Chapter Sixteen Holly
Chapter Sixteen
HOLLY
We’re all silent, absorbing my theory that Simone’s body was somehow moved, unseen, into the ballroom. Mr Cohen’s face shows scandalized horror and pensive thought. Fitzwilliam speaks first.
‘That’s simply nonsense,’ he says. ‘This is one of the finest hotels in the world. Are you seriously suggesting someone dragged a battered corpse through the corridors and no one saw?’
Ortiz frowns. ‘What makes you so sure, Holly? We checked all the footage and interviewed staff. Simone’s corpse was 115 pounds dead weight. You can’t just throw that over your shoulder and walk in.’
‘True,’ I admit. ‘But the body temperature says different. And Simone wasn’t the only dead weight in this room.’ I point to the dresses. ‘Those wedding gowns must weigh twenty pounds at least. How were they transported inside the ballroom?’
‘Couture dressmakers provide their own rolling storage containers,’ explains Mr Cohen.
‘Large boxes, capable of transporting heavy loads,’ I confirm. ‘What time did they get wheeled in?’
Mr Cohen thinks. ‘My staff would have transported them in, at six a.m. on the day of the demo.’
Fitzwilliam and I exchange glances. Surprisingly for a person handed his whole life on a silver platter, he looks to have figured it out too.
‘You think Simone’s body could have been wheeled in here, inside the dress container?’
‘It would explain how the body temperature was off,’ I agree. ‘Simone was killed somewhere else, her body put in along with the dress, then transported to here. If it was a member of Plaza staff, they wouldn’t even have had to know what they were moving.’
Ortiz’s eyes settle on me in something like dawning respect.
‘OK,’ she says, turning to Mr Cohen. ‘Where would the dress have been prior to being moved here?’
‘We have a large storage room,’ explains Mr Cohen.
Ortiz is already moving toward the door. ‘Can we see it?’
‘Certainly.’ Mr Cohen hitches a key card from a chain on his belt and gestures for us to follow. ‘It’s just this way.’
We exit the back of the Plaza ballroom, make a couple of turns, then stop outside a set of wide double doors.
Mr Cohen flashes his key card, and pushes the handle.
‘This is storage?’ Ortiz enters ahead of me. The room is vast. Several times larger than my apartment. It’s decorated in a similar style to the rest of the hotel but is mostly empty, besides a few stacked gold chairs and tables.
‘Wedding parties often have extensive needs,’ says Mr Cohen. ‘We’ve had clients fly in two hundred full-sized Harrods hampers from London, to give as wedding favors. Those items can take up quite considerable space.’
‘It’s cold in here, right?’ I shiver. My eyes flick up to an air conditioner on the wall. ‘Jeez! It’s been set to 50 degrees. I didn’t even know AC could go that low.’
I walk deeper into the room. My eyes land on darker patches on the carpet. I see Ortiz follow my gaze.
Ortiz turns to the hotel manager. ‘Who had access to this room?’
‘It was reserved for the bridesmaids.’
‘Could someone else have gotten in? Staff, or—’
Mr Cohen shakes his head emphatically. ‘We take VIP security requests extremely seriously. There were security cameras and a twenty-four hour guard on this entire area.’
Ortiz glances at Mark Li, who is temporarily distracted by a message on his phone.
Her eyes slide to Fitzwilliam’s and she lowers her voice.
‘If Miss Stone is right, it rules out Leopold Kensington,’ she says. ‘Do you happen to know which bridesmaids visited this room?’
‘All of them had access,’ he says. ‘Apart from the bride. You could check the security camera footage to be wholly certain.’
‘We will,’ says Ortiz. ‘And we need to seal this room,’ she adds. ‘Police only. No civilians.’
Fitzwilliam nods, glancing at Mark. ‘What about her?’ He shoots me an undisguised look of hostility.
Ortiz hesitates. ‘She can stay,’ she decides.
Mr Cohen and Mark leave. As the door shuts behind them, the atmosphere shifts.
‘You smell it too, right?’ I ask her quietly, as the door closes behind them.
She gives a short, tight nod. Ortiz’s been on enough crime scenes to smell blood in the air.
Fitzwilliam is walking to the back of the room, where a clutch of golden chairs are stacked. He stops, then hunches down low, fixing his full attention on something out of view.
‘Look at this,’ he says. ‘What is a pile of steel poles doing in the corner?’
I cross the thick carpet to take in what he’s found.
A large pile of fifty or so long poles, with connecting screw-on segments lie untidily on the floor.
‘They’re scaffold poles,’ I say. ‘Maybe someone was building a stage or display of some kind.’
Fitzwilliam points. ‘Does that look like blood to you?’
I look closer, zeroing in where he’s pointing. A thick, two-foot-long sturdy steel pole.
Fitzwilliam lifts his face to Ortiz. ‘I think we’ve found our murder weapon.’