Page 25 of The Bridesmaid
The luminol glows brightly. Just as I thought, the bloody handprints were no accident. Simone has left a message for us.
‘It’s concentrated here,’ I say. ‘A cluster of handprints. Looks deliberate, wouldn’t you say? They seem to be leading down.’
The handprints form a vertical line of sorts. ‘Episode seven,’ I say, speaking aloud. ‘Simone set up something similar to draw attention to a carpet stain that had been scrubbed.’
Simone.Even in death she’s leaving tricks and trails.
I snap on gloves, and follow the concentration of handprints to where it ends. Above the carpet. There’s a bulge, I notice, and before Fitzwilliam can stop me, I carefully peel back the carpet.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘I think Simone hid something for us to find.’
It’s a silver key. The top is shaped like a chunky cross. There’s a tag attached with a name.
‘Holly,’ I read, the blood turning to ice in my veins. I look up at Ortiz.
‘Looks like your boss left you a key,’ she observes.
‘There’s a number etched onto the front,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘1620.’
They both look at me, hopefully. I have a sudden vivid memory of Simone. The forensic trails we’d set up together, to make the factual parts of her show more entertaining.
‘1620 is a service elevator key,’ I explain. ‘Firefighters use them. It opens any elevator panel in the city.’ I look at the key thoughtfully. ‘This featured in a show,’ I explain. ‘We’d take real-life cases and set parts of them up for entertainment. In this instance, we’dcleared the name of a foreign ambassador accused of being a spy. He’d leave sensitive documents around the city for his colleagues to collect. Elevators were one of the drops.’
Fitzwilliam and Ortiz exchange glances.
‘Simone was genius at staging forensics for TV,’ I tell them. ‘It was one of the things we disagreed on.’
‘Guess her ratings won that argument,’ says Ortiz. ‘Solving the puzzle was what madeWrongly Accusedso addictive.’
I nod sadly.
‘So she left something for you to find?’ suggests Fitzwilliam. ‘In an elevator shaft?’
‘Looks that way,’ I concede.
‘Do you know which elevator Simone would be leaving documents in?’ asks Ortiz.
I rub the back of my neck. ‘Simone liked me to work out her dead drop locations, on the basis of forensic evidence. But … this one’s easy.’
‘It is?’ asks Fitzwilliam.
I nod. ‘Since she was found in the Plaza,’ I say. ‘My guess would be here.’
Chapter Twenty
PETRA
I’m having a liquid lunch at one of Leopold’s favorite restaurants. A formal New York place with snow-white linens, wood-paneled walls, and a clientele of older wealthy New Yorkers. Classic, and discreet, but not what you’d call hip.
My magazine editor companion, Max, dresses like a skate-boy, emphasizing the youthful cast to his narrow face with beat-up Vans, low skinny jeans, and a baggy band T-shirt. But he unfolds his napkin in the way people who have been raised to wealth do, and addresses the wait-staff with the same tell-tale easy confidence. Max comes from a family with so much money, they sent him to a school with no rules outside Seville. He emerged without a conscience or a single qualification, neither of which stopped him from rising up the ranks ofTitanMagazine– a celebrity monthly with less scruples than even Max was raised to. His reputation for breaking celebrity stories by any means possible has earned them a circulation and advertising revenue that tops all the other monthlies put together.
When I tell him about Simone’s mysterious death, the first thing he does is order champagne.
‘Here’s to bad news,’ he says with an elfish sideways smile, raising his glass to toast mine.
I throw back the drink in one go. The cocaine is wearing off and I need something to buffer the comedown. I miss Leopold, I think, miserably.
The waiter delivers our food. A new-to-the-menu quinoa concoction for my companion. Classic Mimosa salad for me, which I push around with a fork and don’t eat. The waiter pours a crisp splash of champagne, topping off Max’s almost-full glass, and refilling my empty one. An iced glass of sparkling water is set on my side by the wine waiter, its straight sides beaded with chilled droplets. I watch how they distort the light, then realize Max has put the pictures I took on the table. Barely-dressed models in New York tenements. Tragic expressions on their young faces. I love these images.
