In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

Mostly they're accidents or natural causes."
    The minute she stepped off the elevator, her eyes narrowed to slits. Too many people in the hallway, including one hysterical female in a housekeeper's uniform, lots of guys in suits, and several people who were obviously guests who'd popped out of their rooms to see what the commotion was.
    She reached into her foolish little purse, pulled out her badge, and held it up as she strode forward.
    "NYPSD, clear this area. You people go back in your rooms, anyone with hotel security stand by. And somebody deal with this woman here. Who's security chief?"
    "That would be me." A tall lean man with a coffee-colored complexion and mirror-sheened bald head stepped forward. "John Brigham."
    "Brigham, you're with me." Since she didn't have her master code, she gestured to the door.
    When he opened it, she stepped through, scanned the parlor area.
    Sumptuous, chock-full of fancy furniture, including a full bar setup. And tidy as a church. The privacy screens on the generous windows were engaged, and the lights on full.
    "Where is she?" Eve asked Brigham.
    "Bedroom, to the left."
    "Was the door open or closed as it is now when you arrived on scene?"
    "It was closed when I got here. But I can't say it was that way before. Ms. Hilo from Housekeeping found her."
    "That's the woman in the hall?"
    "That's right."
    "All right, let's see what we've got." She moved to the door, opened it.
    Music poured out. The lights were on full here as well, and shone harshly on the body lying on the bed like a broken doll that had been tossed there by a spoiled child.
    One arm was cocked at an impossible angle, her face was raw and blackened from a vicious beating, and her uniform skirt was hiked up to her waist. The thin silver wire used to strangle her cut deep into her throat like a slender and deadly necklace.
    "I think you can rule out natural causes," Roarke murmured.
    "Yeah. Brigham, who's been in this suite besides you and the housekeeper since the body was found?"
    "No one."
    "Did you approach the body, touch it or anything other than the doors in any way?"
    "I know the drill, Lieutenant. I was on the job -- Chicago PSD, Anti-Crime Division. Twelve years. Hilo alerted me. She was screaming into her communicator. I got here within two minutes. She'd run back to her base on the fortieth floor. I entered the suite, came to the doorway here, determined by visual that the victim was deceased. Aware that Roarke was on site, and accompanied by you, I contacted him immediately, then secured the suite, sent for Hilo, and waited for your arrival."
    "I appreciate it, Brigham. Since you were on the job, you know how many times a crime scene's corrupted by helping hands. Did you know the victim?"
    "No. Hilo called her Darlene. Little Darlene. That's all I could get out of her."
    Eve was scanning the scene, keeping herself back from it, and calculating the steps that had led to murder. "You could do me a big favor and get Hilo somewhere quiet and private where she can't talk to anyone but you until I send for her. I'm going to call this in. I don't want to go into the room until I can seal up."
    Brigham reached in his pocket, pulled out a minican of Seal-It. "I had one of my men bring this up. And a recorder," he added, handing her a collar clip. "Didn't figure you'd have a field kit with you."
    "Good thinking. Do you mind sticking with Hilo for a while?"
    "I'll take care of it. You can tag me when you want to talk to her. Meanwhile, I'll leave a couple of men at the door until your crime scene unit gets here."
    "Thanks." Idly she shook the can. "Why'd you go off the job?"
    For the first time Brigham smiled. "My current employer made me a hell of an offer."
    "I bet you did," Eve said to Roarke when Brigham stepped out. "He's got a cool head, good eyes." She started to spray her shoes, then decided she'd do a hell of a lot better without them. After stepping out of them, she sprayed her feet, her hands, passed off the can, then the clip, to Roarke.
    "I'll need you to record the scene." She pulled out her communicator and called it in.
    "Her name's Darlene French." Roarke read off the data he'd called up from his PPC. "She's worked here for just over a year. She was twenty-two."
    "I'm sorry." She touched his arm, waited until he shifted those hot, angry eyes to hers. "I'm going to take care of her now. Record on, okay?"
    "Yes, all right." He slipped the PPC back in his pocket, engaged the clip recorder.
    "The