Snow Blind. Cassie Miles
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“Mr. Reinhardt, there’s someone to see you.”
She tapped again, and the door flung open.
Sasha found herself staring directly at a red-faced Lloyd Reinhardt. She assumed his cherry complexion was the result of sunburn from skiing without enough sunscreen. The circles around his eyes where his goggles had been were white, like his buzz-cut hair. The effect would have been comical if his dark eyes hadn’t been so angry. His face resembled a devil mask, and he was glaring directly at her.
Through his clenched jaw, Reinhardt rasped, “What?”
Sasha gasped. She had no ready response.
Jacobson stepped in front of her. “We had a conversation last week, and I warned you that the hotel shouldn’t open for business until I had all security measures in place.”
“I remember. You wanted a ridiculous amount of money to keep the computer and electronics guys working around the clock on the surveillance cameras.”
“And you turned me down,” Jacobson said. “Now we have a serious situation.”
“I hope you aren’t interrupting my evening to talk business,” he said. “How serious?”
“Murder,” Jacobson said.
Reinhardt narrowed his eyes to slits. With his right hand resting on the edge of the door and his left holding the opposite door frame, his body formed a barrier across the entrance to his room. The white snowflake pattern on his black sweater stood out like a barbed-wire fence. “I want an explanation.”
“May we come in?” Jacobson asked.
Reinhardt glanced over his shoulder. It seemed to Sasha that he was hiding something—or someone—inside the room. He wasn’t having an affair, because—as far as she knew—he wasn’t married. But what if the dark-haired lady was somebody else’s wife? Or what if she was the victim, lying on the carpet bleeding to death? Sasha cringed inside. Nothing good could come of this.
Reinhardt stepped aside, and they entered. The luxury suite on the concierge level had more square footage than her apartment in Denver. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in blue silk and beige suede. There was a marble-top dining table with seating for eight. In the kitchen area, a tall woman with long black hair stepped out from behind the counter. She wore white slacks and a white cashmere sweater that contrasted with her healthy tan.
Though she wasn’t the woman Sasha had seen through the binoculars, this lady could have been a more athletic sister to the other. After she introduced herself as Andrea Tate, Sasha glanced at Brady and whispered, “It’s not her.”
The conversation between Reinhardt and Jacobson grew more heated by the moment. Jacobson had advised against opening until all the security measures were in place and his staff was adequately trained. He blamed Reinhardt for everything. For his part, Reinhardt was furious that someone dared to be murdered in his hotel.
Reinhardt turned away from Jacobson and focused on her. “I need to speak with Damien as soon as possible. There are liability problems to consider.”
“Yes, sir.” She hadn’t even considered the legal issues.
“Who was killed?”
Sasha froze. Her lips parted but nothing came out. She couldn’t exactly say that a murder had been committed. Nor did she have a name. And she was reluctant to point to the sleek black-haired woman and say the victim looked a lot like her.
Brady spoke for her. “I can’t give you a name.”
Reinhardt whipped around to face him. “My publicity people need to get on top of this situation right away. The grand opening is Saturday. Who the hell got killed?”
“We don’t know,” Brady said, “because we haven’t found the body.”
Though it didn’t seem possible, Reinhardt’s face turned a deeper shade of red. He punched the air with a fist. “A murder without a body? That’s no murder at all. What kind of sick game are you people playing?”
Panic coiled around Sasha’s throat like a hangman’s noose. She wanted to speak up and defend herself, but how? What could she say?
Jacobson sat in one of the tastefully upholstered chairs and took an orange from the welcome basket. He gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Reinhardt. I’ll explain everything.”
While Reinhardt circled the glass coffee table and lowered himself onto the sofa, Brady took her arm. “We’ll be going.”
“Wait for me outside,” Jacobson said.
They made a hasty retreat. As soon as the door to Reinhardt’s suite closed behind her, Sasha inhaled a huge gulp of air. It felt as if she’d been holding her breath the whole time she’d been in the suite. She shook her head and groaned.
“You look pale,” Brady said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m in so much trouble.”
“You did the right thing,” he reassured her.
That wasn’t much consolation if she ended up getting fired. Reinhardt had said that she needed to contact Damien, and she knew that was true. But she wanted to be able to tell him something positive. “Is there anything else we can do?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
He crossed the lounge to the concierge desk where Anita sat with her arms folded below her breasts and a smug expression on her face. “I warned you,” she said. “Mr. Reinhardt doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“Jacobson said you know this area better than anyone.”
“It’s my job,” she said coolly.
“If I wanted Chinese food, where would I go?”
“There’s a sushi bar scheduled to open next month. Right now none of the hotel restaurants serve Asian cuisine. And I’m sure you know that the local diners specialize in burgers, pizza and all things fried.”
Sasha walked up beside him. Her legs were wobbly, but she’d recovered enough to understand what was going on. Anita was acting like a brat as payback for them not listening to her earlier. The concierge would be in no mood to help. The best way to get through to her was to be even snottier than she was.
“She doesn’t know,” Sasha said, not looking at Anita. “She’s not as good at her job as she thinks she is.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Well, it’s true.” Sasha flipped her hair like a mean girl. “If one of the people up here on the concierge level requested moo shu pork, you’d just have to tell them to suck an egg.”
“For your information, missy, I’ve been providing gluten-free Asian food fried in coconut oil for a guest and his entourage since last Saturday. One of the chefs in the Golden Lyre Restaurant on the first floor of the hotel cooks up a special batch. I had it tonight myself.”
“Who’s the guest?” Brady asked.
“Sam Moreno, the famous self-help guru. He has a special diet.”
Sasha should have guessed. One of the main investors of the Arcadia resort, Mr. Moreno was always requesting special foods and drinks. “He’s picky, all right.”
Anita leaned across the desk and whispered, “And he’s staying right down the hall.”
Of course he was. Sasha groaned. She just couldn’t catch a break.
Three hours later Brady drove Sasha back to the corporate condo. His shift was over, and there didn’t seem to be anything more he could do at the hotel. He’d tracked the evidence to a dead end, leaving the matter of the assault-slash-murder unsolved