Coming Soon

Jo Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my friend Debbi.

She knows why.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Copyright

1

IT WAS JUST A MATTER of keeping her cool.

Mia could deal with movie stars. After all, she was a concierge at Hush, which was one of the most glamorous hotels in Manhattan, so she met major celebrities all the time. She could deal with the press. Again, thanks to Hush, especially because owner Piper Devon was so hands-on about her hotel, and the paparazzi never got tired of the beautiful heiress. And she could deal with the cranky Belgians on the fifth floor who wanted everything New York had to offer without paying for a thing.

The trick was handling all three at once.

Mia straightened her small gold name badge, her Clefs d’Or pin, then her skinny black tuxedo skirt as she adjusted her mental attitude and her smile. “Of course, Mr. Weinberg. I’ll be sure to let housekeeping know you would prefer eiderdown pillows. They’ll be ready for you by six o’clock.”

Mr. Weinberg of the infamous Weinberg Film Company looked at Mia as if she were more distasteful than his pillows and strode off, trailed by a posse of assistants, most of them talking away on their Bluetooth headgear.

Mia turned immediately to Bobbi Tamony, the star of Coming Soon. She was dressed in a spectacularly sparkly gown that had protective paper all around the bodice, slippers on her feet, and her hair, world-famous in all the tabloids, rolled in giant curlers.

“Listen, sweetie, I have to be on set in two seconds, so could you make sure there’s a limo waiting for me around ten tonight? I should be done by then and I want to get the hell out of here.”

“No problem, Ms. Tamony. It will be waiting at the back entrance when you’re ready to go.”

“Thanks, hon,” Bobbi said, waving her hand distractedly as she walked toward the front entrance.

It would have been nice to find a moment to breathe, but one of the Belgians moved from in front of the long, black lacquered reservation desk to her station at the far end. “We wish tickets for a big Broadway show, si vous ne vous occupez pas.”

“Of course, Monsieur Michaud. Would you like to see a list of the shows that are currently available?” Mia responded in French.

He nodded, then glanced around the lobby. “When will these movie people leave? So much noise,” he said. “Very annoying.”

“I’m afraid they’ll be here for the rest of your stay. They’ve reserved their rooms for the entire month of June.”

He snorted as Mia gave him a printout of the most popular shows. Not all of them, actually. Just the ones she could get tickets for.

He perused the list for several moments and Mia took advantage of the tiny break to quietly jot down notes about the pillows and the limo.

“This one.” Michaud pointed to one of the long-running shows that rarely sold out on the weeknights.

“Is this for tonight?” she asked, holding back a sigh when he nodded. It was already three-thirty. She’d started her shift at eight that morning, so he could have come at any time, but no. The only minute for certain guests was the last minute.

It took some time to get all the details taken care of, but Monsieur Michaud left on a bright note with the tickets and finally, Mia could relax.

Well, this was the job. She’d fought hard to get here. It had helped that she’d been raised all over the world in the best of the best hotels, that both her parents were concierges, and that she spoke five languages, including French. Still, getting this job at Hush when she was only twenty-eight… Unbelievable. Most concierges didn’t even aspire to this level of hotel until they’d been on the job for at least fifteen years.

Maybe it had to do with how special Hush was, and the clientele the hotel catered to. In less dignified quarters, Hush was known as the sex hotel, but those more sophisticated understood that Hush was a haven of sensuality and luxury. A celebration of the mind, the spirit and most definitely the body.

She’d yet to meet a guest who hadn’t left with a dreamy smile and a confident walk. Although these wacky movie people might be the first.

She got on the phone with the transportation department and set up Bobbi Tamony’s limo with a driver she knew personally, then with Theresa, the housekeeping manager, to secure Weinberg’s pillows, at least six from different suppliers. Neither of them had to mention that the Hush house pillows were some of the finest in the world. Everyone who stayed at Hush, at least the ones who thought they were Very Important People, had their own litmus tests for just how important they were. Sometimes it was the turndown service: the shades exactly three-quarters drawn, Godiva chocolates on the end table. Often it had to do with the liquor, particularly the champagne. Today it was pillows.

She answered a dozen successive calls, each of them sending her to her computer where she was plugged into a very exclusive and private Web site connecting concierges from every major hotel in the world. If she couldn’t get her hands on something, one of her compatriots would, and eventually, all was well.

One thing about her job—the day certainly sped by. She hadn’t been able to break away today, not even for lunch, which meant she’d missed her opportunity to sneak down to Exhibit A, the nightclub in Hush’s basement, and watch the filming. But the movie company would be here for the rest of the month. In fact tonight her friends Carlane, an assistant concierge at the Helmsley and Jenna, a concierge at the Algonquin, were coming to meet her for dinner, followed by drinks at Erotique, the Hush bar.

It wasn’t kosher to spend much time there, at least for her, but they were dying to see Danny Austen, the star of the film. In all likelihood they’d get their chance. He was something of a lush and a major flirt, but he was sweet and he hadn’t been too, too demanding.

A ruckus at the restaurant had her leaning over her desk to see, but it was only the paparazzi. Or one paparazzo. Gerry Geiger. Trying yet again to gain access to the hotel. Piper had hired extra security to deal with the photographers and for the most part it had gone well. Except for Gerry. He was the trickiest son-of-a-gun of them all. The new security guys were on the spot, and with a minimum of fuss, things were back to normal. Well, as normal as Hush hotel ever got.

Back online she grinned when she read a plea from the Vegas Hard Rock Hotel concierge, hoping someone knew how to get six bat hearts. Bat hearts had to be available somewhere, and she was going to do her best to find them. Find them first.

It was exactly the type of game she liked best. When most people thought of a concierge, they thought of service. But for Mia, it was all about the hunt. The more impossible the request, the more she was in her element.

She sighed happily as she set to the task. It was yet another day in paradise.

DETECTIVE BAX MILLIGAN was in hell.

Not just because his regular partner was in the hospital with a broken pelvis, but the mook had hurt himself washing his car, and he’d managed to do it before he’d done any of the paperwork on the Fitzgerald murder.

