by Cassie Miles
“Why’s that?”
Jacobson’s brow furrowed. “Because this is his fault.”
* * *
WHEN THE ELEVATOR doors opened, an attractive woman with her white-blond hair slicked back in a tight bun stood waiting. Sasha’s friendly smile was met with a flaring of the nostrils that suggested the woman had just poked her nose into a carton of sour milk.
“This is Anita,” Jacobson said as he guided them off the elevator. “A top-notch concierge. She’s been in Arcadia for less than a week, and I’ll bet she knows more about the area than you do, Deputy.”
His compliment caused Anita to thaw, but only slightly. Her voice dripped with disdain. “Mr. Chandler said you want to see Mr. Reinhardt, but I’m afraid that will not be possible. Mr. Reinhardt asked not to be disturbed.”
“You’re the best,” Jacobson said, “always protecting the guest, always operating with discretion. But this is a police matter.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid not,” Jacobson said.
Brady showed his badge. “We’ll see him now.”
Anita stared at one man and then the other as though she was actually considering further resistance. Changing her mind, she pivoted, led the way to the door of room 917 and tapped. “Mr. Reinhardt, there’s someone to see you.”
She tapped again, and the door flung open.
Sasha found herself staring directly at a red-faced Lloyd Reinhardt. She assumed his cherry complexion was the result of sunburn from skiing without enough sunscreen. The circles around his eyes where his goggles had been were white, like his buzz-cut hair. The effect would have been comical if his dark eyes hadn’t been so angry. His face resembled a devil mask, and he was glaring directly at her.
Through his clenched jaw, Reinhardt rasped, “What?”
Sasha gasped. She had no ready response.
Jacobson stepped in front of her. “We had a conversation last week, and I warned you that the hotel shouldn’t open for business until I had all security measures in place.”
“I remember. You wanted a ridiculous amount of money to keep the computer and electronics guys working around the clock on the surveillance cameras.”
“And you turned me down,” Jacobson said. “Now we have a serious situation.”
“I hope you aren’t interrupting my evening to talk business,” he said. “How serious?”
“Murder,” Jacobson said.
Reinhardt narrowed his eyes to slits. With his right hand resting on the edge of the door and his left holding the opposite door frame, his body formed a barrier across the entrance to his room. The white snowflake pattern on his black sweater stood out like a barbed-wire fence. “I want an explanation.”
“May we come in?” Jacobson asked.
Reinhardt glanced over his shoulder. It seemed to Sasha that he was hiding something—or someone—inside the room. He wasn’t having an affair, because—as far as she knew—he wasn’t married. But what if the dark-haired lady was somebody else’s wife? Or what if she was the victim, lying on the carpet bleeding to death? Sasha cringed inside. Nothing good could come of this.
Reinhardt stepped aside, and they entered. The luxury suite on the concierge level had more square footage than her apartment in Denver. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in blue silk and beige suede. There was a marble-top dining table with seating for eight. In the kitchen area, a tall woman with long black hair stepped out from behind the counter. She wore white slacks and a white cashmere sweater that contrasted with her healthy tan.
Though she wasn’t the woman Sasha had seen through the binoculars, this lady could have been a more athletic sister to the other. After she introduced herself as Andrea Tate, Sasha glanced at Brady and whispered, “It’s not her.”
The conversation between Reinhardt and Jacobson grew more heated by the moment. Jacobson had advised against opening until all the security measures were in place and his staff was adequately trained. He blamed Reinhardt for everything. For his part, Reinhardt was furious that someone dared to be murdered in his hotel.
Reinhardt turned away from Jacobson and focused on her. “I need to speak with Damien as soon as possible. There are liability problems to consider.”
“Yes, sir.” She hadn’t even considered the legal issues.
“Who was killed?”
Sasha froze. Her lips parted but nothing came out. She couldn’t exactly say that a murder had been committed. Nor did she have a name. And she was reluctant to point to the sleek black-haired woman and say the victim looked a lot like her.
Brady spoke for her. “I can’t give you a name.”
Reinhardt whipped around to face him. “My publicity people need to get on top of this situation right away. The grand opening is Saturday. Who the hell got killed?”
“We don’t know,” Brady said, “because we haven’t found the body.”
Though it didn’t seem possible, Reinhardt’s face turned a deeper shade of red. He punched the air with a fist. “A murder without a body? That’s no murder at all. What kind of sick game are you people playing?”
Panic coiled around Sasha’s throat like a hangman’s noose. She wanted to speak up and defend herself, but how? What could she say?
Jacobson sat in one of the tastefully upholstered chairs and took an orange from the welcome basket. He gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Reinhardt. I’ll explain everything.”
While Reinhardt circled the glass coffee table and lowered himself onto the sofa, Brady took her arm. “We’ll be going.”
“Wait for me outside,” Jacobson said.
They made a hasty retreat. As soon as the door to Reinhardt’s suite closed behind her, Sasha inhaled a huge gulp of air. It felt as if she’d been holding her breath the whole time she’d been in the suite. She shook her head and groaned.
