Hunting the Witch (Jane Lawless Series #9)

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Chapter One

ST. PAUL, THURSDAY EVENING

It was a raw, gusty November night the last time Jeffrey Chapel walked up the broad sweep of steps to the St. Paul Cathedral. Entering through the side door, he passed into the vestibule. The two appointments that awaited him in Minneapolis weighed heavily on his mind. To stay focused, to bolster his flagging courage, he needed a few minutes of quiet reflection, and that's why he'd come. The cathedral had become a refuge of late, a place of retreat when he needed time alone.

    Jeffrey had never been much of a churchgoer. Before his mother died, she'd written to him, calling him a "lukewarm Catholic"—a mighty condemnation coming from her pious lips. During his many years in the military, he'd never attended church regularly. He hadn't been to confession in years. And yet, with all the chaos surrounding him now, he'd found a kind of peace within the walls of this magnificent baroque edifice. Catholic theology meant nothing to him—less than nothing. It was the atmosphere inside the sanctuary that affected him so deeply.

    Perhaps, he reasoned, it was a holdover from his childhood, a time when the Catholic God he'd been taught about was safely on his throne and his own life made sense. Black-and-white creeds were made for children. The curse of adult life was to see those clear-cut blacks and whites dissolve into millions of shades of gray. Jeffrey realized that most of the people in this building believed passionately in their image of God, and though he found their certainty bewildering, the feel of the place still appealed to him,especially since his own life had suffered terribly from a lack of personal conviction.

    None of this would have been enough to placate his mother, of course, but in a strange way, Jeffrey needed to be here. He needed the tiny, flickering candles, the hushed voices echoing through the cavernous interior, the scent of polished wood, and the perfume of incense. But most importantly, he needed that reverent, meditative calm, the kind of quiet that got inside his soul and stayed there. He hoped to find strength here tonight, because for what he had to do, he'd need every ounce of strength he could muster.

    Entering the nave through one of the rear doors, he saw that a few parishioners were still sitting in the pews, perhaps leftovers from the early evening mass. Directly to his left was an alcove that held Mary's shrine. Breathing in the serene atmosphere, he walked up to the votive candles and lit one, saying a silent prayer. Then, kneeling before the statue, he gazed up into Mary's youthful face. True to form, the artist had created a child, not a woman—a sweet girl who could accept simple answers without question. Jeffrey would have felt more secure confiding in a face that looked as if it had lived a little, one where innocence had been worn away by the hard realities of life. And yet, he'd come here tonight for help; he might as well ask for it.

    Bowing his head, he folded his hands and pressed them to his forehead. He quickly became so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't hear the footsteps behind him until a soft voice called, "Colonel Chapel?"

    Jeffrey turned to find a short, portly man with a neatly clipped gray beard leaning over him. It was Father Latimer, one of the priests.

    "I'm sorry to interrupt you," said the priest apologetically, "but I haven't seen you here in weeks. I've been ... concerned. I'm leaving in a few minutes, and I was hoping we might talk."

    Jeffrey didn't feel like having a conversation just then, but since he owed this particular priest a great deal, he got up and followed him to one of the back pews. He'd been planning to call Father Latimer to thank him for the information he'd passed along almost two months ago, but with everything in his life caving in around him, he'd put it off.

    After they'd settled themselves, the priest asked, "Did you see her? Was she able to help?"

    Jeffrey looked down at the wedding band on his left hand. Father Latimer had officiated at his marriage five years ago. "Yes," he said, pressing his lips together and looking up at the altar. "I saw her."

    "And?"

    "It's not good news."

    The priest gave a deep sigh, sitting back in the pew. "I was afraid of that."

    "Listen, Father, I've done a lot of thinking in the past month. I'm going to ask my wife for a divorce tonight. She deserves much better than me."

    The priest looked shocked. "Shouldn't she be the judge of that?"