Bax took another sip of coffee, sighed miserably, then got back to it. Page after page of cop speak about a case that wasn’t getting solved anytime soon. Damn it to hell, too many cases weren’t getting solved and that was the only part of the damn job he liked.

He kept writing words no regular human would ever say, careful not to miss a comma because nowadays it was more about procedure and protocol than catching the bad guys.

Well, he’d had it. Three months from now, marked with bold Xs on his desk calendar, he was outta here. He was moving to Colorado—Boulder to be precise. At the ripe old age of thirty-six, he was going back to school to finish his master’s, and maybe get his Ph. D. The long-term plan was to teach and write, the emphasis on writing. He’d find himself a nice little college and talk about books, all kinds, read until he couldn’t turn another page. In Boulder, he’d have friends who didn’t give him shit about his books. Who didn’t think he was a pussy for talking about Dickens. Three more months filled with death and gangs and god-damned paperwork.

He’d even lined up a part-time job at the university library. Not a lot of money, but he’d been socking away his pennies for a hell of a long time, just waiting.

He could barely remember the impetus that had led him to join the NYPD. Probably reading too many Robert B. Parker novels. As he turned to the next page and began filling in the little boxes, he had to stop himself from reciting the old litany of his failures: Failure to recognize from the start that being a cop, let alone a homicide detective, was not for him. Failure to see that New York, which he’d loved the moment he’d arrived, had fallen from grace as he’d come to truly know the city. Failure to get the hell out at the first signs of disillusion.

He lifted his mug, but the coffee was gone. Seeking any escape he could from the forms on his desk, he headed to the coffeepot, past the rows of desks and all the chatter, past the men who loved the job, or at least tolerated the bullshit better. If Miguel had been here, at least he could have bitched to someone, but Miguel was a klutz and therefore out of commission basking in the attention of his wife and two kids.

Paula from vice was in the break room looking sharp as always. She was a tough kid, ambitious, and she’d never made any bones about the fact that she didn’t give a damn about his predilection for books. Truthfully, he doubted she would have cared if his passion had been spiders or balloon animals. All Paula was interested in was a good time with no strings attached. Unfortunately, along with his deepening malaise about the job, he’d lost his old spark with women. Not that he didn’t like them, he just wanted someone who could talk to him after. And not, for God’s sake, about the job.

As for meeting other women, civilians, he always meant to get on top of that. Go to some lectures or book signings. But he never knew when he was going to get a call, and when he did finally make it home, he’d bury himself in a book, or, as was happening a lot lately, sleep.

“Bax, baby. How’s it hangin’?”

“It’s hangin’ just fine.”

She poured herself a cup of joe, then put the pot back on the burner. “I heard about what happened to Miguel. Bad luck.”

“Clumsiness,” he said, getting the pot back out to pour himself a cup.

“So, who you gonna partner with?” She leaned against one of the lockers, making sure her impressive breasts were given their due.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“That’s right. You’re leaving soon. Shame.”

“Why a shame?”

Her red lips curled in a smile that had the subtlety of a wrecking ball. “Ah, come on, Bax. You know I’ve always thought you were a hell of a cop.”

“Of course you have,” he said, not believing her for a second. Not that he wasn’t a good cop—he’d never compromised on the job no matter what. He wouldn’t start now, either. He might be leaving the force, but he’d go out with pride.

“Not to mention you’ve got the best damn ass in the precinct.”

He sipped the coffee, surprised that it tasted pretty good. “My ass and I thank you for the kind words. But now we have to go back to our desk and get to work.”

She sighed dramatically. “It just breaks my poor heart. Such a fine-looking man. Such a waste.”

“You could have any man you wanted, and you know it.”

“Not any man.” The lips turned to a pout. “Not you.”

“You’re not missing a thing,” he said, meaning it. “Not a thing.”

IT WAS JUST PAST TWO in the morning and Danny Austen was a no-show.

Jenna, Carlane and Mia had been hiding in the far corner at the big black circular bar at Erotique for over an hour sipping watermelon martinis and checking the door every five seconds. Before Erotique, they’d had a long, lingering dinner at Amuse Bouche, then they’d gone outside and hung out by the movie trailers. No luck finding Danny Austen anywhere.

“Can’t you find out what he’s doing?” Carlane asked. “Call room service. Maybe he’s upstairs.”

“We didn’t see him go by and that’s hard to miss with all the uproar he causes. He’s probably working,” Mia said. “These movie people have such bizarre hours.”

“I don’t want to go home without meeting him.” Jenna checked the door again. “I don’t have another night off until next week.”

“The movie’s not leaving any time soon,” Mia said. “We’ll catch him later.”

“You don’t get it.” Jenna, who was in her early forties and one of the best concierges in the business, gave her a look. “I need to meet him now so he has time to fall completely in love with me before the shoot is over. Jeez.”

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry.” Mia grinned. “I have to say, he’s so much better-looking in person. So tall. And he’s got these really wide shoulders and those little tiny hips that are so incredible. It’s been very difficult to maintain my professional demeanor.”

“Your what with who?” Carlane finished off her drink with a flourish. “Honey, you drool just like the rest of us plebeians. We’re groupies, plain and simple. How pathetic that we’re so enamored of a freaking movie star. He’s probably a pig and a lout, but do we care? No.”

Mia frowned as she looked around the bar. She’d changed from her black tux and pink bow tie uniform into black jeans and a white peasant blouse. She’d even put on fresh makeup, and for what? If they did see Danny Austen she wasn’t going to talk to him. The last thing she wanted was to appear unprofessional. All she cared about was giving her friends a little treat. “There’s nothing wrong with having fantasies. In fact, it’s good for the imagination. Besides, I’ve practically forgotten what it’s like to be with a real man. I mean, who has time for dating?”

“Well, you never look,” Jenna said. “Honey you’ve got to lighten up. The world won’t come to an end if you think about something other than the job.”

“Hey, that’s not all I think about.”

Jenna raised her eyebrow. “Your mystery novel obsession doesn’t count. Nor do your puzzle collections, your trivia books, or the fact that you’d rather dig up bat hearts than go ogle Danny Austen.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not that bad. Besides, I do think about men. I just haven’t met one who’s worth the trouble.”

