1st to Die - James Patterson [7]
“Name?”
“Eddleson. He’s expecting me.”
The entrance cop paged through a computer printout fastened to a clipboard. “You have a room number?”
Cindy shook her head. “He said to meet him in the Grill Room at eleven.” The Grill Room at the Hyatt was the scene of some of San Francisco’s best power breakfasts.
The entrance cop gave her a careful once-over. In her black leather jacket, jeans, sandals from Earthsake, Cindy figured she didn’t look the part of someone arriving for a power brunch.
“My meeting,” said Cindy, tapping her watch. “Eddleson.”
Distractedly, the cop waved her through.
She was inside. The high glass atrium lobby, gold columns rising to the third floor. It gave her a giggle, all that high-priced talent and all those recognizable faces still outside on the street.
And Cindy Thomas was first in. Now she only had to figure out what to do.
The place was definitely buzzing: cops, businesspeople checking out, tour groups, crimson-suited hotel staff. The chief had said it was a homicide. A daring one, given the hotel’s prominent reputation.
She didn’t know which floor. Or when it had taken place. She didn’t even know if it involved a guest.
She may be inside, but she didn’t know shit.
Cindy spotted a cluster of suitcases unattended on the far side of the lobby. They looked as if they were part of some large tour. A bellhop was dragging them outside.
She wandered over and knelt by one of the bags, as if she were taking something out.
A second bellhop passed by. “Need a taxi?”
Cindy shook her head no. “Someone’s picking me up.” Then, sweeping a view of the chaos, she rolled her eyes. “I just woke up. What did I miss?”
“You haven’t heard? You must be the only one. We had some fireworks in the hotel last night.”
Cindy widened her eyes.
“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.