    "No. And I want to take it a step further. Once the divorce is final, I want the church to grant us an annulment. Brenna must be able to marry again." As much as he needed to protect his wife from what was bound to happen, he knew he couldn't. The best he could do was cut her loose—give her a second chance—and hope like hell that one day she could forgive him.

    "But the sacrament was celebrated. You took vows. It's not as simple as you might think, Colonel."

    "Please, I'm retired from the military. You promised to call me Jeffrey."

    "Yes, right ... but ... you ... you consummated the marriage, yes? You've slept together?"

    "Of course. That's not an issue."

    "But it is. I mean—" Latimer paused, then looked off into space.

    Jeffrey felt a moment of intense guilt for the pathetic lies he'd told the man during their last meeting. At the time, he had seen no other way.

    Returning his attention to Jeffrey, the priest seemed very sad. "God loves you, my son. If you want to talk further—"

    "Thanks—but no thanks."

    "You say you're going to speak with Brenna tonight?"

    Jeffrey nodded.

    "She doesn't know?"

    "She knows something's been wrong for a long time; she just doesn't know what."

    "And your father-in-law?"

    "He's part of the problem."

    "I see." He scratched his beard, looking confused. "Well, actually, I don't see. But ... have you informed him of your plans?"

    Sure, thought Jeffrey. The priest had to be concerned about how one of the parish's most influential members would take the news. "Andrew and I haven't ... Well, let's just say, we need to sit down and talk. Work some things out."

    "You make it sound serious."

    "It is."

    "But the two of you were always so close—such good friends. I know for a fact that Andrew loves you like his own son."

    Jeffrey wasn't sure how to respond.

    "If I can be of any help—"

    "Nobody can help."

    "I think you're wrong there."

    But Jeffrey knew he wasn't. He also wasn't interested in debating the subject. "You've been very kind to me. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't put me onto Julia Martinsen. I've made a mess of everything, Father, and now I have to live with the consequences. I'm not particularly optimistic, but I'll let you know what happens—that is, if you don't read it in the papers first."

    The priest grimaced, but offered nothing more.

    With one last glance over his shoulder at the statue of Mary, Jeffrey eased out of the pew, nodded good-bye, and then headed for the rear door. It was getting late. A glut of rush-hour traffic would undoubtedly slow him down, and the parking near the hotel would be the usual nightmare. He didn't have a minute to spare.

    Trotting down the steps to his car, Jeffrey was struck by the fact that crossing the river tonight meant far more than just driving from St. Paul to Minneapolis. In a way, it was a metaphor. Once he made it to the other side, there'd be no turning back. All bridges would be burned. That's how he'd set it up. And come hell or high water, that's just how he intended to play it.

Chapter Two

MINNEAPOLIS, THURSDAY EVENING

Patricia Kastner stood underneath the rounded stone arch, the once elegant entrance to the Winter Garden Hotel in downtown Minneapolis, and watched a white limo pull up to the curb. She waited, her excitement growing, as two men got out, both of them eyeing the dilapidated Romanesque building with serious expressions. She wondered where the third member of the group was, but assumed he'd be along shortly.

    So, this was it. The moment she'd been waiting for. Two weeks ago she'd presented her proposal to the entire membership of the Haymaker Club, a group comprised of wealthy individuals who donated five percent of their very substantial net incomes to a charitable work each year. The group had hustled Patricia to join almost as hard as she'd hustled them to back her plan to turn the vacant and decaying Winter Garden into the Twin Cities' newest assisted-living home.

    At the initial meeting, Patricia had explained in great detail her primary motivations. First, ever since she was a child, she'd loved the decaying grandeur of the Winter Garden. As an adult, she'd come to the conclusion that it should be preserved at all costs, not torn down to make room for another inner-city parking lot, as several developers had proposed. Secondly, last spring when she'd visited New York on a business trip, she'd been introduced to a new kind of assisted-living environment, one targeted at the fastest-growing segment of the population—the aging baby boomer.