“Mia, sweetie.” Carlane signaled the bartender. “The right guy isn’t any trouble. Unfortunately, most of the men in this city are deviants or married or gay or all three.”

Mia sighed and they all just sat there for a moment, wallowing in the sadness of their pitiful love lives. “Okay,” she said, finally. “I’m going down to Exhibit A to see if they’re shooting. If they are, I’ll try and get you two in to meet him, okay?”

“Please,” Jenna said. “Give me something delicious to dream about tonight.”

Mia hopped down from the bar stool. “I’m on the case. You guys hold the fort, and if he walks in here while I’m gone, call me immediately.”

Both women saluted, and Mia strode off toward the elevator.

Amuse Bouche, the restaurant that was connected to the hotel, had closed at midnight. At twenty-till, there’d still been a line. The big draw, aside from the incredible food, was the outdoor patio. It didn’t hurt that the film trucks were still there, although most of them were parked on side streets or in the underground garage, or that there was an even chance of seeing really famous people walk by. Just ask the paparazzi. Talk about people who never slept. They covered the hotel front and back 24/7. She often wondered when and how they went to the bathroom. They sure as heck didn’t use the hotel’s facilities.

She got to the elevator and hit the down button, feeling her martini, but not too strongly. She probably wouldn’t have another. Maybe some water, just so she wouldn’t wake up with a headache.

She fished her lip gloss out of her pocketbook. After a hasty application, she put a mint in her mouth, got her small compact out to dust her nose, then checked her hair and eye makeup. Nothing was too dreadful, but she wasn’t going to pose for Vogue anytime soon.

By the time she stepped out of the elevator, she was as good as she was gonna get.

The hall was suspiciously quiet all the way past the black Exhibit A logo and when she got to the nightclub’s door, there was nothing to see but a big sign that said HOT SET. She assumed it was not okay to go inside and move stuff around. But if she didn’t touch anything…

She hadn’t been in Exhibit A since the movie company had rented it. They’d changed things, of course. They had to make the room fit their story, right?

She turned around and went back to the door to peek inside. It wasn’t as dark as she’d assumed. Soft lights were lit all around the perimeter. The white tables that normally were in the center of the room had been pushed to the far left wall. The booths and sofas hadn’t been disturbed, but the wall art, the chandeliers, most everything that would immediately identify the club as one of the most exotic and sensual in the city had been covered over or replaced by pretty mundane stuff.

She stepped inside, wondering why they’d chosen such a boxy bandstand with such awful orange curtains, but then she had no idea what the movie was about. Maybe she could score a script—that would be interesting and fun. She’d never read one before, although she was a certified movie addict.

She went over to the bar area, trying to figure out if the small glasses on the counter were drinks to be used in the next scene or just a mess left from the crew. Just as she was about to investigate up close, she tripped, fell forward, saving herself from a serious crash at the last second by catching the edge of the bar.

Shaken, worried she’d ruined some vital piece of movie set, she turned to see what she’d fallen over. Her breath left her in a strangled scream as she saw the body.

It was a guy, a big guy, and oh, God, there was blood, a lot of it, all over the shiny floor. Some seeping around long, thick cables. But her gaze went straight to the face, because he was on his back, he was staring up, and even in the shadows she could see he was dead. Really dead.

She moved toward him, careful not to step in the blood. The guy had on jeans and a plain shirt, and oh, crap, the blood didn’t quite cover a gaping wound that stretched across his neck.

If she moved just a couple of inches to the right the light from behind her would illuminate his face. With a quick gulp of air she steeled herself then moved those few steps. The light fell right on the face. His face.

Gerry Geiger’s face.

Her hand went to her mouth as she fought another scream. As the blood rushed from her head. As the urge to run propelled her toward the door. But then she remembered her job. The hotel. Her responsibility.

With shaking hands, she pulled her personal cell from her purse and dialed 9-1-1. She could be sick later.

2

BAX HATED CELEBRITIES. He hated the paparazzi. He hated movie people in general.

Who was he kidding, he hated pretty much everyone and everything in this town, particularly in this precinct.

His pain was somewhat mitigated by the fact that he’d pulled Grunwald as his partner on this. He was a good detective, hungry, and a fiend for detail. Which meant that Grunwald would be doing the paperwork on this baby, while Bax would focus on the footwork. If only Grunwald’s breath didn’t always smell like an especially foul combination of stale cigarettes and some acid reflux.

They had already been briefed by the first officer on scene, and now it was time for Bax to interview the first witness on scene. He glanced over to where she stood in the corner near all the cameras, lights, director’s chairs and cable. Her name was Mia Traverse and she worked at the hotel. It didn’t surprise him that she was pretty. One of those tiny girls, barely five feet, who looked as if a strong wind could carry them across the street. She hugged herself as she snuck glances at the body.

Bax was anxious to talk to her before the swarm that always surrounded murder descended. As he got closer he saw she wasn’t exactly as delicate as he’d first imagined. She looked upset all right, but her back was straight, her eyes serious and focused. He nodded. “Detective Milligan. You found the body?”

She nodded back. “I came down to see if they were still filming. I hadn’t been to the club since they’d rented it.”

“You always here at two in the morning?”

“I’m a concierge for Hush. My shift ended at five, but I had dinner and drinks here with some friends. They were hoping to meet Danny Austen.”

“And?”

“There’s not much else to say. The club was empty. I was trying to be careful, not to touch anything. I tripped over—”

Her voice had cracked. So she wasn’t quite as in control as she’d like.

A big light came on behind him, and he wondered if they’d used one that was already here, or if the newly arrived CSI guys had brought their own. He kept his eyes on the woman.

Flipping a page in his notebook, he moved a little closer to her. “You’re Mia Traverse?”

“That’s right.”

“Concierge. And you got here…?”

“You mean, to Exhibit A?”

“Yes.”

“Ten after two. I remember looking at my watch as I got out of the elevator.”

“You came down here by yourself.”

She nodded.

“Did you know the deceased?”

“Only to chase him out of the hotel. He was here all the time, always trying to sneak in. Everyone was always on Geiger alert.”

