by several crystal chandeliers, and found Kate waiting for her.
“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Kate said as they headed for the reception desk.
“You’ve been straight with me about your information. It’s the least I can do.”
“I can’t believe the body wasn’t Kaidanov.”
“I’d have lost a bundle myself if I was a betting woman.”
Billie flashed her badge at a bright-eyed, Japanese woman and asked for Antonio Sedgwick, the hotel’s chief of security. The woman went through a door behind the desk and returned a few minutes later with a muscular African-American in a conservative business suit. When the ex–Seattle cop spotted the homicide detective he flashed a big grin.
“Hey, Billie, haven’t seen you in a while. You over here to scam a free lunch?”
“No such luck,” Billie answered with a smile.
“Who’s your friend?” Sedgwick asked.
“Kate Ross. She’s an investigator with the Reed, Briggs firm.”
Billie turned to Kate and pointed at the security chief. “You have my permission to shoot this man if he comes on to you. He’s a notorious womanizer.”
Sedgwick laughed.
“I ain’t lyin’,” Billie said with mock seriousness. “Shoot to kill.”
“Besides ruining my love life, what brings you to the Benson?”
“One of your guests checked in on February twenty-ninth and disappeared by March seventh. Now he’s turned up dead and I’d like to see his belongings.”
Sedgwick snapped his fingers. “The guy from Arizona.”
Billie nodded. “His name was Gene Arnold. What do you remember about him?”
“I never met him. He didn’t check out on time, so we sent a bellman up to his room. There was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. We usually wait when we see that. At the end of the day I let myself in. It looked like he planned on coming back. All his stuff was there: toiletries on the sink, clothes hung up in the closet and neatly placed in the drawers. If I remember, there was even a book open on the end table, American history or something.
“We called his contact number to see if he was going to stay another day. They didn’t know anything about it. We didn’t need the room right away, so I left everything there for one more day. Then I had his stuff packed up and put it in the checkroom. If you want to take it I’ll need a court order, but I can let you see it.”
“That’ll be fine for now.”
The checkroom was to the right of the concierge desk. It was a narrow room with a high vaulted ceiling decorated with ornate molding that had been the hotel’s original entrance. Its glory had faded over the years. Half the floor was marble but the other half was plywood and there were exposed pipes to the right of the door. Two bare sixty-watt bulbs produced the light that had once been provided by a crystal chandelier.
Arnold’s valise was on a shelf to the left of the door. Sedgwick carried it to a small, unobstructed area near the front of the checkroom and opened it. Billie took out each item, inspected it, then placed it in a neat pile while Kate watched. When she was done she replaced the items carefully.
“Suits are over here,” Sedgwick said, pointing at two suits on a pole that spanned the room.
Billie’s inspection of the first suit revealed nothing, but she found a slip of paper written on the stationery of a SoHo art gallery in the inside pocket of the second suit jacket. It contained a name, Claude Bernier, a street address, and a Manhattan phone number. Billie and Kate wrote the information in their notebooks and Billie replaced the paper in the suit pocket. “Mr. Bernier?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Billie Brewster,” the detective said as Kate listened on an extension in Sedgwick’s office. “I’m with the Portland Police Bureau.”
“Maine?”
“Oregon.”
“I haven’t been there for a while. What’s this about?”
“I’m investigating a homicide and your name came up.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Do you know
“Thanks for letting me tag along,” Kate said as they headed for the reception desk.
“You’ve been straight with me about your information. It’s the least I can do.”
“I can’t believe the body wasn’t Kaidanov.”
“I’d have lost a bundle myself if I was a betting woman.”
Billie flashed her badge at a bright-eyed, Japanese woman and asked for Antonio Sedgwick, the hotel’s chief of security. The woman went through a door behind the desk and returned a few minutes later with a muscular African-American in a conservative business suit. When the ex–Seattle cop spotted the homicide detective he flashed a big grin.
“Hey, Billie, haven’t seen you in a while. You over here to scam a free lunch?”
“No such luck,” Billie answered with a smile.
“Who’s your friend?” Sedgwick asked.
“Kate Ross. She’s an investigator with the Reed, Briggs firm.”
Billie turned to Kate and pointed at the security chief. “You have my permission to shoot this man if he comes on to you. He’s a notorious womanizer.”
Sedgwick laughed.
“I ain’t lyin’,” Billie said with mock seriousness. “Shoot to kill.”
“Besides ruining my love life, what brings you to the Benson?”
“One of your guests checked in on February twenty-ninth and disappeared by March seventh. Now he’s turned up dead and I’d like to see his belongings.”
Sedgwick snapped his fingers. “The guy from Arizona.”
Billie nodded. “His name was Gene Arnold. What do you remember about him?”
“I never met him. He didn’t check out on time, so we sent a bellman up to his room. There was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. We usually wait when we see that. At the end of the day I let myself in. It looked like he planned on coming back. All his stuff was there: toiletries on the sink, clothes hung up in the closet and neatly placed in the drawers. If I remember, there was even a book open on the end table, American history or something.
“We called his contact number to see if he was going to stay another day. They didn’t know anything about it. We didn’t need the room right away, so I left everything there for one more day. Then I had his stuff packed up and put it in the checkroom. If you want to take it I’ll need a court order, but I can let you see it.”
“That’ll be fine for now.”
The checkroom was to the right of the concierge desk. It was a narrow room with a high vaulted ceiling decorated with ornate molding that had been the hotel’s original entrance. Its glory had faded over the years. Half the floor was marble but the other half was plywood and there were exposed pipes to the right of the door. Two bare sixty-watt bulbs produced the light that had once been provided by a crystal chandelier.
Arnold’s valise was on a shelf to the left of the door. Sedgwick carried it to a small, unobstructed area near the front of the checkroom and opened it. Billie took out each item, inspected it, then placed it in a neat pile while Kate watched. When she was done she replaced the items carefully.
“Suits are over here,” Sedgwick said, pointing at two suits on a pole that spanned the room.
Billie’s inspection of the first suit revealed nothing, but she found a slip of paper written on the stationery of a SoHo art gallery in the inside pocket of the second suit jacket. It contained a name, Claude Bernier, a street address, and a Manhattan phone number. Billie and Kate wrote the information in their notebooks and Billie replaced the paper in the suit pocket. “Mr. Bernier?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Billie Brewster,” the detective said as Kate listened on an extension in Sedgwick’s office. “I’m with the Portland Police Bureau.”
“Maine?”
“Oregon.”
“I haven’t been there for a while. What’s this about?”
“I’m investigating a homicide and your name came up.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Do you know
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