    The theory was simple. Take an old hotel, preferably one with charm, class, and historic significance, and turn it into luxury apartments for older men and women—those who, for various health reasons, can't live independently any longer, but who also don't want to give up their privileged lifestyle. Add to the mix an à la carte menu of services—a gourmet restaurant on the premises for personal use or for entertaining guests, one that also delivers meals directly to the apartments; a staff of home health care aides; medication reminders; cleaning assistance; even someone to make beds and do laundry—all accomplished with taste and professionalism. Patricia believed that she had the makings of a gold mine.

    Quite simply, boomers had bucks. As the time came for them to check out of their homes, they still wanted the good life. And Patricia was planning to give it to them. What was currently available for the aging population's declining years was not only limited, but often depressing. But set the boomers up in the middle of a thriving metropolis, with theatre, sports facilities, and tons of exclusive shops just a stone's throw away, and Patricia bet people would be lining up to get in. It was a gamble, of course, as most new ideas were, but she knew she could make it work. She simply needed a one-time infusion of capital. That's what the Haymaker Club would provide.

    Three months ago, Patricia had purchased the building. She came from a family of wealthy boomers herself, and had milked her trust fund for all it was worth. The Winter Garden had been vacant for several years and was viewed by most city planners as a white elephant—too expensive to restore just to keep history alive. She intended to show them a new way to preserve history and, ultimately, to prove them wrong.

    While she'd assembled enough money to cover the purchase, Patricia needed a silent partner to back both the restoration and the renovation—and the Haymaker Club fit the bill perfectly. Even though this wasn't a strictly charitable undertaking, Patricia had agreed to provide a fixed number of low-income apartments complete with housing subsidies for those who couldn't afford to pay full price. She could tell by the excited looks on the faces of the Haymaker Club's general membership that this was an idea that appealed to them—personally.

    Tonight, the three members of the executive board were scheduled to meet her at the hotel. Eddie Flynn, her architect, was also in attendance. It was his job to explain the proposal firsthand. Because the building had been erected in 1896, Eddie was working with the State Historic Preservation Office to have it placed on the National Register of Historic Places. That would not only ensure the opportunity to take advantage of federal tax credits for capital investments in rental property, but bestow on the building something less tangible and yet equally important—the status of being listed in the National Register. Eddie had worked with the SHPO office before, and he was certain that all the renovations he and his firm were proposing would be considered "sympathetic" alterations and would not in any way endanger the historic nature of the building. The jewel was to be the complete restoration of the main lobby and the first-floor restaurant, the Palmetto Room.

    Waiting as the two men walked up the steps to the entrance, Patricia took a moment to study them again. She'd done a thorough investigation of the club before she made her approach, but her face-to-face meeting with Andrew Dove, founding member and the current president of the organization, had told her more in five minutes than had all her research.

    Dove was smart, wily, and believed firmly in the good old capitalist ideal. Just her kind of man. He was in his early sixties, tall, elegant, silver-haired. The perfectly clipped beard and the English tweeds he wore gave him a professorial air, although underneath he was really just a hustler in a designer suit. Before purchasing Sterling Air, which he quickly renamed after himself, Dove had been both an entrepreneur and a developer. Shopping centers were his particular speciality. Dove Airlines had appeared on the scene five years ago to challenge Northwest on its home turf, boasting cut-rate fairs to most of the larger airlines' priciest destinations. At first, it had seemed to be not only a brilliant idea, but a lucrative one. And yet, in the last six months, Northwest had begun to engage the smaller airline in a fare war. Labor unrest also seemed to dog the new airline. Still, if anyone could make it work, Patricia had confidence that Andrew Dove could.

    The younger man, Joe Patronelli, was a running back for the Minnesota Vikings. Patricia assumed he'd been named vice president to add to the group's visibility—something Andrew Dove appeared to covet. In fact, Patronelli was a one-man walking event. Wherever he went, reporters soon followed. He was blue-eyed, dark-haired, hunky, and handsome and, unfortunately, as Patricia had already found out, seemed to know it. He'd been married for many years, but that didn't stop him from making passes at attractive women. In the short time she'd known him, he'd come on to her twice. If he wasn't careful, she just might take him up on his offer. She didn't mind mixing business with pleasure—as long as it was just fun and games.

