Free The Path of Silence by Edita A. Petrick Page B

know who’s in the penthouse. The manager won’t give it out.”
    “It could be a politician,” Ken speculated.
    “Is the victim in the penthouse?” I asked.
    Jasper nodded. “The security had called 9-1-1 but whoever 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