“Cops don’t crow about doing the job.” Feeney glugged down his beer. “They just do it. I’da been closer, Dallas, I’da helped you take down those spine crackers of his.”
Because the wine and his mood made her sentimental, she jabbed him affectionately with her elbow. “You bet your ass. We can go find them and beat them brainless. You know, round out the evening’s entertainment.”
Roarke laid a hand on her back as one of his security people came to the table and leaned down to whisper in his ear. Humor vanished from his face as he nodded.
“Someone beat you to it,” he announced. “We have what’s left of a body on the stairway between the eighteenth and nineteenth floors.”
3
Eve stood at the top of the stairwell. The once pristine white walls were splattered with blood and gray matter. A nasty trail of both smeared the stairs. The body was sprawled on them, faceup.
There was enough of his face and hair left for her to identify him as the man whose nose she’d broken a few hours before.
“Looks like somebody was a lot more pissed off than I was. Your man got any Seal-It?” she asked Roarke.
When Roarke passed her the small can of sealant, she coated her hands, her shoes. “I could use a recorder. Peabody, help hotel security keep the stairwells blocked off. Morris.” She tossed him the can. “With me.”
Roarke gave her his security guard’s lapel recorder. Stepped forward. Eve simply put a hand on his chest. “No civilians—whether they own the hotel or not. Just wait. Why don’t you clear Feeney to confiscate the security disks for this sector of the hotel? It’ll save time.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, but headed down the steps to the body. Crouched. “Didn’t do this with fists.” She examined his face. One side was nearly caved in, the other largely untouched. “Left arm’s crushed. Guy was left-handed. I made that at the reception. They probably went for the left side first. Disabled him.”
“Agreed. Dallas?” Morris jerked his head in the direction of the seventeenth floor. A thick metal bat coated with gore rested on a tread farther down the stairs. “That would’ve done the trick. I can consult with the local ME on the autopsy, but prelim eyeballing tells me that’s the weapon. Do you want me to dig up some evidence bags, a couple of field kits?”
She started to speak, then hissed out a breath. The smell of death was in her nostrils, and it was too familiar. “Not our territory. We’ve got to go through station police. Goddamn it.”
“There are ways to get around that, with your man owning the place.”
“Maybe.” She poked a sealed finger in a blood pool, nudged something metal and silver. And she recognized the star worn on the epaulets of hotel security.
“Who would be stupid enough to beat a man to death in a hotel full of cops?” Morris wondered.
She shook her head, got to her feet. “Let’s get the ball rolling on this.” When she reached the top of the steps, she scanned the hallway. If she’d been in New York, she would now give the body a thorough examination, establish time of death, gather data and trace evidence from the scene. She’d call her crime scene unit, the sweepers, and send out a team to do door-to-doors.
But she wasn’t in New York.
“Has your security notified station police?” she asked Roarke.
“They’re on their way.”
“Good. Fine. We’ll keep the area secure and offer any and all assistance.” Deliberately, she switched off her recorder. “I don’t have any authority here. Technically, I shouldn’t have entered the crime scene area. I had a previous altercation with the victim, and that makes it stickier.”
“I own this hotel, and I hold primary interest in this station. I can request the assistance of any law enforcement agent.”
“Yeah, so we’ve got that clear.” She looked at him. “One of your security uniforms is missing a star. It’s down there, covered with body fluid.”
“If one of my people is responsible, you’ll have my full cooperation in identifying and apprehending him.”
She nodded again. “So we’ve got that clear, too. What’s your security setup for this sector?”
“Full-range cameras—corridors, elevators, and stairwells. Full soundproofing. Feeney’s getting the disks.”
“He’ll have to hand them to station police. When it’s homicide, they have a maximum of seventy-two hours before they’re obliged to turn the investigation over to ILE. Since ILE has people on-site, they’d be wise to turn it over now.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s not a matter of what I want. Look, it’s not my case.”
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the blood smear from her hand. “Isn’t it?”