    As Andrew got to the top step, he thrust out his hand. "Good to see you're on time, Ms. Kastner." His smile and his enthusiasm reminded her of a game-show host.

    "Where's the third member of your party?" she asked, holding the door open as the two men entered. Joe Patronelli gave her a conspiratorial wink as he walked past.

    Frowning, Dove checked his watch. "I'll have Jeffrey's hide if he's not here in the next five minutes."

    Jeffrey Chapel, the chief financial officer, was married to Andrew Dove's only daughter. To Patricia's way of thinking, he was the key member of tonight's group because he remained the only potential opposition. Patronelli would do anything Dove said, but not Chapel. After her presentation two weeks earlier, she'd taken some extra time to get to know him. The more they talked, the more she realized she liked him, especially his "cando" attitude, which would make working with him a pleasure. He appeared to be the kind of man who got things done—and done right.

    After his retirement from the marines, Jeffrey had joined Dove Airlines as a senior flight executive. He explained to Patricia that by the end of his twenty-year military career, he'd reached the level of wing commander. She wasn't sure what that meant, but tried to look impressed. He seemed particularly proud of the fact that he'd flown the Harrier, the Marine Corps special jet fighter. Even in retirement, he still served on the board of directors of the Marine Corps League in Quantico, Virginia. And because he seemed to have his own special charisma and following at the club, she'd taken a great deal of care to walk him through the entire project. She hoped it was enough to sway him in her direction.

    Patricia led the two men into a small office behind the reception desk where Eddie Flynn had already laid out his architectural plans. Dove instructed the architect to get right down to business. The missing member of their group could be brought up to speed later. By the sarcastic tone of his voice, Patricia could tell something was up between the two men. She wondered what it was, hoping it had nothing to do with the Winter Garden.

    Eddie, an attractive young man with ginger hair and a permanently amused expression, immediately took over, explaining how the ten-story structure currently had twenty-four units per floor. These would be combined and made into luxury apartments—some one-bedroom suites, some two-bedroom, and some with the addition of a den or study. He handed the two men the proposed floor plans; then he slipped several renderings of the restored lobby and restaurant out of his portfolio.

    As he talked, Patricia stood to the side. She had great confidence in the architect she'd chosen to do the renovation. He was unusually gifted, and therefore in great demand locally. He also had an enthusiasm for his work that he seemed able to pass along to others. Since they were about the same age—late twenties—Eddie's relative youth was hardly a liability in Patricia's eyes. As it turned out, his specialty and passion was for historic restorations. She felt lucky to be working with him.

    Sensing that he had the first part of the meeting well in hand, Patricia slipped out and returned to the front entrance to wait for Colonel Chapel. Just as she made it to the door, she saw him bounding up the front steps, two at a time. Ever since their first meeting, she'd been trying to decide who he reminded her of. She'd finally settled on Richard Gere. He had the same sexy movements and animal attractiveness. His bearing was still all marine—but underneath, she could almost feel his pulse. He wasn't as overtly gorgeous as Patronelli, but if he'd made a pass at her, he wouldn't have needed to make a second.

    "Sorry I'm late," he said, giving her a frustrated smile as he pulled off his leather gloves and stuck them into his pockets.

    "You may need those," she said, nodding to the gloves. "We haven't got much heat in here. It's just enough so that the pipes don't freeze."

    Chapel followed her into the lobby.

    "You haven't missed much," she assured him. They stood for a moment while he visually inspected the space. "We're just getting started."

    "Then everyone else is here?" His gaze moved to the water damage and the gang graffiti on the walls. "This place really is a mess."

    "I'm told most of the problems are cosmetic. The structure is solid as a rock."