“You look pale,” Brady said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m in so much trouble.”
“You did the right thing,” he reassured her.
That wasn’t much consolation if she ended up getting fired. Reinhardt had said that she needed to contact Damien, and she knew that was true. But she wanted to be able to tell him something positive. “Is there anything else we can do?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
He crossed the lounge to the concierge desk where Anita sat with her arms folded below her breasts and a smug expression on her face. “I warned you,” she said. “Mr. Reinhardt doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“Jacobson said you know this area better than anyone.”
“It’s my job,” she said coolly.
“If I wanted Chinese food, where would I go?”
“There’s a sushi bar scheduled to open next month. Right now none of the hotel restaurants serve Asian cuisine. And I’m sure you know that the local diners specialize in burgers, pizza and all things fried.”
Sasha walked up beside him. Her legs were wobbly, but she’d recovered enough to understand what was going on. Anita was acting like a brat as payback for them not listening to her earlier. The concierge would be in no mood to help. The best way to get through to her was to be even snottier than she was.
“She doesn’t know,” Sasha said, not looking at Anita. “She’s not as good at her job as she thinks she is.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Well, it’s true.” Sasha flipped her hair like a mean girl. “If one of the people up here on the concierge level requested moo shu pork, you’d just have to tell them to suck an egg.”
“For your information, missy, I’ve been providing gluten-free Asian food fried in coconut oil for a guest and his entourage since last Saturday. One of the chefs in the Golden Lyre Restaurant on the first floor of the hotel cooks up a special batch. I had it tonight myself.”
/>
“Who’s the guest?” Brady asked.
“Sam Moreno, the famous self-help guru. He has a special diet.”
Sasha should have guessed. One of the main investors of the Arcadia resort, Mr. Moreno was always requesting special foods and drinks. “He’s picky, all right.”
Anita leaned across the desk and whispered, “And he’s staying right down the hall.”
Of course he was. Sasha groaned. She just couldn’t catch a break.
Chapter Four
Three hours later Brady drove Sasha back to the corporate condo. His shift was over, and there didn’t seem to be anything more he could do at the hotel. He’d tracked the evidence to a dead end, leaving the matter of the assault-slash-murder unsolved and the hotel staff irritated.
The logical thing would have been for him to drive home to his cabin behind the horse barn on Dooley’s ranch, yank off his boots and go to bed. But he was reluctant to leave Sasha. Halfway through his investigation, it had occurred to him that she might be in danger. If she had, in fact, witnessed a murder, the killer might come after her next.
When he parked his SUV in front of her building, she turned to him with the grin that came so naturally to her. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Hold on, I’ll walk you in.”
“That’s not necessary.”
He hoped she was right and he was overreacting to the possibility of a threat. “Not a problem.”
A porch light shone outside the door to the condo entrance, and a glass panel beside the door gave a view inside. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. When she unlocked the outer door, he followed her inside. She hit the button on the elevator and the doors swooshed open. The interior of the elevator was extra large to accommodate skis and other winter sports equipment.
As she boarded, Sasha said, “I should apologize. I think I got you in trouble.”
The sheriff had been none too pleased when Brady had asked for a couple of men to fingerprint and process the suite on the sixth floor. It hadn’t helped that the room was clean. They’d found nothing to corroborate Sasha’s story.
“Not everybody was ticked off,” he said. “Grant Jacobson was real pleased with the way things turned out.”
Jacobson had used the incident as a learning tool to train his newly hired staff. Investigating a possible homicide also gave him an edge in talking to Reinhardt about the importance of security at a top-rated hotel. His budget had been tripled.
“Jacobson is intense,” she said as she got off the elevator at the third floor. “What’s his story?”
“He’s former military, Marine Corps.” He was a man to be respected. “Did you notice his limp? He lost his left leg above the knee in Afghanistan.”
Her blue eyes opened wider. “I didn’t know.”
“According to his staff, he snowboards and skis. One of the reasons he took this job at Gateway was the availability of winter sports.”
“I’m just glad he’s on our team.”
When she reached toward the lock on the condo door, he took the key from her. “I’ll open it. I should go first.”
“Why?”
“In case there’s someone inside.”
She took a step back, allowing his words to sink in. “You think someone might have broken into the condo and might be waiting for me.”
“I don’t want to alarm you.” He kept his voice low and calm. “But you’re a witness to a possible murder.”
“And he might want me out of the way.”
She was a loose end. An efficient killer would come back for her. Brady drew his weapon before opening the door. “Wait here until I check the place out.”
As soon as he entered, he hit the light switch. At first glance, the condo appeared to be empty, but he wasn’t taking any chances. This possible killer had already outsmarted him once tonight.
Quickly, he went from room to room, taking a look in the corners and the bathrooms and the closets. The only bedroom that was occupied was the first one on the right, where Sasha had unpacked her suitcase. It smelled like ripe peaches, a sweet fresh fragrance that reminded him of her and got under his skin. The only other room that had been used was the hot tub, where a damp towel hung from a rack by the door.
