’m sure it could hold
the entire homicide division without crowding. Please step aside, sir.” His
voice hardened into official tone, his expression likewise.
    I decided to sneak in a jab. “Are you the hotel security
officer who called 9-1-1?” I reached for my notebook. His eyes widened and
filled with hostility.
    “He’s inside,” he said, nostrils flaring.
    I dismissed him and looked at Ken. He nodded. We sidestepped
him and moved for the door.
    One of the uniformed police officers came toward us. He had
to be from the South-West district. I didn’t recognize him.
    “Sergeant Leahman. This is my partner, Sergeant Stanton,
homicide.” Ken was brief. “Who’s inside?”
    The police officer flipped out a notebook. “The medical
examiner and his staff, the security guard who called it in, Sven Olsen—he’s
one of yours—the hotel doctor and the paramedics. They are waiting for the
pathologist to finish. A couple of the blue suits are in there too, assistants.
They looked like bodyguards to me. They’re real pain in the ass. The guest and
his female companion are in. Those blue roadblocks won’t let us talk to him.
Olsen is negotiating but it sounded like threatening and exchanging insults.”
    “Thanks,” Ken tapped his shoulder. “Someone from the
District Attorney’s office should be arriving soon.”
    We entered through the massive wooden door. It was heavily
carved and reinforced with brass strips. The security panel sat on the right
side, below the plaque engraved with the penthouse number. The light blinked
green.
    “Wow!” Ken whistled when we entered.
    I’ve seen my share of suites like this one.
    It was multi-level, with soaring