The Perfect Impression by Blake Pierce

CHAPTER TEN

Jessie did her best to hide her frustration as Peters filled her in.

“Stone the security guard already checked the couple’s room and found it empty,” he said. “With the additional three security guards not yet having arrived, he and Dooley are searching the entire hotel on their own.”

“Okay,” Jessie said, waiting to see if there was any good news.

“In the meantime,” Peters continued, “I pulled up the lobby security footage, hoping the Aldridges might have passed through the one area of the hotel that had cameras. I didn’t find anything. The last time anyone remembers seeing Theo Aldridge in the ballroom was a half hour ago. Nobody seems to recall Ariana ever being there.”

“Are you sure about the footage?” Jessie demanded.

“I’ll check it again, but yeah.”

While Peters reviewed the footage one more time, Jessie returned to the front desk, where Barksdale was furiously tapping away on a keyboard. He stopped when she arrived.

“I’ve managed to clear eight additional rooms,” he told her. “That’s all we had available. Hopefully between those and the current guest rooms, it will be enough to hold everyone you’ve questioned.”

“That’s great news,” Jessie said quickly, her priorities elsewhere. “How long was the front desk unmanned between when Leena came up to tend to Tommy and you took over down here?”

“Only a minute or two,” he replied. “But I’m not sure that even matters, Ms. Hunt. There are multiple entrances and exits to the hotel. A guest with a keycard would have easy access to all of them and we’d never see them come or go.”

That gave Jessie an idea.

“I recently worked a case in which every keycard swipe was logged by the hotel security system. Any chance you guys do that here too?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “We’re not big on logging things here.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

She looked out over the expansive, empty lobby, at a loss as to how to proceed. There were still several interviews left to conduct but none seemed as pressing as finding the Aldridges, who were clearly involved in this in some way.

There was also the issue of Gabby Crewe’s body. The crime scene team would likely be wrapping up their work in the Crewes’ room soon. But Jessie doubted any results would be available until much later in the day, putting it lower on her priority list. With that on hold, this was her window to gather real-time, relevant information and evidence. But she was short-handed and that window was closing.

Her lack of resources made her appreciate how lucky she was to usually have unlimited access to them. Typically HSS snapped their fingers and people came running. At least that used to be the case. If Captain Decker was to be believed, the entire unit was in danger of being disbanded due to a lack of recent “buzzy” headlines.

But out here, in the middle of an isolated island town, there were hardly any resources to call on. She was dependent on the town’s tiny police force, a few security guards for hire, and the goodwill of the hotel staff. If they started to abandon her, so did any real power she had to enforce her demands.

The funny thing was that she wasn’t technically a cop or even an LAPD employee. She was a freelance consulting profiler on assignment for the department. The only real authority she had in the moment was what she could convince people of. Once that started to crumble, so did her clout and any chance of catching the person who stabbed Gabby Crewe to death.

That thought led her quickly to another one. The murder weapon wasn’t any old knife; it was a steak knife, there as part of a room service order, as indicated by the tray on the dresser. She turned back to Barksdale.

“Do you guys at least keep track of room service orders?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “We’re not Philistines.”

“Then you have a record of the order for the Crewes’ suite last night?”

Barksdale’s fingers few across the keyboard again.

“Yes,” he said. “An order of steak, eggs, and toast was placed at ten twenty-two p.m. It was delivered at ten thirty-six by our on-call room service waiter, Esteban.”

“Where is Esteban now?” she asked.

“In the kitchen,” Barksdale said. “Even with everything going on, we’re still getting orders.”

“Can you ask him to come up here, please?”

Barksdale called the kitchen and made the request.

“He’s on his way,” he said as he hung up.

“His name is Esteban, but everyone calls him Tex,” Peters said from behind, making both of them jump. “I could have told you that he delivered the order to the room.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jessie asked once she’d regrouped.

“I’ve been a little busy, Hunt,” he said defensively. “He was my first interview when I got here. He’s the one who was bringing up another order when Melissa Ferro came out of Gabby Crewe’s room screaming. I was able to confirm that he was running around all night, dropping off orders.”

“It’s true,” Barksdale confirmed, looking at the screen. “I have him delivering four orders during that hour from about ten twenty to eleven twenty, including the one to the Crewe suite. It’s hard to imagine Esteban murdering anyone, much less in that amount of time.”

“I’ve seen stranger things,” Jessie told him before turning back to Peters. “That’s not the point though. I’ve been desperately trying to create an accurate timeline, using a bunch of drunk people as my guide. Even if we eliminate the waiter as a suspect, this gives us a narrower time of death.”

“How?” Barksdale asked.

“We believe that Steve Crewe was in the bar at ten twenty-two,” she explained. “That means the order was almost certainly placed by Gabby. So we know she was alive at that point. Did you ask Tex if she answered the door when he brought the food?”

“No,” Peters admitted.

“She didn’t,” someone said from across the lobby.

Jessie turned around to see a handsome Latino in his early twenties striding toward them.

“Tex, I presume?” she asked.

“A nickname I didn’t ask for,” he answered in a thick drawl that was clearly the source of the moniker. “My name is Esteban Mejada.”

“Okay, Esteban,” she said, deciding not to waste any time on pleasantries. “So you were saying she didn’t answer the door.”

“That’s right. I knocked, waited about thirty seconds, and knocked again. No one answered so I put the tray down, noted the time on the ticket, and went back to the kitchen for my next order, which I knew would be ready by then.”

“Is that common?” she asked. “For a guest not to answer?”

“Sure,” he said. “The guest might have fallen asleep or be in the bathroom. If I can’t get a signature confirmation, I’m just supposed to note that, along with the time, to verify that I actually completed the delivery so I don’t get in trouble if it’s stolen. Technically, I’m also supposed to take a photo of the tray in front of the door with the room number visible, but we’re kind of lax about that.”

“Did you hear anything when you dropped off the tray?” she asked. “Loud voices? Music? The TV?”

“I honestly couldn’t say,” Esteban replied. “I’m moving so fast and dropping off so many orders most nights that it all starts to blend together. And like I said, I had another order pending so I was anxious to get right back down to the kitchen.”

“And that was the last time you were on the fifth floor until you found Mrs. Ferro running out of the room screaming?” Peters confirmed, apparently trying to make up for his shoddy questioning earlier.

“Yes,” Esteban said, blushing. “I was bringing up an order for room 504.”

Jessie wondered what that was about. Glancing at the computer screen, she saw an asterisk next to the order.

“What does that mean?” she asked, pointing at it.

Barksdale seemed at a loss for words. Esteban leaned over to get a look at the screen.

“The asterisk?” he said. “That just indicates that the order includes tableside service. Since that takes a bit longer, it alerts the kitchen that the waiter is temporarily unavailable and a cook may need to run other orders up until the waiter returns.”

Jessie frowned at the screen.

“Champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries requires tableside service?” she asked.

Esteban shrugged.

“For something decadent like that, some folks like us to make a big fuss.”

Before he could elaborate, a voice crackled over the radio. It was Dooley.

“I found Theo Aldridge,” he said.

“Where?” Peters asked anxiously.

“Out back by the rose garden; he’s not doing great.”

Jessie looked at Barksdale, who pointed at a pair of French doors at the other end of the lobby.

“The garden’s that way.”

Peters was already sprinting in that direction, with Jessie right behind him.