“Two murders. On thirty.” He lowered his voice as if he were letting her in on the secret of her life. “You happen to run into that big wedding last night? It was the bride and groom. Someone broke in on them in the Mandarin Suite.”
“Jesus!” Cindy pulled back.
“Sure you don’t need these brought out to the front?” the bellhop asked.
Cindy forced a smile. “Thanks. I’ll wait in here.”
On the far side of the lobby, she noticed an elevator opening. A bellhop came out, wheeling a cart of luggage. It must be a service elevator. From what she could see, the cops hadn’t blocked it off.
She wound through the lobby traffic toward the elevator. She punched the button, and the shiny gold door opened. Thank God, it was empty.
Cindy jumped in and the door closed. She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe what she was doing. She pressed 30.
The Mandarin Suite.
A double homicide.
Her story.
Chapter 9
AS THE ELEVATOR CAME TO A STOP, Cindy held her breath. Her heart was pumping like a turbine.
She was on 30. She was in. She was really doing this.
The doors had opened to a remote corner of the floor. She thanked God there wasn’t a cop waiting in front of them.
She heard a buzz of activity coming from the other end of the hall. All she had to do was follow the noise.
As she hurried down the hallway, the voices grew louder. Two men in yellow jackets bearing “CSU” in large black letters walked past her. At the end of a hall, a group of cops and investigators stood in front of an open double doorway marked “Mandarin Suite.”
She wasn’t only inside; she was right in the fucking middle of it.
Cindy made her way toward the double doors. The cops weren’t even looking in her direction; they were letting in police staff who had come from the main elevators.
She had made it all the way. The Mandarin Suite. She could see inside. It was huge, opulent, with lavish decor. Roses were everywhere.
Then her heart almost stopped. She thought she might be sick.
The groom, in a bloodstained tuxedo shirt, lay there on the floor.
Cindy’s legs buckled. She had never seen a murder victim before. She wanted to lean forward, to let her eyes memorize every detail, but her body wouldn’t move.
“Who the hell are you?” a brusque voice suddenly demanded. A large, angry cop was staring directly at her face.
All of a sudden, she was grabbed and pushed hard against the wall. It hurt. In a panic, Cindy pointed to her bag and her wallet, in which a photo press credential was displayed.
The angry cop began leafing through her IDs and credit cards as if they were junk mail.
“Jesus.” The thick-necked patrolman scowled with a face like a slobbering Doberman. “She’s a reporter.”
“How in hell did you get up here?” his partner came over and demanded.
“Get her the hell out,” Doberman barked to him. “And keep the ID. She won’t get within a mile of a police briefing for the next year.”
His partner dragged her by the arm to the main elevator bank. Over her shoulder, Cindy got a final glimpse of the dead man’s legs splayed near the door. It was awful, terrifying, and sad. She was shaking.
“Show this reporter the front door,” he instructed a third cop manning the elevator. He flicked her press ID as if it were a playing card. “Hope losing this was worth the ride up.”