“What do you mean, everyone?”

“All the staff of course, but the movie people, too. No one could stand him. He had no boundaries.”

“What boundary did he cross tonight?”

“He tried to get into the restaurant earlier today. Uh, yesterday. I saw the security guys kick him out. But that was nothing unusual. We’ve found him in guest rooms, in the supply closet. One day he wore a disguise and tried to blend in with the movie crew but they caught him right away.”

“So nothing unusual. No fights, no threats.”

“I wouldn’t swear to no threats. But I personally didn’t see anything you would call unusual.”

Bax jotted down a few things, then looked up. Her face had changed, brightened.

He said nothing. Just waited.

She cleared her throat, her eyes shifted to the right. “I think that’s everything.”

“Do you?”

“I—”

She was interrupted by the “Ride of the Valkyries.” It wasn’t a full orchestra and it was tinny as hell, but there was no mistaking the music. Mia turned sharply and grabbed her purse from the bar top behind her and a few seconds later the music stopped as she answered her phone.

He fought a smile at her choice of ring tones. His phone rang. Just rang. But this slip of a girl, uh, woman had picked Wagner. As she told her caller that she couldn’t talk and would explain things later, he perused his notes. She didn’t seem to know much about what had happened, at least not about the murder, but she knew something. He’d have to watch her, find a way to get her to talk.

He knew a couple of concierges and they were notoriously close-mouthed. He had no doubt Mia Traverse was the same. But he also knew that the concierge of a hotel could be a font of information. A central clearing house for juicy tidbits about the staff and the guests.

He’d find out what she knew. She might believe that discretion was the better part of valor, but there was no valor in a slit throat.

“Is that all, Detective?”

He looked at her once more. At her wispy haircut with the short bangs, at the artfully applied makeup that highlighted her big eyes. He wondered briefly if they’d hired her just for her looks, then dismissed the thought. This was one hell of a famous hotel, owned by the one celebrity heiress who seemed to have gotten her act together, but still, Hush was known as the sex hotel. Someone had told him each room came equipped with sex toys. Not only that, but video cameras. “Interesting.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just…”

The way she looked at him, her big eyes wide, her lips slightly parted… Her skin looked soft and sweet and he wondered how old she was. For her job at this kind of hotel he’d have guessed she would have to be around his age, but she didn’t have that jaded New Yorker look.

“Detective?”

“You just focus on taking care of the paying guests,” he said, his tone gruffer than he’d intended. “We’ve got this covered, you understand?”

The surprise on her face wasn’t nearly as revealing as the pink blush that covered her cheeks. He’d hit the nail on the head. She could be useful, if he played her just the right way. This was going to be a high-profile case, hitting the papers with a roar. He was the lead on this, and it was going to be one of his last. No way he was leaving without solving this one. Whatever it took.

MIA PICKED HER WAY OUT of Exhibit A, careful not to disturb anything. She even managed not to look at Geiger’s body. At the thought she shivered again, something that had been happening a lot. It surprised her that she’d been clearheaded at all as she talked to that detective.

Two things niggled at her as she headed for the employee lounge and her locker. The first was that last thing the detective had said. As if he’d known somehow that she planned on doing a bit of investigating on her own. After all, this was her hotel, and if she could use her sources to get to the bottom of things, all the better. But still, how had he…?

She nodded at a couple of graveyard-shift folks sitting at the tables in the cafeteria, sipping coffee. Casual, as if a murder on the premises didn’t faze them. Or maybe they didn’t know yet. She expected that to change within the hour. One thing about Hush—gossip was a constant, mostly to do with the employees themselves, but sometimes about the guests. She had every reason to believe that the murder would stir up all kinds of information and she intended to be smack dab in the middle of that.

She pushed through the door that led to the lockers and as she reached for her lock, she remembered the other niggle. Detective Milligan was way the heck too hot.

He probably wouldn’t appeal to Carlane or Jenna. They favored the pretty ones, like Danny Austen. Not her. She liked her men rugged. Lived in. A strategic scar never hurt anything, either.

She’d always been that way. She’d preferred Bogie to Cary Grant in the old films, and even today her celebrity tastes slid more toward Clive Owen than Brad Pitt.

She gathered her things together slowly as she recalled the detective’s dark eyes and that strong jaw. His hair was short, but not fatally so, and messy in a good way. He must have been a foot taller than her, and wow, his hands had been really large. Wouldn’t they feel just incredible on her back? Or lower?

She turned to make sure she was alone, suddenly embarrassed by her own thoughts. Not that she didn’t have erotic thoughts. She did. As many as any other healthy woman. Nothing wrong with that at all, unless maybe you had them five seconds after finding a dead body.

Okay, so not five seconds, but close enough. Sheesh.

She’d never seen a dead body before. Even though she watched all those shows that pride themselves on how gross they can get, she still hadn’t been prepared for the real deal.

Gerry Geiger had crossed someone’s line. Crossed it big-time. So he’d been killed. And his ever-present camera snatched.

So what had he captured that had been worth his death? That was the big question. The major puzzle.

She slammed her locker shut and walked toward the back entrance. No public transportation for her tonight. She was taking a cab all the way to Brooklyn Heights, cost be damned.

Even at this ungodly hour the paps were in force. Naturally they’d seen the police vehicles and they were chomping at the bit to find out what had happened. She was escorted past them by one of the extra security guys and put into a taxi. Once she settled in for the ride, she thought again about what Geiger could have seen. It would have to be something really terrible. It wasn’t that long ago that her first thought would have been adultery. But nowadays, who cared enough about that to kill? According to the tabloids, people, especially show biz people, cheated every day. Revolving beds were the norm. So, no, she didn’t think it was about cheating.

Her best guess was that it somehow involved money. Lots and lots of money. That was what those people seemed to love most. That’s what they protected at all costs. But what kind of photo could cost someone millions?

She’d have to think about that. But not until tomorrow. She didn’t feel tired, but she knew that was just adrenaline, and by the time she got home, that would have dissipated and she’d crash. Which was good. The last thing she needed was to remember any details. Unless those details were all about one particular detective.

