Unfortunately, the clerk Flack got the information from had not been on duty when Wendell Lang checked in or out.
Flack took the original of the sign-in card, holding it carefully in the corners, and dropped it into a small plastic bag which he pocketed. Then, with a key provided by the manager, he went up to the room Wendell Lang had rented.
The room was small. The maid had already made it up. He found the maid with a cart in the hallway, showed his badge, and asked if she had vacuumed the room and if she still had the trash from the room.
The woman, Estrella Gomez, was chubby, fair skinned, and in her thirties. She had only a slight accent when she said, "Room 704. Nothin' in the trash. No newspapers, nothin' in the room. Didn't use the towels. Didn't even sleep in the bed. I ran the vacuum. Tha's all."
Flack told Estrella Gomez to go to the front desk and tell them not to let anyone have the room, that it was a potential crime scene. Then he went back inside the room that Wendell Lang had rented, went to the window, opened it, and looked down and out. Sheer drop and two problems. The window was clearly in view of anyone looking up from 51st Street or across the street from a high-rise office building. The chances of someone lowering himself from the window and not being seen were poor even at night, although Don Flack had seen stranger things.
Flack would know after Hawkes's examination just when Alberta Spanio was murdered. If the sun had already come up, someone climbing out of a sixth-story hotel room stood a more-than-even chance of being spotted.
As he pulled his head back inside the open window, Flack saw a mark in the center of the sill, a small indentation that cut a narrow band through the center of the white wood. The indentation looked new, the exposed wood clean. He touched it, confirmed it was fresh. He took out his cell phone and called Stella.
Just as he was about to knock at Louisa Cormier's door, Mac's cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the caller number on the screen.
"Yes," he said, stopping and looking at the highly polished dark wood door finely engraved with curlicues and flowered vines.
"Mr. Taylor?" came a woman's soft voice.
Aiden stood nearby, aluminum case in hand, waiting.
"Yes," Mac said.
"This is Wanda Frederichson. We'd like to postpone finishing until the weather clears and we can remove enough snow."
Mac said nothing.
"Of course if you want to go ahead on Monday anyway, we'll do our best but we recommend…"
"Monday," Mac said. "It has to be Monday. Just do your best."
"And you still want everything we discussed."
"Yes," said Mac. "Long-range weather forecast says there won't be any more snow after tomorrow for at least a week."
"But," said Wanda Frederichson, "the temperature is scheduled to remain around zero for at least seven days."
Mac could tell that the woman wanted to say more, wanted to convince him to wait, but there was no waiting. It had to be Monday.
"And you did say there would be no guests?" Wanda Frederichson asked, double checking.
"None," said Mac. "Just me."
"Ten A.M., Monday then," Wanda Frederichson said, sounding resigned.
Mac flipped his cell phone closed. His eyes met Aiden's. If there was a question behind her brown eyes, she hid it. She knew better than to ask.
Mac used the knocker on the decorated door. From inside the apartment, he could hear five notes chiming.
"Phantom of the Opera," he said.
"Never saw it," she said.
The door opened. A petite woman in her fifties in a white blouse and blue skirt stood before them. Her hair was short, curled, and honey blonde, her eyes blue. Both the color of her hair and eyes were artificial, but nearly perfect. She wasn't quite pretty, but she had a delicate, made-up elegance and an almost sad smile that displayed perfect white teeth.
"Louisa Cormier?" asked Mac.
The woman looked at Mac and Aiden and said, "The police, yes. I was expecting you. Mr. McGee called from downstairs. Please come in."
"I'm Detective Taylor," Mac said. "This is Detective Burn. She'll wait for me out here."
Louisa Cormier looked at Aiden.
"She would be more than welcome…" Louisa began and then looked at Aiden's jacket and said, "Crime scene. The young lady is going to go over my foyer."
Mac nodded.
"It's perfectly fine with me," Louisa said with a smile. "Not that I could do anything about it even if it weren't. There's been a murder, and as the most isolated dweller in this building I'd like you to find out who did it as soon as possible. Please come in."
She stepped back so Mac could enter. When he was inside, she closed the door.
The room was more than a room. It was a dark, marble-floored, broad expanse with a dining area bigger than Mac's apartment, with a massive wooden table and sixteen chairs around it, plus a living area that looked large enough to play tennis in furnished with brightly upholstered antique furniture. Sliding glass doors led to a balcony with a panoramic view of the city facing north.
"It is big, isn't it," Louisa said, following Mac's eyes. "This is the part I let Architectural Digest use, this and the kitchen, and my library/office. My bedroom however…" she pointed toward a door in the living room area, "was off-limits to Architectural Digest, but not to you."
"I'd be very interested in seeing all the rooms," Mac said.
"I understand," said the woman with a smile. "Doing your job. Coffee?"
"No, thank you. Just a few questions."
"About Charles Lutnikov," she said, leading him into the living area and, with a delicate right hand, inviting him to sit where he wished.
Mac sat in an upright upholstered chair. Louisa Cormier sat across from him on a claw-legged sofa.
"You knew Mr. Lutnikov?"
"A little," she said. "Poor man. Met him when he first moved in. He was carrying one of my books, had no idea I lived here. I have a well-deserved reputation for being unwilling to talk about my work, but when I saw Charles in the lobby several weeks later he was carrying another of my books. Vanity."
"He was vain?" asked Mac.
"No," she said with a sigh. "That's the title of the book and the main character. I was, however, succumbing to vanity when I saw Charles with one of my books. I asked him if he was enjoying it and he said he was a big fan. Then I told him who I was. For an instant he didn't believe me and then he opened his book to the inside back flap and looked at the photograph. I know what you're thinking, that he knew who I was all the time, but he didn't. I could tell. My only concern was that he not become a gushing fan. I couldn't live with a gushing fan in the same building. You know, afraid to run into him, having to make small talk. The people in this building have respected my privacy as I've respected theirs."
"So you…?"
"Laid out ground rules," she said. "I'd sign his books. He was not to approach me with questions or comments if we ran into each other. We would simply smile and say 'hello.' "
"And it worked?"
"Perfectly."
"Did he ever come up here?" Mac asked.
"Up here? No. Have you ever read any of my books?"
"No, I'm sorry," he said.
"You needn't be. Millions, however, have."
She smiled broadly.
"Someone in our unit is a fan," Mac said. "I've seen him with your books. Did you hear a shot fired this morning?"
"What time?" she asked.
"Probably around eight," he said.
"I was out at eight," she said seriously. "I go out every morning."
"Where did you go this morning?"
"Well, in good weather I walk to Central Park, but this was not the day for it," she said. "I bought a newspaper, had coffee at Starbucks, and came home. Please."