It also had a staggering arsenal in the back. For a totally nonviolent individual, Manny believed in preparation more than many Boy Scouts.
Jazz drove, of course. Lucia was just as happy to let her; she couldn't imagine piloting the thing around without scraping off a few bumpers from the tiny-looking cars around them. It was a little like steering a cruise ship through a sailboat regatta.
Lucia kept busy watching the street around them, alert for any sign that Eidolon, the Cross Society or anyone else might be intent on following or intercepting, but she didn't spot anything that tripped an alarm. Of course, if it was Gregory, or someone as skilled, then she probably wouldn't know until the bullets began flying.
Jazz slowed as they passed the Raphael's main entrance, and took the next turn. Service entrance and non valet parking. She parked the Hummer carefully and finally asked, "Ready?"
"Of course."
"Watch your ass."
Before Lucia could reply, Jazz was already out the door, climbing down to the parking lot. Lucia hurried to catch up, and scanned the lot as they moved to the back dock. The door was propped open, and a chef was smoking a cigarette outside; he was a big fellow in his white uniform, made taller by the trademark hat. Jazz nodded pleasantly to him, and he nodded back. He didn't try to stop them.
The service elevators—like service elevators everywhere—were a great deal more lived-in than the fancy ones used by the guests, and were big enough to move grand pianos without feeling cramped. Jazz pushed the button for five, then six.
"You take the fifth floor," she said. "Come in through the stairwell. I'll go straight in."
"No," Lucia said instantly, and had to think fast to come up with a reason. "Susannah knows me, she's never seen you. It'll be less confusing if I make the direct approach. Right?"
"Fine." They watched numbers crawl. "How do you feel?"
"Do you want me to manufacture a cough?"
"Heh. No."
"Then let's just get this done so I can go to the hospital."
At the fifth floor, Jazz stepped off, heading for the stairs. Lucia pulled her P95 and held it at her side, and edged back into the far corner of the elevator as it dinged arrival.
She risked a quick glimpse down the hallway. Clear. It was a long way to the room, exposed all the way. No help for it.
She left the elevator and started walking, constantly scanning the closed hotel room doors. Nothing stirred. She heard televisions from one, a hair dryer from another. Voices, muffled and indistinct.
The room they'd been given was in the discreetly secured section, beyond a manned concierge desk and behind a key-carded door.
The concierge's desk was empty.
The door clicked open. Beyond, the hallway was wider, and more opulently appointed, with antique hall tables and original artwork on the walls. And the lights were lower.
No sign of the concierge here, either.
She paused at the stairwell and opened the door. Jazz stepped out. "Any trouble?" she asked.
"None. You?"
"There's a few blood drops on the stairs. Could be anything—a kid having a nosebleed. Or could be something. No way to tell." Jazz, Lucia noticed, also had her gun out and ready. "Which one?"
Lucia mutely nodded at the right door. They moved into position on either side, communicating silently, and Lucia knocked twice and said, "Omar? Open up."
No response. She held up the key card. Jazz nodded, all business, and shifted her weight to be ready to move.
The card clicked in the lock, and the door opened at a touch, swinging back with silent ease. Lucia beat Jazz to entry by a split second, taking the low line, unable to see much for the shadows. The curtains were drawn.
"Lights," Jazz said, and hit the switch with her shoulder.
In the blaze, the blood looked very, very bright.
Omar lay on the floor, sprawled and lifeless, next to an overturned armchair.
His throat had been cut. Lucia gasped in a breath, felt her body constrict with the shock. A wave of unreality swept over her.
"Focus," Jazz said softly. "Stay with me, L."
Omar was dead. The cut was deep, one slice, right to left. The standard for a right-handed killer facing him. She wanted to reach over, press her fingers to his neck, even though she knew it was illogical to feel for a pulse. This had been done at least a couple of hours ago. Omar's lovely dark eyes were open, and dry. Gregory? It could have been, but even Gregory might find it in bad taste to come visiting a few minutes before killing her friend. No, she didn't think so. Gregory wouldn't have made this much of a mess.
"Lucia!"
She blinked and focused on Jazz's stark, pale, set face. "I'm here," she said. "Take the next room." Her voice sounded far away, but normal.
Jazz nodded and went into the bedroom. Lucia averted her eyes from Omar's body and scanned the closets, the bathroom, under the furniture. She was almost convinced Susannah was gone, dead in a ditch, when she heard a stealthy hiss of breathing, quickly muffled.
"Susannah?" She turned and looked at the far end of the room again. Nothing there. An elegant Queen Anne desk and chair, a big-screen plasma TV, the sweep of long maroon velvet curtains…
It couldn't be that easy. She couldn't be hiding behind the curtains. Not even kids did that anymore, did they?
And then she spotted it. It was tough to see, and designed to be that way, no doubt. A privacy screen of the same material as the wallpaper, blending seamlessly into the fabric of the wall.
Lucia moved around, giving it a wide berth, and came face-to-face with Susannah Davis, huddled against the wall, trembling. Bruised face averted.
"Got her!" she called, and reached out to touch Susannah on the shoulder.
She had just enough reflexes to jump back out of range as the knife slashed wildly at her. Don't shoot her, some part of Lucia's mind screamed, in time to stop her finger from tightening on the trigger. She danced backward, holstered the gun as she went, and executed a perfect roundhouse kick that sent the knife flying out of Susannah's hand to thud against the velvet drapes. The knife was bloody. Omar's blood. Lucia lunged forward, batted aside Susannah's flailing hands, and wrenched one arm up behind her back. Susannah cried out. She felt hot and damp with sweat against Lucia's chest, and Lucia was overcome with a wave of disgust and anger that made her want to pull that arm up until it snapped.
Instead, she kicked the backs of Susannah's knees and got her down flat on her stomach on the carpet.
"Jazz!" she yelled, and snapped handcuffs around one of Susannah's wrists, then the other. "I've got her!"
Jazz reappeared at the door, gazed down at Susannah coolly, and said, "I think you'd better take a look in here."
"Now?"
"Now. Bring her."
Lucia removed her knee from the center of Susannah's back and hauled her upright; the woman's battered face was spattered with blood, pale where it wasn't stained or abraded. Her eyes looked dim and shocked.
The lights were on in the bedroom, and there was more blood. Not Susannah's, obviously; not Omar's, who'd unquestionably died in the next room. No, this was…
Leonard Davis, Susannah's abusive husband. He was facedown next to the bed. Hard to tell how he'd died, but Lucia bet it had been from the blade of some knife. Whatever wounds he had must be in the front; his back looked untouched, except for the fact that his pants were halfway down his pale butt.
"What happened?" she asked, and looked at Susannah, who was staring at Leonard as if he might rise from the dead at any moment.
"I don't know how he got into the room," Jazz said, "but I can walk you through forensics. He got the drop on Omar, probably by threatening to kill Susannah. I'm betting he had a knife at her throat."