Coming Soon. Jo Leigh

slammed her locker shut and walked toward the back entrance. No public transportation for her tonight. She was taking a cab all the way to Brooklyn Heights, cost be damned.

      Even at this ungodly hour the paps were in force. Naturally they’d seen the police vehicles and they were chomping at the bit to find out what had happened. She was escorted past them by one of the extra security guys and put into a taxi. Once she settled in for the ride, she thought again about what Geiger could have seen. It would have to be something really terrible. It wasn’t that long ago that her first thought would have been adultery. But nowadays, who cared enough about that to kill? According to the tabloids, people, especially show biz people, cheated every day. Revolving beds were the norm. So, no, she didn’t think it was about cheating.

      Her best guess was that it somehow involved money. Lots and lots of money. That was what those people seemed to love most. That’s what they protected at all costs. But what kind of photo could cost someone millions?

      She’d have to think about that. But not until tomorrow. She didn’t feel tired, but she knew that was just adrenaline, and by the time she got home, that would have dissipated and she’d crash. Which was good. The last thing she needed was to remember any details. Unless those details were all about one particular detective.

      Her head fell on the seat back. Nope, even the delectable detective wasn’t going to keep her awake tonight. Today. Whatever.

      “GEIGER WAS A BASTARD. There wasn’t a person on the set who didn’t want him dead.”

      Bax leaned back in the leather executive chair as he listened to yet another crock of bullshit from yet another movie big shot.

      Piper Devon, the owner of the hotel, had given him an office in the lower level so he could conduct his interviews in relative peace. So far he’d spoken to the cinematographer, the script supervisor and two actors, both of whom thought Geiger’s murder would somehow benefit their careers. None of them had given him anything useful. He’d tried to get to the producer, but Oscar Weinberg had flown to Los Angeles early this morning. Of course he’d checked, and the travel plans had been made earlier in the week, but he still had Weinberg on his list. According to the associate producer, he would be back in three days. For now, Bax settled for talking to the director.

      Peter Eccles was in his forties and his Hollywood life was written all over his face. Lines, wrinkles, fake perfect teeth, hair plugs and a completely immobile forehead made him appear more puppet than man. He was angry and nervous but his face looked weathered yet serene. Weird.

      “Look, I had nothing to do with his death. I don’t know who killed him and I’ve got to completely rearrange my shooting schedule because your people won’t let us have the nightclub, so if you’re done—”

      “I’ll let you know when I’m done,” Bax said. “When’s the last time you saw Gerry Geiger?”

      “Yesterday. He was standing outside the hotel all afternoon.”

      “Did you speak with him?”

      “No.”

      “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

      Eccles raised a hand to his head, but stopped just before running it through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t recall. We never actually spoke. It was more me yelling at him to get the hell away from my actors. Not what you’d call real dialogue.”

      “And you have no idea who would want to slit his throat?”

      “I told you. Everyone. All of them. Probably hundreds of people I don’t even know. He was a prick. A vampire. A waste of space.”

      “Did he ever take pictures of you?”

      “I’m sure he did.”

      “Were any of them compromising?”

      “You mean with my pants down? No. He never got that close.”

      Bax made a point of writing in his notebook, but it was mostly a list of what he needed to pick up at the store on his way home.

      Across from him, Eccles tapped his leg with his fingers, his unease and impatience telegraphed from his very pores. “Are we done?” he asked again.

      Bax wrote down cereal and cream, then checked the list to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. When he was satisfied he looked into Peter Eccles’s dark, furious eyes. “For now.”

      Eccles shot up and marched out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

      Bax thought about smiling, but it wasn’t worth it. Eccles was a jerk. They were all jerks. He doubted he’d get anything useful from even one of the players. He’d have to do some serious digging. Talk to Geiger’s paparazzi buddies. He’d put the wheels in motion to get a background check on all these movie people and on Gerry and Sheila Geiger. Grunwald was going to have his hands full.

      And then he’d talk to Mia Traverse. He still wasn’t sure about his approach yet, but one thing was in her favor. She was young, eager. It was a pretty safe bet she was already digging around the hotel, trying to find out all she could about Geiger and the movie crew. Bax wanted to know it all. Every detail. But he didn’t want to come right out and ask her to be his informant. He knew her first priority was the hotel and her job, which didn’t negate the fact that she was plugged into the world of Hush. No, this was going to be about finesse, not force.

      He went back to his original notes. It bothered him that the camera hadn’t been found. It bothered him that Geiger was a sleaze, that everyone despised him, that most of the people staying in the hotel were suspects. At the moment the only people he could unequivocally eliminate as suspects were Piper Devon and Mia Traverse. Devon been at a very public function last night, her alibi confirmed by photographs in the New York Post. Traverse had been with her girlfriends in and around the hotel.

      He wondered what she might have seen. Who. She may well know the killer’s identity without even realizing it.

      That was one interview he wasn’t dreading in the least.

      “SLIT. FROM EAR TO EAR. It was beyond horrible.” Mia looked around the cafeteria, sure everyone was staring at her, wondering. Not if she’d killed Geiger, but if she knew something more than she’d told the police.

      The truth was, she didn’t. Not yet. But she didn’t do a thing to dissuade people from the idea that she did. Know stuff. Any stuff.

      Her lunch companion, Theresa, the head of housekeeping, had been a buddy for a long while and they often ate together, so that wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows. What most of the staff didn’t think about was Theresa’s unbelievable information-gathering resources.

      The maids.

      It was the same in all hotels in Mia’s experience. Guests, especially the upper echelon, didn’t see the maids. They didn’t speak to them, they didn’t interact with them. Therefore, maids were not real. They were robots that cleaned and vacuumed. Mia had always felt badly that so few patrons tipped the maids, considering the crap the poor things had to put up with.

      In this instance, it wasn’t the crap they had to clean that had her hunkering down with Theresa, it was the stuff they saw.

      “I saw dead bodies two times,” Theresa said.

      She was eating an empanada that smelled so good Mia was cursing her yogurt. But then Theresa was five-ten at least, statuesque and curvy. Not her five-two with barely a curve to be seen.

      “One was just an old guy who had a heart attack. That was okay, but the second one, oh, baby.”

      “What?”

      Theresa leaned closer. “Autoerotic asphyxiation.”

      “No.”

      “Yes. And you know what was the worst part?”

      “What?”

      “He was alone. I found him on the bathroom floor, his