Her head fell on the seat back. Nope, even the delectable detective wasn’t going to keep her awake tonight. Today. Whatever.

“GEIGER WAS A BASTARD. There wasn’t a person on the set who didn’t want him dead.”

Bax leaned back in the leather executive chair as he listened to yet another crock of bullshit from yet another movie big shot.

Piper Devon, the owner of the hotel, had given him an office in the lower level so he could conduct his interviews in relative peace. So far he’d spoken to the cinematographer, the script supervisor and two actors, both of whom thought Geiger’s murder would somehow benefit their careers. None of them had given him anything useful. He’d tried to get to the producer, but Oscar Weinberg had flown to Los Angeles early this morning. Of course he’d checked, and the travel plans had been made earlier in the week, but he still had Weinberg on his list. According to the associate producer, he would be back in three days. For now, Bax settled for talking to the director.

Peter Eccles was in his forties and his Hollywood life was written all over his face. Lines, wrinkles, fake perfect teeth, hair plugs and a completely immobile forehead made him appear more puppet than man. He was angry and nervous but his face looked weathered yet serene. Weird.

“Look, I had nothing to do with his death. I don’t know who killed him and I’ve got to completely rearrange my shooting schedule because your people won’t let us have the nightclub, so if you’re done—”

“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Bax said. “When’s the last time you saw Gerry Geiger?”

“Yesterday. He was standing outside the hotel all afternoon.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“No.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

Eccles raised a hand to his head, but stopped just before running it through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t recall. We never actually spoke. It was more me yelling at him to get the hell away from my actors. Not what you’d call real dialogue.”

“And you have no idea who would want to slit his throat?”

“I told you. Everyone. All of them. Probably hundreds of people I don’t even know. He was a prick. A vampire. A waste of space.”

“Did he ever take pictures of you?”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Were any of them compromising?”

“You mean with my pants down? No. He never got that close.”

Bax made a point of writing in his notebook, but it was mostly a list of what he needed to pick up at the store on his way home.

Across from him, Eccles tapped his leg with his fingers, his unease and impatience telegraphed from his very pores. “Are we done?” he asked again.

Bax wrote down cereal and cream, then checked the list to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. When he was satisfied he looked into Peter Eccles’s dark, furious eyes. “For now.”

Eccles shot up and marched out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Bax thought about smiling, but it wasn’t worth it. Eccles was a jerk. They were all jerks. He doubted he’d get anything useful from even one of the players. He’d have to do some serious digging. Talk to Geiger’s paparazzi buddies. He’d put the wheels in motion to get a background check on all these movie people and on Gerry and Sheila Geiger. Grunwald was going to have his hands full.

And then he’d talk to Mia Traverse. He still wasn’t sure about his approach yet, but one thing was in her favor. She was young, eager. It was a pretty safe bet she was already digging around the hotel, trying to find out all she could about Geiger and the movie crew. Bax wanted to know it all. Every detail. But he didn’t want to come right out and ask her to be his informant. He knew her first priority was the hotel and her job, which didn’t negate the fact that she was plugged into the world of Hush. No, this was going to be about finesse, not force.

He went back to his original notes. It bothered him that the camera hadn’t been found. It bothered him that Geiger was a sleaze, that everyone despised him, that most of the people staying in the hotel were suspects. At the moment the only people he could unequivocally eliminate as suspects were Piper Devon and Mia Traverse. Devon been at a very public function last night, her alibi confirmed by photographs in the New York Post. Traverse had been with her girlfriends in and around the hotel.

He wondered what she might have seen. Who. She may well know the killer’s identity without even realizing it.

That was one interview he wasn’t dreading in the least.

“SLIT. FROM EAR TO EAR. It was beyond horrible.” Mia looked around the cafeteria, sure everyone was staring at her, wondering. Not if she’d killed Geiger, but if she knew something more than she’d told the police.

The truth was, she didn’t. Not yet. But she didn’t do a thing to dissuade people from the idea that she did. Know stuff. Any stuff.

Her lunch companion, Theresa, the head of housekeeping, had been a buddy for a long while and they often ate together, so that wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows. What most of the staff didn’t think about was Theresa’s unbelievable information-gathering resources.

The maids.

It was the same in all hotels in Mia’s experience. Guests, especially the upper echelon, didn’t see the maids. They didn’t speak to them, they didn’t interact with them. Therefore, maids were not real. They were robots that cleaned and vacuumed. Mia had always felt badly that so few patrons tipped the maids, considering the crap the poor things had to put up with.

In this instance, it wasn’t the crap they had to clean that had her hunkering down with Theresa, it was the stuff they saw.

“I saw dead bodies two times,” Theresa said.

She was eating an empanada that smelled so good Mia was cursing her yogurt. But then Theresa was five-ten at least, statuesque and curvy. Not her five-two with barely a curve to be seen.

“One was just an old guy who had a heart attack. That was okay, but the second one, oh, baby.”

“What?”

Theresa leaned closer. “Autoerotic asphyxiation.”

“No.”

“Yes. And you know what was the worst part?”

“What?”

“He was alone. I found him on the bathroom floor, his hand still on his wing wang. He’d strangled himself with his own belt, and let me tell you, it took some doing. He was blue. His tongue stuck out.” She shivered, making her long, dark hair shimmer. “It put me off my soup, you know what I mean?”

Mia nodded as she took another spoon of key lime yogurt. “I do.”

“I’m not surprised,” Theresa said, just before taking another bite. Releasing another dose of that delectable scent into the air. Cumin. Cilantro.

Swallowing her urge to grab the empanada out of her friend’s hand, Mia focused. “Not surprised about Geiger?”

“That’s right, chica. I knew that man was going to get himself into hot water.”

“Why, what do you know?”

“He was inside the director’s suite the night he was killed.”

“Eccles’s suite?”

Theresa nodded.

Mia was almost going to ask her if she was sure, but of course she was. “How did you find out?”

“Room service. Andy served them late last night. He saw Geiger in the mirror. This morning Yolanda found a piece from his camera. It was in a bag with his initials on it. They’d done some serious drinking. Most of the bottle of scotch was gone.”

