policy. She pulled out ten credits and handed it to him.
“Thank you very much.” He was at the door before her, sweeping it open.
The lobby was small and furnished like someone’s very tasteful parlor with deeply cushioned chairs and gleaming wood, glossy marble, paintings that might have been original work. There were flowers, but rather than the twenty-foot arrangements Eve often found a little scary, there were small, attractive bouquets arranged on various tables.
Instead of a check-in counter with a platoon of uniformed, toothy clerks, there was a woman at an antique desk.
With security in mind, Eve scanned the area and spotted four discreetly placed cameras. So that was something.
“Welcome to the Rembrandt.” The woman, slender, dressed in pale peach, with her short shock of hair streaked blond and black, rose. “How may I assist you?”
“I’m here to see Samantha Gannon. What room is she in?”
“One moment.” The woman sat back down, scanned the screen on her desk unit. She looked up at Eve with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. We have no guest by that name.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when two men stepped out of a side door. Eve tagged them as security, and noted by stance that they were armed.
“Good. I’m on the job.” She directed this to the men as she held up her right hand. “Dallas, Lieutenant, Homicide. My partner. Peabody, Detective. IDs coming.”
She reached for her badge with two fingers and kept her eyes on the security team. “Your security’s better than it looks at first glance.”
“We’re very protective of our guests,” the woman answered, and took Eve’s badge to scan it, then Peabody’s. “These are in order,” she said, and nodded to the two men. “Ms. Gannon is expecting you. I’ll just ring her room and let her know you’re here.”
“Fine. What do they load you with?” Eve nodded toward security, and one of them flipped aside his jacket to reveal a multi-action, mid-range hand stunner in a quick-release side holster. “That oughta do it.”
“Ms. Gannon’s ready for you, Lieutenant. She’s on four. Your officer is in the alcove by the elevator. He’ll show you her room.”
“Appreciate it.” She walked to the two-bank elevator with Peabody. “She showed sense picking a place like this. Solid security, probably the kind of service that gives you everything you want five minutes before you ask for it.”
They stepped on, and Peabody ordered the fourth floor. “How much you think it costs for a night here?”
“I don’t know that stuff. I don’t know why people don’t just stay home in the first place. No matter how snazzy the joint, there’s always some stranger next door when you’re in a hotel. Probably another one over your head, the other under your feet. Then there’s bell service and housekeeping and other people coming in and out all the damn time.”
“You sure know how to take the romance out of it.”
The uniform was waiting when they stepped off. “Lieutenant.” He hesitated, looked pained.
“You’ve got a problem asking me for an ID check, Officer? How do you know I didn’t get on at two, blast Dallas and Peabody between the eyes, dump their lifeless bodies and ride the rest of the way up intending to blast you, then get to the subject?”
“Yes, sir.” He took their IDs, used his hand scanner. “She’s in four-oh-four, Lieutenant.”
“Anyone attempt entrance since your shift began?”
“Both housekeeping and room service, both ordered by subject, both checked before given access. And Roarke, who was cleared at lobby level, by subject and by myself.”
“Roarke.”
“Yes, sir. He’s been with subject for the past fifteen minutes.”
“Hmm. Stand down, Officer. Take ten.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Are you going to be pissed at him?” Peabody asked. “Roarke, I mean.”
“I don’t know yet.” Eve rang the bell and was satisfied by the slight wait that told her Samantha made use of the security peep.
There were circles under Samantha’s eyes, and a pallor that spoke of sleepless nights. She appeared to have dressed carefully though, in dark pants and a white tailored shirt. There were tiny square hoops at her ears and a thin matching bracelet on her wrist.
“Lieutenant. Detective. I think you know each other,” she added, gesturing to where Roarke sat, sipping what smelled like excellent coffee. “I didn’t put it together. You, my publisher. I knew the connection, of course, but with everything . . . with everything, it just didn’t input.”