Body Blows. Marc Strange

my average,” I say. “Usually takes me four meetings to put a name to a face. I’m not all that quick on the uptake. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s name.”

      The other woman has more important things to attend to than loitering in the hall with an interloper. She’s already headed for the service elevators.

      “That’s Tricia,” says Christine, who is moving past me. She looks over her shoulder toward Mrs. Dineen’s closed door and I know that the last thing on earth she wants is for that door to open.

      I follow her to the elevators where Tricia (I’m repeating the name in my head in a conscious effort to memorize it) is checking supplies and consulting a list of room numbers with notations of checkouts and special requests — extra towels, more coffee filters.

      “Hi, Tricia,” I say. “I’m Joe Grundy, you’ve probably seen me prowling the halls. You know what happened last night, I guess.”

      Tricia’s hair is cut short and square across the front; she keeps her voice down but speaks clearly. “We don’t know anything, for sure. Raquel was killed up in the penthouse. That’s all.”

      “Must be a hundred rumours going around,” I say.

      “Just gossip,” says Christine.

      “Mrs. Dineen doesn’t encourage gossip,” says Tricia.

      “I’m investigating a murder,” I say, although I’m certain Mooney and Pazzano would characterize my intrusion otherwise. “What sounds like gossip right now could be helpful later on. May I talk to you for a minute?”

      “Get on,” Tricia says, as the elevator doors open.

      The two women wheel their service carts aboard and I join them.

      “Nine,” Tricia says. “In back.” She presses 9. Christine stares at the numbers climbing. Tricia looks directly at me. “Can you be trusted?” she asks.

      “Yes.”

      “I don’t mean as a human being,” she says. “That would be asking too much. I mean can you be trusted that as far as Vera Dineen is concerned, this meeting never took place?”

      “Scout’s honour,” I say.

      “I’d prefer something a bit more binding,” she says. “My brother was a scout. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could toss him.”

      “Raquel was my friend,” I say. “I liked her.”