Jan glanced at the Jeep, and Illana followed her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Jan said, looking back at Illana, “but I forgot what you told us it is that you do.”
“Of course,” Illana said. “I am what I like to call a hospitality ambassador. Our company provides consulting services and more to world-class properties.” She glanced at the Jeep, then added, “There’s usually a driver, but Mr. Santos asked that I personally meet your flight.”
“Properties like Vista Fiume?” Jan said, somewhat suspiciously.
“Yes,” Illana said, not showing that she had picked up on the inflection. “And also to Yellowrose resorts, such as Queens Club, and various other fine properties.” She turned to Rapp Badde. “I understand from Mr. Santos that we will soon provide the same to new properties in your Philadelphia.”
“That’s what I’ve been told,” Badde said, nodding. He looked at Jan, and added, “That’s what I was telling you we worked out when I met Santos in Dallas.”
Jan looked at him, raised her eyebrows, then turned to Illana.
“I’m not exactly clear on what it is you provide,” Jan said, her tone making it a question.
“In simple terms, everything except the building,” Illana said. “We handle branding, marketing, staffing. I mostly consult on staffing. It is critical that guests receive the finest experience, and I, as well as others, travel from property to property to ensure that the highest of standards are kept. After I helped to staff and then open Vista Fiume, I was sent here. And after this tour, I expect to be back in Philadelphia to check on its progress and also work on the new hotel.”
“Well,” Rapp said, automatically flashing his politician’s smile, “that new hotel is why we are here to see Mr. Santos.”
Badde paused, and thought, Which could all go down the tubes if Willie Lane-or anyone else-starts sniffing around PEGI. This deal takes it all to another level.
“But first I need to make one quick call. Only take a moment.”
“To who now? Can’t it wait?” Jan said, and looked to Illana. “How far is the hotel?”
“It is perhaps ten minutes.”
“Rapp,” Jan said, turning back toward Badde-but he had already moved into the shadow of the aircraft and was almost yelling into his smartphone.
“Where’s Len- I mean, where’s Josiah?” Badde demanded. “Put him on the phone. Now.”
[TWO]
Molly’s Olde Ale House
Chestnut Street, University City, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 2:40 P.M.
“Okay, keep knocking on the neighbors’ doors for statements-someone had to see or hear something-and let me know when the medical examiner releases the scene,” Homicide Sergeant Matthew Payne said into his cellular phone as he watched Michael J. O’Hara throw back a shot glass-his third-brimming with eighteen-year-old Bushmills Irish whisky. “I’m a few blocks away, almost to the ME’s office, actually.”
The medical examiner’s office was next to the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania.
Payne and O’Hara were seated at the far end of the long wooden bar. Payne had his back against the wall. He looked at O’Hara, and beyond him, glancing around the half-full room of mostly college students watching sports on the overhead flat-screen TVs and-when it opened, bringing in a blast of cold air-at the front door.
“I’m repeating myself, I know, but the murder simply is barbaric beyond belief,” O’Hara said, shaking his head, then extended his arm and held the empty glass above his head to get the bartender’s attention. “Another Bushmills.”
The bartender glanced at Payne. Payne shook his head.
Payne looked at the two empty shot glasses before him-O’Hara had ordered them two each to start when they first sat down-and hoped Mickey wouldn’t override him and have the bartender bring them both another.
Then O’Hara, frustrated, practically slung the empty across the wooden bar. It slid into his two other empty shot glasses, making a loud clink that caused a couple of people down the bar to turn and look.
The bartender, who apparently had witnessed worse behavior, did not seem to care.
“Here ya go, pal,” the bartender said, placing it before O’Hara, then collecting the empties and walking away.
“Tim was a really good guy, Matty, fearless and honest as the day is long,” O’Hara said as he held up the glass, and stared at it a long moment.
Then he tossed back the shot.
“Maybe too fearless,” Payne said.
O’Hara’s tired eyes darted at him.
–
Not quite an hour earlier, Payne had pulled up to the U-City address O’Hara had texted him.
O’Hara was pacing on the sidewalk, following the path that he had packed in the snow halfway up the block. He wore a heavy black woolen coat over faded blue jeans and a brown checkered flannel shirt. His black loafers had a crust of snow.
Mickey barely acknowledged Matt as he parked the car and got out.
O’Hara, his head down, shoulders slumped, and with his hands stuffed in his overcoat pockets, didn’t speak. His face showed a mix of intense concentration and a certain sadness. He motioned with a nod for Matt to follow him to the house.
Just shy of the concrete steps, O’Hara stepped around a yellow-stained melted spot in the snow on the sidewalk.
“That’s mine,” he said, his voice a monotone.
Payne looked at it.
Mickey threw up.
And, judging by the direction of his shoe prints, after he’d left the house.
He’s seen a lot over the years. Not much bothers him.
But it can and does happen to all of us.
He followed O’Hara up the three concrete steps-and immediately saw bloody tracks across the worn paint of the wooden porch. They had an aggressive waffle pattern, suggesting they had been made by heavy boots, for either work or hiking, and they led out from the front door. He could see that the wooden front door was open about three inches, with no evidence of any forced entry.
O’Hara, stepping carefully around the bloody prints, stopped at the door.
He looked back at Payne.
“This is how I found it.”
There was a glass pane in the upper third of the door. A beige lace curtain, knocked from its mount, hung at a crooked angle. As Payne stepped closer, he got a larger view of the interior beyond the lace.
“Jesus,” Payne said softly.
He felt his stomach knot, and understood how O’Hara had succumbed to the nausea.
“Yeah. Jesus.”
Payne looked at O’Hara.
“You went in, Mick?”
O’Hara nodded.
“I know it’s a crime scene,” he said. “But, yeah, the second I saw Emily there I had to. The door was unlocked. When I got closer to her, it was clear she had been long. . gone. . and then I turned and saw Tim’s body. They both already had livor mortis-that is, from whatever blood they had left.”
Payne knew, courtesy of Doc Mitchell’s impromptu lectures during postmortem examinations, that when blood stopped circulating in the human body, gravity took over. The blood settled, and the skin color changed. Even through the window, he could see the distinct pooling pattern on her body, the lower flesh much darker than the light purple of the upper skin. He further knew that rigor mortis, the stiffening of the muscles, occurred about three hours after death, and took place before the heavy pooling.
Payne pulled out his cellular phone.
O’Hara put up his hand, palm out. Payne raised his eyebrows at the gesture for him to stop, and said, “What?”
“Before you call in the medical examiner, I want to ask a favor, Matty.”
Payne met his eyes.
“Sure, Mick. Name it.”
“You work this case personally. Own it.”
Payne slowly nodded. “Okay. Sure. Want to tell me why? I know he worked for you, but. .”