Читать книгу A Taste of Murder - Virginia Smith - Страница 9

The fire door closed behind him with a thud. Silence pressed against Josh Kirkland’s eardrums in the hotel’s back stairwell, ringing inside his head after the hubbub of the lobby. He started to climb, the echo of his footsteps an oddly welcome disruption of the noiseless space that surrounded him.

At the landing on the third floor, he paused to catch his breath. His heart pounded against his ribs, a sure sign that he needed to spend more time on the treadmill at the gym. He was panting like an old dog in the summertime after just a couple flights of stairs.

A sound reverberated from above. The click of a door being quietly shut. Josh smiled. She was probably checking on him, making sure he was on his way. He fished the magnetic card out of his pocket, a yellow sticky note still clinging to the side of it.

Can we talk about your vote? Meet me in room 4057 during your lunch break. Come up the back stairs so nobody sees. I’ll make it worth your while.

No signature, but that didn’t much matter to him. He’d thought about it all morning, and finally decided that it must have been written by one of the pageant contestants. His pulse accelerated as he remembered a few of the beautiful young women last year parading past the judges’ table in their evening gowns.

Or maybe it was one of the mothers of the younger contestants. Some of those women were among the most overbearing human beings on the planet. After last year’s pageant he’d gotten some pretty nasty e-mails from mothers of girls who didn’t win. On the other hand, a few of those women would go to amazing lengths to ensure their daughters took home the title of Little Princess. Including emptying their checking accounts for a little “title insurance.”

He bounded up the stairs to the fourth floor. At the top he opened the fire door slowly and peeked through. The hallway was deserted. He slipped across the thick carpet to the room with the numbers 4057 on the door.

Inside, he leaned against the closed door and looked around. Doubt tickled at his mind. Something wasn’t right.

“Hello?”

No answer. He stepped forward, glancing into the dark bathroom as he passed. Empty.

The room looked as though it had just been cleaned. Beds made. Carpet swept. Fresh notepad and pen beside the phone on the desk.

Only one thing looked out of place. A white grocery sack on the dresser. He moved closer. It was full, like somebody had been shopping. He peered inside.

Uh-oh. Maybe he was wrong. There were at least half a dozen bottles of—

A movement in the mirror above the dresser caught his eye. Every muscle in his body tensed as the door to the adjoining room swung open.

Tension fled, replaced by irritation as he recognized the person who stepped into view.

“What’s going on here?” He gestured toward the bag. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

His gaze dropped to watch in the mirror as the gloved hands, holding a thick rope, rose. Uncomprehending, he locked gazes with the reflection.

The rope was around his neck before he could move.