“All clear,” he said as returned to where she was standing.
“Good. I’ve had more than enough excitement for one night.” She peeled off her parka and hung it on a peg by the door. In her white sweater and red jeans, she reminded him of a pretty Christmas package waiting to be unwrapped. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I had some Chinese.”
“Me, too. I felt guilty eating it and thinking that this might have been the last meal for the black-haired woman.”
In the restaurant kitchen at the hotel, it hadn’t taken long for them to locate the off-the-menu Chinese food. A cooking station had been set up near the rear exit with fried rice, gluten-free noodles and organic stir-fry veggies available to anyone who came by and scooped a serving into a carryout box.
“That was our best clue,” he said.
“How do you figure? None of the kitchen staff remembered who had stopped by and loaded up on free food.”
“And that’s the clue. The killer was nobody remarkable. He was somebody the staff had seen before.”
“And what does that prove?”
“It’s likely this is an inside job.”
“Somebody who works at the hotel?” she asked.
“Or somebody who has been around this week. A workman. A consultant.”
“It’s a long list of possible suspects.”
He’d gathered a lot of information tonight but hadn’t had a chance to put things together or draw conclusions. Tomorrow when he wrote his report, there’d be time enough to figure things out. He followed her to the kitchen, where she opened the door to the fridge and peeked inside.
She looked up at him. “There’s nothing in there but condiments and champagne.”
“Try the freezer,” he said. “Some of these condos stock up on gourmet frozen deliveries when they’re expecting guests.”
“I’m not hungry enough for a full meal.” She moved to the cabinets above the countertops. “Maybe just a cup of tea. Would you like some?”
His boots were pointed toward the exit. He should go home. He’d delivered her safely and done all that could be expected. “I ought to call it a day.”
She held up a little box of herbal tea bags. “I can make you a cup in just a minute.”
“Good night, Sasha.”
“Wait.” With the tea box clutched in both hands like a precious artifact, she took a step toward him. “Please don’t go.”
The pleading tone in her voice stopped him in his tracks. He saw tension reflected in her baby-blue eyes, and the upturned corners of her mouth pulled tight. Until now she’d managed to hold her emotions in check. Not that she lacked passion. Her moods flitted across her face with all the subtlety of a neon billboard. This was different, darker. “What is it?”
Her brave attempt at a smile failed. “I don’t want to be alone. Tea?”
“Sure.” How could he refuse? He shucked off his dark blue uniform jacket and sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. “I hope I didn’t scare you when I did a room-to-room search in here.”
“I’m glad you did.” Looking away from him, she continued as though talking to herself. “I’d told myself that I didn’t have anything to worry about, but I couldn’t help thinking about what it meant to be a witness. That guy could come after me. But I know I’m safe here. All the doors and windows are locked. This is a secure building.”
“It’s okay to be scared.”
Still holding the tea, she rested her elbows on the opposite side of the counter and leaned toward him. “When I’m worri
ed, it helps to talk about it. Do you mind?”
“Starting from the beginning?”
“We don’t have to go that far back,” she said. “I’ve already decided that I’ll never drink champagne again.”
He remembered her flushed cheeks and bright eyes when he first came to the condo. “Were you drunk earlier?”
“No, but I was silly and unprofessional. If I hadn’t had a glass or two—” she winced “—or maybe three, I might not have picked up the binoculars and looked into the hotel. I wouldn’t have seen anything.”
“Is that what you’d want?”
“Not knowing would be easier. If I hadn’t seen the attack, I could have watched TV and gone to bed and had pleasant dreams.” When she looked down at the tea box in her hand, her blond hair fell forward, hiding her expression. “I have no regrets. I’m glad I saw. That man can’t get away with murder.”
He reached across the counter to comfort her. He clasped her hand in his, rubbing the delicate skin of her palm with his thumb. In a casual way, they’d been in physical contact all night as he guided her through the hotel and bumped against her in the elevator. But this touch felt significant.
Her gaze lifted to meet his eyes, and he felt an instant, deep connection to her. At that moment, she became more than a witness. His instinct was to pull her into his arms and cradle her against his chest until her fears went away.
No way could that happen.
She’d blamed the champagne for making her behave in a less-than-professional manner. What was his excuse? He knew better than to get personal with a witness, especially someone who was only passing through Arcadia. Reining in his instincts, he released her hand and sat back on his stool. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I’m not sure when it started,” she said, “but I’ve been having that weird feeling you get when someone is watching. You know how it is? The hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you see things in your peripheral vision.”
“When did the feeling start?”
“Not when we first arrived at the hotel. Not when we were going through the rooms. It was after we saw Reinhardt and I swallowed my tongue.” Her voice broke. “Talk about being in trouble. I’m up to my armpits. I don’t know how I’m going to find the nerve to show up for that meeting tomorrow.”