    He eyed a bank of elevators. "Hey, look at that. Those make me feel like I'm back in Paris. You don't see many open cages in the U.S. anymore."

    "They don't work," said Patricia, pulling her leather jacket more snugly around her body. "They're something we may have to replace."

    "But they're so ... rare. All that ornate ironwork. It seems a shame." He walked nearer, pulling back one of the sliding grates. "Maybe the mechanism can be repaired and brought up to code. Even if our group doesn't end up helping you with the renovation, I'd get a second opinion from a structural engineer." Chapel peered down into the dark hole.

    She didn't like the sound of his last comment. "Be careful, Colonel. That shaft is open all the way to the basement."

    He turned around. "You were going to call me Jeffrey, remember?"

    "Oh ... right." God, he had a sexy smile.

    "Come on. Let's find the others."

    She would have preferred to talk to Jeffrey privately—to ask him what his sticking points were—but he seemed so intent on being part of the meeting that she led him directly into the back room where Eddie was just finishing his initial run-through.

    When Dove heard them come in, he turned around. "How nice that you could join us, Jeffrey." His tone oozed sarcasm.

    Chapel didn't respond. Instead, he glanced at Patronelli, then at Eddie.

    "You remember Eddie Flynn," said Patricia, trying to ease the tension in the room with an unnecessary introduction.

    "Of course," said Chapel, stepping forward to look at the architectural plans.

    Something was going on, thought Patricia. She wished she had a better fix on what it was. Even Patronelli looked uncomfortable, and he rarely ever lost his swagger.

    "Shall we take a short tour of the building?" said Eddie, moving toward the door. "I'd like to show you some of the more interesting features of the hotel. You can ask whatever questions you want, and then I'll give you some time to look the place over on your own. I feel confident that what you'll see here tonight will not only convince you that our ideas for the Winter Garden are feasible, but also truly exciting."

    Patricia brought up the rear as the group left the office.

    "The architect who designed the building," continued Eddie, moving slowly through the two-story arcade that served as the main lobby, "was none other than Leroy Buffington." A colonnade of carved marble pillars flanked the space, each pillar topped with a different animal head. "Buffington was famous for his Romanesque designs, but with the Winter Garden, he combined all the classic details—the massive red sandstone exterior, the rounded stone arches, the ornate ironwork—with an even more exuberant examination of the style. This hotel, once restored, will allow us a rare glimpse of our past—the Gay Nineties, with all its brash effervescence."

    Eddie allowed that to sink in for a moment. Then he continued, "If you'll all follow me to the end of the arcade, I'd like to show you the famous Palmetto Room. This restaurant was one of the finest in its day—and certainly one of the most architecturally unique."

    Patricia was particularly interested in this aspect of the restoration. She had a friend, Jane Lawless, who owned one of the hottest restaurants in town. Patricia was hoping she'd be able to talk her into consulting on this part of the renovation. It would undoubtedly mean some private dinner meetings, even some late night consultations, which was all part of her plan.

    The truth was, Patricia had been attracted to Jane ever since they'd first met last fall. This wasn't the first woman she'd been attracted to. Her first love in high school had been another girl. Patricia wanted to pursue a relationship with Jane to see where it might lead, but unfortunately, Jane was currently involved with someone else, a woman Patricia loathed. This might just be the "in" she'd been looking for—a way to spend more time together. If the girlfriend got jealous, hey, it was just business, right? In Patricia's experience, late-night business meetings often led to more pleasurable kinds of negotiations. She figured Jane was already interested in her. All she had to do was apply the right pressure at the right moment.

    As Eddie led the way into the restaurant, Patricia heard her cell phone give a beep. Walking away from the group, she removed it from her coat pocket and clicked it on, surprised to find Kate, her secretary, on the line. She sounded upset.

