Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

“We’ll need a copy of everything you have. And I need to see his room. Now.”

“Come with me.” Joleen clipped her way across the tiles again to a bronze elevator door. “It’s in the process of being turned.”

“Make that stop,” Eve ordered.

“Yes, I did. I’ve instructed housekeeping to leave any trash, laundry, dishes in the room.”

“Good thinking. I also need copies of your security discs, entrance, his floor, elevators, lobby.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Maybe it didn’t irk so much after all.

“May I ask what Mr. Reinhold did?”

“He’s the prime suspect in a double homicide.”

“Well, my … goodness.”

Joleen led the way off the elevator, down a wide hall to the left. She swiped her pass key over a pad in front of a snowy white door with a bronze plaque reading THE SQUIRE’S SUITE.

“Peabody.”

At Eve’s direction, Peabody headed for a tidily tied bag of trash by the door. Eve studied the petite dining table, scattered with plates, cups, glasses.

“He ate a hearty breakfast.”

“Eggs Benedict, a split of champagne, fresh orange juice, a pot of hot chocolate, mixed berries with whipped cream, a large apple tart, a rasher of bacon.” Joleen glanced up. “I’m checking on the specifics, and can tell you he ordered Shrimp à la Emilie—a house specialty—as an appetizer, a filet mignon—medium rare—with salted roasted potatoes, extra butter requested, candied carrots, a chocolate soufflé, two chocolate chunk cookies, and a bottle of our Jouët Premium champagne on the night of his arrival. He also had eight Cokes, three waters, two jars of cashews, the Chocolate Dandies and the fruit gummies, and assorted liquor from the in-room bar.”

“Eating like a king,” Eve muttered, “with a massive sweet tooth.

She circled the room. He’d used it, she thought, noting the entertainment discs tossed around, the scatter of glasses.

“Can you check if he used that?” Eve gestured toward the house ’link placed discreetly on a curved-leg desk.

“I did. Only for in house, to order room service, and again to check on the airport shuttle.”

“Nothing here, Lieutenant,” Peabody announced.

“Miami.”

“I’ve got that going,” Peabody told her, tapped her PPC. “It’ll take a while to run all the transpos—shuttles, commercial, charter, private.”

With a nod, Eve walked into the bedroom. Housekeeping had already stripped the bed, but left the laundry in an orderly pile on the floor. She checked the closet, the dresser, every drawer, the bath while Peabody did the same in the parlor area.

“He’s messy,” Eve calculated. “Tossing his towels around, playing with all the amenities, spilling a lot, going through the entertainment discs, hitting the in-room bar, ordering heavy meals. Playing hotel, playing big shot, that’s what he was doing.”

“He figures he can afford it.” Peabody frowned at the screen of her PPC as Eve turned to her. “I just got a hit on the financials. The Reinholds had eighty-four thousand and change in joint accounts, another forty and change in a floater, and six thousand in a debit card account. Every bit of it was transferred, via wire, with Carl Reinhold’s data, Friday night and Saturday. He did the transfers in pieces, wired them to three different accounts under his name. He got it all.”

“Not if we freeze it.” Eve grabbed her ’link.

“It’s too late, Dallas. He’s pulled it out. Cash and cashier’s checks, in person. He hit the last bank less than fifteen minutes ago.”

“Now he’s got a hundred-thirty large after spending some. He’s got play

ing money. And he sure as hell isn’t in Miami.”

“Lieutenant,” Joleen began, “if there’s anything we can do?”