“Whoa. What did she do with the camera thingy?”

“Nothing. Yolanda knows better than to take something from a guest’s room.”

Mia sat back, stunned. Peter Eccles was a really famous director, although she’d heard somewhere that he’d lost his deal with Paramount, which had cost him a pretty penny. This shoot was supposed to give him that boost he needed to get back on the A list.

She wondered what Eccles had to hide. Had Gerry caught him stealing from the film budget? Sleeping with someone he shouldn’t? She seemed to remember something about Eccles in the tabloids, but it had been too long ago and she hadn’t paid much attention. She wasn’t exactly a tabloid kind of gal.

But she knew someone who was. Dear sweet Carlane. She read the tabloids—all of them, not just Page Six— every single day. Bless her little heart.

“Mia?”

Theresa was looking at her with one of her patented eyebrow raises. That alone kept her housekeeping staff on the ball.

“Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Don’t think too hard, chica. Just because two men had a drink together doesn’t make one of them a killer.”

“I know. But still, it’s curious, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. In fact…” She looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Meet me in an hour in housekeeping. I’m going to talk to the girls who work the suites. And I’m going to see if I can get that camera bag.”

“Deal. But don’t do anything foolish, okay?”

“Yolanda told me the bag was half hidden under the couch. If it’s still there, I’m going to grab it. Oh, and Mia?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t get yourself too worked up. I know how you love your mysteries and puzzles but this was asesinato, not a game.

Mia nodded, but she was already thinking about that camera bag, and what Gerry Geiger would be doing with Peter Eccles.

3

IT WAS ALMOST FIVE in the afternoon and Bax had had it with actors. There wasn’t a single one who hadn’t tried to manipulate the hell out of him, and he hadn’t even gotten to the big stars.

The worst had been a woman named Nan Collins who acted like an A-lister when, according to the assistant director, she was no more than a glorified extra. She’d said she was insulted that she was being questioned, but it was pathetically clear that the idea of being associated with the real players was her dream come true. She hadn’t given him anything but a headache. Finally, though, he could take a break. There were still so many people to talk to, particularly those with the most to lose, like Weinberg and the two big stars. The thought made his head throb.

He left his temporary office and took his time as he made his way to the lobby, debating whether to go home and get some sleep or continue the interviews. He let his gaze wander as he stepped off the elevator. The hotel’s décor was art deco, the pictures were all nudes of the period and the air felt rarified, as if a bad smell wouldn’t dare.

There were people here, most of them on the young side, the men in expensive suits, the women dressed in designer clothes with impossible heels.

He looked down at his brown jacket, his brown pants, his brown shoes. The only thing not brown about him was his shirt, which was beige. He hadn’t been home to change since yesterday and it showed.

Screw it. It had been one hell of a frustrating day, full of sound and fury, signifying squat. There were so many fingerprints on the scene as to render them useless. Motives had clearly been on sale for a nickel, because everyone he talked to seemed to have more than one. At least he’d managed to keep the basement nightclub a crime scene despite some extraordinary pressure from the producer.

Bax thought about his interview with Geiger’s wife. He’d seen her at five this morning and it had been a real slice. Sheila Geiger had fallen apart when she heard about her husband’s death. The two of them had been married eight years, and according to her, he was a model husband. Sure, he spent about twelve hours a day chasing down any scandal he could find, but she was adamant that he was a good man, and that the stars were all backstabbing liars who needed him more than he needed them.

She wanted action. She wanted arrests. She wanted his camera back.

“Detective Milligan?”

Bax jumped at the voice behind him. Her voice. Mia Traverse’s voice.

He turned to find her in her uniform, a black tuxedo jacket and skirt, white blouse, pink silk tie, and yep, she was just as pretty as he remembered. She came over, reminding him again how small she was. And that she smelled damn good.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.

“Maybe. I understand the rooms all come with a video recorder.”

She nodded. “Walk with me?”

He did as she headed for the reception area where the concierge services were conducted behind a curved, black lacquered desk. He waited as she went to her station. She checked to make sure there had been no calls, then put on one of those Bluetooth ear deals which always made him think of Uhuru from Star Trek.

“Each room has a small video recorder,” she said, her attention squarely on him, “and each guest is given several blank tape cartridges. It’s all part of the Hush amenities package.”

“It’s actually the tapes I’m interested in.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Those are of a private nature. Meant for couples.”

“I figured. On the other hand, someone might have taped something of a murderous nature.”

She nodded solemnly. “Yes, it’s possible. But I’m not sure how you’d ever find out.”

“I was thinking that maybe together we could come up with a solution to that little problem.”

“I’d love to help in any way I can, Detective, but those tapes are private. They become the property of the guest the moment they check in.”

“What would a maid do if she found a tape that was open in a room where the guests have checked out?”

“Turn it in to lost and found.”

“Okay. Would you check that out please? If there were any tapes left, I’ll need to see them.”

“I’ll be happy to, but wouldn’t the killer, if he taped himself murdering Geiger, have made a point to take the evidence with him?”

“I doubt very much the killer would have filmed that session. That’s not what I’m after. I think it’s possible that one of the guests might have taped something that could give us a direction.”

“Oh, I see.”

He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try. “What about security cameras?”

“We do have cameras, although not in Exhibit A, or even that hallway.”

“Where are they?”

“I can put you in touch with security. They know a lot more about it than I—” A chirping sound had come from a cell phone on her desk. She flipped it open and brought it to her ear.

“Concierge, Mia speaking. How may I help you?”

Bax watched and listened as Mia talked to her guest. She was calm, pleasant, and as she talked, she also typed, looking something up on the computer. The conversation was evidently about a pharmacy that delivered.

He checked out her work space, which was as tidy as she was. A large Rolodex, telephone books, three-ring binders. Just what he’d expect to see. He paused, however, when he saw what looked like a camera case. Taking a couple of steps to his right to get a better look, he was surprised to see the initials GG in gold script on the top.

When he looked back at Mia, it was clear from her blush she knew what he’d found. Bax sighed. He’d been right about her. Eager, enthusiastic. Nosy. A perfect informant. Ideal. Only, as an informant, he had to be damn careful with her. Not just so he wouldn’t scare her off, either. He had to make sure that she remained a credible witness. Which meant she was completely hands-off. Which should have been no issue at all.