    "Slow down," said Patricia, covering her other ear with her hand. Since she was head of marketing at Kastner Gardens, a family-owned home-and-garden store, she knew she had to deal with whatever emergency situation had come up. Returning to the room behind the reception desk, she shut the door. The top half of the door was glass, so if this took more than a few minutes, at least she'd be able to see when the tour ended. She wanted to talk to each member of the board before he left and get a feel for how he was leaning—especially Jeffrey Chapel.

    "All right, Kate, what's up?"

    "It's that poster—the one you commissioned for the Thanksgiving mum show? The one we do every year at Manderbach's department store?"

    "I know where it's held, Kate. What about it?" Wearily, Patricia sat down at the shabby desk.

    "Remember how they went back and forth about the date? Well, I'm not clear on how it happened, but the film with the wrong date went to the printer."

    "Didn't anyone do a press check?"

    "Apparently not. It had been proofed here in the art department by four different people. Actually, I think you saw it too. No one noticed it."

    This was a catastrophe. "Give me the bottom line."

    "Well ... it looks like it will be another thirty-five thousand dollars to have it reprinted."

    Patricia groaned, covering her eyes with her free hand.

    "It was a four-color poster."

    "I know that. Isn't there any way to fix this without reprinting the entire thing?"

    "Well, I suppose we could print some sort of sticker to put over the date to alter it."

    Patricia began to massage her temples. "Is that the best you can do?"

    "Well, maybe we could mail an `oops' note with it. You know, something about the date being changed?"

    Thirty-five thousand dollars, thought Patricia. And it was her ass on the line. "How long will it take to redo the film and then reprint?"

    "Well, they could make the computer changes in no time. Then three days I suppose for the film and proofs. Then another week for the press to run the new ones off."

    The more they talked, the worse it got. Patricia became so consumed by the disaster that she lost track of time. She started making notes on the back of one of her proposal statements. While she was adding up some figures, she heard a soft knock on the door. Looking up, she saw that it was Eddie. He gave her a triumphant grin and a thumbs-up. "We got 'em."

    She shot to her feet. "Where are they now?"

    "Leaving."

    "Can't you make them wait?"

    "I don't think so. Dove was in a real rush to get home. He said he'd call you in a few days."

    Damn. "What about Chapel? He didn't seem all that positive."

    "You know what? You worry too much." He folded his arms and leaned casually against the door frame.

    Easy for him to say. He hadn't milked his trust fund to within an inch of its life to buy the place. "Can you stay?" she asked, holding her hand over the receiver. "I've got a crisis here, but I should be done in a few minutes."

    "Hey, sorry, but I've got a hot date. You understand. We can talk tomorrow. I'll call you first thing in the morning. Will you be at your office?"

    "Yes—unless I'm standing in front of a firing squad." Good thing she was the daughter of the owner. "Tell me the truth ... you really think they were all convinced the restoration is a good idea?"

    "We've got Dove in our pocket, Patricia. That's all we need. I'll give you the full details tomorrow." He backed out of the doorway with a quick wave.

    Half an hour later, Patricia was still on the phone with her secretary trying to run damage control. The longer they talked, the more apparent it became that she wasn't going to find a solution. "Listen, leave the head of graphics a message that I want him in my office at nine sharp tomorrow morning. No excuses.

    "Will do," said Kate.

    As Patricia hung up, she realized her toes were going numb. Nylons and stiletto heels didn't do much to insulate a woman from the cold. Pushing out of the chair, she picked up her briefcase and then started for the door. She was just about to switch off the overhead light when she thought she saw something move out in the lobby. Sure enough, as she came out of the back room, she found a woman standing at the base of the central stairs.

    "Can I help you?" she asked, wondering how she got in. Surely Eddie had locked the front door on his way out.

    The woman seemed startled by Patricia's abrupt entrance, but quickly recovered, giving her an appraising look. She was thirtyish and attractive, expensively dressed in a full-length fur coat and designer boots. Her long hair, twisted into an elegant bun at the back of her neck, was the color of straw. "I hope so. I'm looking for my husband. Jeffrey Chapel?"

