“I hope it’s not a deal-breaker,” she said. “How do we do this?” She meant confronting Carley.
They got out of the car.
“I’m going to show my badge to the desk and get her room number,” Marino said. “Then we’re going to pay her a little visit. Just don’t deck her or anything. I don’t want to haul you in for assault.”
“I wish I could,” Scarpetta said. “You have no idea.”
16
There was no answer at room 412. Marino thudded the door with his big ham of a fist and started calling out Carley Crispin’s name.
“NYPD,” he said loudly. “Open up.”
He and Scarpetta listened and waited in a hallway that was long and elegant, with crystal sconces and a brown-and-yellow carpet, what looked like a Bijar design.
“I hear the TV,” Marino said, knocking with one hand and holding his tackle box field case in the other. “Kind of weird her watching TV at five in the morning. Carley?” he called out. “NYPD. Open up.” He motioned for Scarpetta to move away from the door. “Forget it,” he said. “She’s not going to answer. So now we play hardball.”
He slid his BlackBerry out of its holster and had to type in his password, and it reminded Scarpetta of the mess she’d caused and the dismal truth that she wouldn’t be standing here at all if Lucy hadn’t done something rather terrible. Her niece had set up a server and bought new high-tech smartphones as a ruse. She’d used and deceived everyone. Scarpetta felt awful for Berger. She felt awful for herself-for everyone. Marino called the number on the business card the night manager had given to him moments ago, he and Scarpetta walking toward the elevator. Assuming Carley was in her room and awake, they didn’t want her to hear what they were saying.
“Yeah, you’re going to need to get up here,” Marino said over his phone. “Nope. And I’ve knocked loud enough to wake the dead.” A pause, then, “Maybe, but the TV’s on. Really. Good to know.” He ended the call and said to Scarpetta, “Apparently, they’ve had a problem with the TV being played really loud and other guests complaining.”
“That seems a little unusual.”
“Carley hard of hearing or something?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t think so.”
They reached the other end of the hall, near the elevator, where he pushed open a door that had a lighted exit sign over it.
“So if you wanted to leave the hotel without going through the lobby, you could take the stairs. But if you came back in you’d have to use the elevator,” he said, holding the door open, looking down flights of concrete steps. “No way you can enter the stairs from the street, for the obvious security reasons.”
“You’re thinking Carley came here late last night and left by taking the stairs because she didn’t want anyone to see her?” Scarpetta wanted to know why.
Carley, with her spike heels and fitted skirts, didn’t seem the type to take the stairs or exert herself if she could help it.
“It’s not as if she was secretive about staying here,” Scarpetta pointed out. “Which I also find curious. If you knew she was here or simply wondered if she might be, like I did, all you’d have to do is call and ask to be connected to her room. Most well-known people are unregistered so they can prevent that sort of privacy violation from occurring. This hotel in particular is quite accustomed to having celebrity guests. It goes back to the twenties, is rather much a landmark for the rich and famous.”
“Like, who’s it famous for?” He set his field case on the carpet.
She didn’t know off the top of her head, she said, except that Tennessee Williams had died in the Hotel Elysée in 1983, had choked to death on a bottle cap.
“Figures you’d know who died here,” Marino said. “Carley’s not all that famous, so I wouldn’t add her to the Guess Who Slept or Died Here list. She’s not exactly Diane Sawyer or Anna Nicole Smith, and I doubt most people recognize her when she walks down the street. I got to figure out the best way to do this.”
He was thinking, leaning against the wall, still in the same clothes he’d been wearing when Scarpetta had seen him last, about six hours ago. A peppery stubble shadowed his face.
“Berger said she can have a warrant here in less than two.” He glanced at his watch. “That was almost an hour ago when I talked to her. So maybe another hour and Lucy shows up with the warrant in hand. But I’m not waiting that long. We’re going in. We’ll find your BlackBerry and get it, and who knows what else is in there.” He looked down the length of the quiet hallway. “I listed the necessary facts in the affidavit, pretty much everything and the kitchen sink. Digital storage, digital media, any hard drives, thumb drives, documents, e-mails, phone numbers, with the thought in mind Carley could have downloaded what’s on your BlackBerry and printed it or copied it onto a computer. Nothing I like better than snooping on a snoop. And I’m glad Berger thought of Lucy. I don’t find something, she sure as hell will.”
It hadn’t been Berger who had thought of Lucy. It was Scarpetta, and she was less interested in her niece’s help at the moment than she was in seeing her. They needed to talk. It really couldn’t wait. After Scarpetta had sent the e-mail to Berger suggesting that the paragraph be added to the addendum insuring it was legal for a civilian to assist in searching Carley’s room, Scarpetta had talked to Benton. She’d sat down next to him and touched his arm, waking him up. She was going to a scene with Marino, would probably be with him much of the morning, and she had a serious personal matter to take care of, she’d explained. It was best Benton didn’t come with them, she’d told him before he could suggest it, and then his cell phone had rung. The FBI calling.
The elevator door opened and the Hotel Elysée’s night manager, Curtis, emerged, a middle-aged man with a mustache, dapper in a dark tweed suit. He accompanied them back down the hallway and tried the door of room 412, knocking and ringing the bell, noting the Do Not Disturb light. He commented that it was on most of the time, and he opened the door and ducked his head inside, calling out hello, hello, before stepping back into the hallway, where Marino asked him to wait. Marino and Scarpetta walked into the room and shut the door, no sign or sound of anyone home. A wall-mounted TV was on, the channel tuned to CNN, the volume low.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Marino said to her. “But because these BlackBerrys are so common, I need you to ID it. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”
They stood just inside the door, looking around a deluxe junior suite that was lived in by someone slovenly, someone possibly antisocial and depressed who had been staying here alone, Scarpetta deduced. The queen-size bed was unmade and strewn with newspapers and men’s clothing, and on the side table was a clutter of empty water bottles and coffee cups. To the left of the bed were a bowfront chest of drawers and a large window with the curtains drawn. To the right of that was the sitting area: two blue upholstered French armchairs with books and papers piled on them, a flame mahogany coffee table with a laptop and a small printer, and in plain view on top of a stack of paperwork, a touch-screen device, a BlackBerry in a smoke-gray protective rubberized case called a skin. Next to it was a plastic key card.
“That it?” Marino pointed.
“Looks like it,” Scarpetta said. “Mine has a gray cover.”
He opened his field case and pulled on surgical gloves, handing her a pair. “Not that we’re going to do anything we shouldn’t, but this is what I call exigent circumstances.”
It probably wasn’t. Scarpetta didn’t see anything that might suggest someone was trying to escape or get rid of evidence. The evidence appeared to be right in front of her, and no one was here but the two of them.