She finished with her phone call. “I was going to tell you about that.”

“When?”

“Don’t be mad. There’s a story with it and—” The phone chirped again. She flicked her earpiece this time instead of picking up the cell and immediately put the caller on hold. “Tell you what,” she said. “I get off work in fifteen minutes. It’ll take me ten to change out of my uniform. Why don’t you go to the bar and relax. I’ll come get you and we can go to dinner. My treat.”

“Twenty-five minutes?”

“And I’ll be all yours.”

He knew exactly what she meant but that didn’t stop a momentary flash of a completely unprofessional nature.

She returned her attention to the guest as he walked toward the bar, wondering if his attraction to her was about hormones or homicide?

SHE HAD THE CAMERA CASE in her purse as they went to Maxwell’s, a coffee shop she and most of the Hush crew frequented. It was no Amuse Bouche, but they had decent food and for Madison Avenue, they were reasonable.

Mia could tell he wanted answers, but he waited patiently as they were seated and placed their orders.

She brought out the bag as soon as the waitress left. “It’s just a lens,” she said. “No film, no camera.”

“But it did belong to Geiger?”

“It did, yes. But that’s not the interesting part.”

The waitress came back with coffee for him, an iced tea for her. When they were alone again, Mia leaned in. “It was found in Peter Eccles’s suite and it was left there the night Geiger was killed.”

The detective’s expression changed. It wasn’t dramatic. In fact, if she hadn’t been watching closely, she’d have missed it. His eyes, a deep dark brown, widened a hair and his nice broad shoulders straightened.

He really was an attractive man. Even in his dull suit there was something about him that appealed to her. Not just his rugged good looks, either. Obviously, she barely knew the man but still she saw an intelligence about him. He might come off all stoic and unflappable, but there was a brain in there. How she knew, she wasn’t sure, but she knew. She’d known from the first.

Over the years her ability to quickly gauge strangers had been developed and nurtured. Part of being a good concierge was to make and trust first impressions.

Even in the stressful situation of finding a body her radar had been active. Other parts of her had been active, too, which surprised her more.

Honestly, his looks weren’t all that remarkable. Not compared to the movie stars and models who frequented the hotel. But he was sexy in his rumpled suit and his mussed hair. She kept finding herself wanting to touch him.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll pay for dinner if you don’t make me beg.”

She realized she’d been staring instead of talking. “The maid found it in Eccles’s room. Along with the remains of his scotch, which room service had delivered the night before.”

“How did you get it?”

“I told you. I know people.”

“Right.”

“Listen, Detective. I shouldn’t have the lens. It was a questionable move meant to help. If it came to light how I got it, good people could get hurt. I won’t let that happen.”

“I could compel you to tell me—”

“You could,” she said, stopping him, “but you’d be cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

“You want to be the go-between, I get it. While that might seem appealing or even exciting, it can also mean you’ll be caught in the middle. We’re talking murder here, Ms. Traverse. Not a game of telephone.”

She’d thought about this since the moment Theresa had told her about the lens. The last thing she wanted to do was to impede the investigation. Hush didn’t need the kind of publicity it was getting and the longer the killer was on the loose, the more it damaged the reputation of the hotel. Mia’s first responsibility, as long as she didn’t actually break the law, was to protect her employer. Second was to protect the staff. She could do both while still helping the detective, but only if he agreed to her terms. “I understand what’s at risk. We all want this murder solved.”

“What if it turns out to be someone from the hotel. Someone not involved with the movie?”

She sat back in the booth. “You think I want a killer working at Hush?”

He didn’t say anything, but his eyes told her he wasn’t completely convinced.

“Look, we have a lot of our staff assigned directly to the VIP guests. They’re all very discreet though. If you try to talk to them, you’ll get a whole lot of nothing. They trust me. They’ll open up to me.”

“There’s a big difference between being discreet and obstructing justice.”

“It’s up to you. Your way, there’s a lot of disruptions and rancor. My way, you catch the killer and everybody wins.”

He laughed. “Confident, are we?”

She sat up straighter and willed herself not to blush. “Yes, I am.”

He drank some more coffee, looked at her as if he was trying to see inside her head, but finally he nodded. “We’ll try it your way. But you don’t tell anyone you’re talking to me, got it? And you don’t hold anything back, even if it’s not good for the hotel.”

She stuck out her hand. “To the best of my ability, you have my word.”

He shook, although the doubt was still in his eyes.

She didn’t really want him to think too much more about their agreement, though. Time to change tactics. “You haven’t been home since last night.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“How come?”

“Part of the job.”

“It must be interesting. What you do.”

The look on his face said it was anything but. “Yeah. It is.”

She sipped her tea, debating for a moment letting it go, but the heck with that. “How long have you hated being a detective?”

Now that got a reaction. Alarm, then what, anger? No, not quite.

“I don’t hate my job.”

“Really,” she said.

“Okay. It’s lost some of its allure.”

“How come?”

His lips pressed together as if to keep his words from slipping out. Mia just waited. Like a good cop, she’d learned a lot over the years about the value of silence.

“The politics,” he said, finally.

She had the feeling he knew exactly what she’d done. That he was throwing her a bone. “What do you mean?”

“Too much paperwork, too much political correctness. It makes it hard to do the real work.”

“I can see that. You must be under terrible scrutiny. Everyone out there with cameras on their cell phones. Everyone ready to sue at the drop of a hat.”

With her commiseration, his defensiveness seemed to mellow. “It was my own fault. I had a romanticized view of what I’d be facing. I was naive to think things would get better when I became a detective.”

“But you solve crimes. You put bad guys away.”

“Not as often as I should.”

“Somehow I doubt it’s your work that’s at fault.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I watched you last night. You were thorough, com manding. You didn’t let anything slide. And here you are. Still at it even though you must be exhausted. Am I right?”

“You make it sound noble. It’s not.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. I’m sure it’s discouraging to jump though all those hoops but I don’t think you hate the heart of the job. It takes a unique individual to face the worst of people day after day, and still want to do the right thing.”