    "Oh, sure. Mrs. Chapel. We haven't met yet, but I'm Patricia Kastner. I assume you knew about the meeting here tonight. I'm afraid your husband left about half an hour ago."

    "I see." She lowered her eyes, then raised them again. "I don't suppose you know where he went."

    "I didn't talk to him before he left."

    The woman walked a few paces closer. "We were supposed to meet for dinner at a restaurant just down the street. When he didn't show up, I thought perhaps he'd been delayed here."

    "No, sorry." Even though she hid it well, Patricia could tell Mrs. Chapel was upset. "I'm sure there's a simple explanation for why he's late."

    She nodded, then bit her lower lip and looked back up the stairs.

    "If you'd like, we can take a walk around the building. I can't imagine why he'd stick around, but.—"

    "That seems like a lot of trouble. Maybe I should just go back to the restaurant and wait."

    "That might be the best idea."

    "I'm sorry I bothered you." With one last look around, Jeffrey Chapel's wife turned and headed for the front door. Perhaps she was rushing to get back to the restaurant before her husband arrived, but whatever the case, she sure seemed to be in a hurry.

    After she'd gone, Patricia crossed to the front door and felt the handle. Sure enough, it turned easily in her hand. Eddie probably thought she was leaving any minute, so why bother to lock up?

    Feeling uneasy, Patricia threw the bolt, securing the door. Then she returned to the back room and grabbed a flashlight from one of the lower desk drawers. Something about Mrs. Chapel's demeanor had unsettled her. She needed to make a quick sweep of the building before she left for the night.

    Beginning her search on the top floor, she worked her way down. Everything seemed quiet enough as she passed through the dimly lit hallways, shining her flashlight into the rooms. Finally, returning to the main floor, she realized her search was not only pointless, but silly. Yet she knew she had to finish it before she could leave for the night.

    On her way down the narrow stone steps to the basement, Patricia thought she heard a noise, a kind of scraping, but assumed it was just traffic sounds coming in from the street. She switched on the light in the laundry room, but found that everything was quiet. That's when she heard it again. Another scraping noise—and then a thump.

    Her instincts told her to run and yet she felt an irresistible urge to find the source of the noise. She walked slowly, quietly, toward the west end of the building. As she came around a corner, she felt a breeze. Shining her flashlight on the far wall, she saw that one of the high windows leading to the back alley was open. Beneath the window were a filthy-looking knapsack and a shopping bag filled to overflowing with empty soda cans. This was the second time she'd seen evidence that a homeless man was using the hotel as a place to crash. She'd probably scared him when she came downstairs, and he'd beat it as fast as he could.

    First thing tomorrow, she would get a workman in to put some bars on the windows. She didn't want the place trashed any more than it already was.

    Well, she thought to herself as she walked back down the hall, Jeffrey Chapel clearly isn't here. By now, he had probably made it to the restaurant and was apologizing to his wife over a glass of merlot.

    As Patricia trudged past the elevators on her way back to the stairs, she noticed that one of the iron doors was open. She wondered if the recent street guest had been doing something inside. Making a fire to warm himself. Or shooting up.

    Turning her flashlight into the dark hole, she noticed immediately that there was a shiny spot on the floor. As she bent down to examine it, she felt something drip onto her hand. Aiming the flashlight upward, her breath caught in her throat.

    "Oh my God!" she gasped, standing up, her eyes transfixed by the sight.

    The body of a man was suspended above her in the elevator shaft, hanging upside down, both arms flung outward, one leg caught in the cables. The coat was also tangled in the lines; part of it had fallen forward, covering the man's head. Blood was dripping from some part of the body, but Patricia didn't take time to analyze the source. Wiping the sticky liquid off her skin as if it were burning acid, she felt herself begin to panic. She had to get to her cell phone right away. She might not be able to see the face, but she recognized the clothes.

    Jeffrey Chapel wouldn't be joining his wife for dinner.