Bax shook his head, almost but not quite dismissing what she’d said. “How did you end up at Hush?”

“Changing the subject, are we?”

“Turnabout’s fair play.”

She grinned. “I wanted the job very badly. Hush is a unique hotel, with unique demands. I was lucky to be chosen.”

“Okay, I have to ask,” he said. “What’s the business about the sex?”

She grinned shyly. “Hush is simply an adult hotel that caters to consenting, discriminating couples.”

“Yeah, I saw that in the brochure. But I still don’t get it.”

“It’s about pleasure, Detective. Unapologetic and sophisticated. Visual, tactile, in fact all the senses are catered to. There’s something for everyone from the massages at the spa to the unbelievable room service—”

“Yeah, about that. I’ve heard that a guest can order more than dinner.”

“They can have massage or beauty services. Even their pets can have room service.”

He wondered if she was being coy or naive. It was hard to tell with her. Damn, though, he wished she hadn’t changed from the black tux. Not that she didn’t look good in her red T-shirt and jeans, but the T was snug and Maxwell’s was chilly.

Of course he was a moron for bringing up this topic. Just hearing her talk about catering to all the senses had made him uncomfortable. Bringing it back to business would help. “Those massage services wouldn’t include special bonuses, would they?”

“Oh, you’re talking about prostitution. No, that’s not at all what Hush is about. Did you know that each room comes with an armoire stocked with sex toys?”

Okay, so Mia wasn’t quite as innocent as her image would suggest. Shit. An armoire stocked with sex toys? He’d like to see those. See her. Touch— Damn it. “How does that work?” he asked, hoping she hadn’t noticed his voice crack.

She unsuccessfully hid a snicker. “That would depend on the guest.”

She was killing him here. On purpose. Because she could. Because she knew he was getting hard at her matter-of-fact voice, at that wicked smile. He cleared his throat. “No, I mean those kinds of amenities really couldn’t be reused, could they?”

“It depends. Anything that has the possibility of contact with bodily fluids is replaced for each guest. But some of the toys are cleaned and reused. It’s a very strict process with no room for error. You should come down sometime and see the operation. You’d be impressed.”

“I’m sure I would,” he said, desperate to change the subject. Thankfully, dinner arrived and Bax threw himself into eating his pastrami on rye. It wasn’t quite as effective as a cold shower, but as long as Mia didn’t talk about sex toys any more, he should be okay.

“A lot of people come to Hush expecting something lurid or tacky, but no one has ever left with that impression. It’s hard, though, because the press is so myopic. Sex sells. The sleazier the better. And when you combine that with Piper Devon’s reputation, which, I must say is totally distorted, then you get tabloid accounts full of insinuation and exaggeration. It’s a shame.”

Think of the sandwich. Not the sex. “But you keep getting the clientele you’re really after.”

“Mostly due to Piper and word of mouth.”

“It doesn’t hurt that the place is incredibly expensive.”

“Our guests are of the belief that you get what you pay for. The higher the price, the more valued the service.”

“Damn, you’re good at this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

He ignored the question as he finished the first half of his sandwich. He was finally settling down, getting some control. But he had to steer the conversation away from the goddamn sex. “Let me ask you something. You’ve clearly had to deal with the paparazzi since you started working there. Do you make deals with them? Give them exclusives in return for favors?”

“Sometimes. Always to the benefit of the hotel, though, and there are lots of paps who aren’t ever considered for special favors.”

“Like Gerry Geiger?”

She shook her head. “Geiger wasn’t always this bad. We used to use him on occasion, but only because he played by the rules.”

“Why do you think he changed?”

“I don’t know. I figured it was about money. It always seems to be about that, though.”

Bax made a mental note to dig deeper into Geiger’s financial situation, although he knew Grunwald was already on top of it. What Bax wondered was if there were some hidden accounts, maybe under Sheila’s name.

“Let me talk to Kit, our public relations manager,” Mia said. “She’ll let me know what the situation was with Geiger.”

Bax nodded. Relaxed. Finally, he felt steady again, at least for the time being. “You went to school to become a concierge?”

“I studied hotel management. But I’ve been around hotels my whole life. Both my parents are concierges. That’s what gave me the edge with Hush.”

“Doesn’t it bother you to have to coddle a bunch of overprivileged snobs?”

“I don’t coddle. I perform a service. I do my best to see that the guests of the hotel have an exceptional experience.”

“But aren’t most of the requests things your guests could do for themselves if they’d only lift a finger or two?”

“Sometimes. But honestly, I don’t see it that way. A lot of them are simply too busy to start checking the phone book or to find out where the closest luggage shop is. I know the city. I can make their stay more pleasant, easier. I have extraordinary connections, so I’m able to help the guests get the things they really need.”

“I’m leaving,” he said, apropos of nothing.

She put her fork down. “Now?”

He shook his head, surprised that he’d brought this up. He hadn’t planned on telling her anything about himself. “In three months. I’m leaving the force.”

She didn’t seem too shocked, which made sense considering their earlier conversation. “Where are you going?”

“Boulder. I’m going back to school.”

“That’s wonderful. Studying law, or—”

“Literature.”

Mia sat back in the booth. Now she seemed shocked. “Literature. Wow.”

Oddly, he felt proud and embarrassed both when he should have felt neither. “I want to write. To teach.”

“I’d very much like to hear that story,” she said.

He tried to hold back a yawn and failed. “Maybe another time.” When he looked at her again it was with a sleepy smile. “I have the feeling you’re a very good concierge.”

“That I am,” she said.

He sat back in the booth as she took her tiny bites of blintzes, thinking that he should leave her to finish dinner alone. He needed to go home and get some sleep. Not that he hadn’t done this a hundred times over the last ten years. Stayed up for twenty-four, thirty-six or more hours. It was part of the gig. What made him wonder about his mental state wasn’t that he was sleepy. It was that all he wanted to do was sit in Maxwell’s diner across from Mia Traverse and watch her eat. Sip her iced tea.

Nope, it didn’t make a damn bit of sense. But there it was.

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