Negative Image by Vicki Delany Read Free Book Online

sandwiches.
    Townshend shot Gavin a look, waiting for him to speak. She was new, recently transferred from Yellowknife. In her early forties, short and stout, she was perpetually cheerful. Her gray hair was a wild mop, and the edges of her mouth were always turned up, as if she were remembering a private joke.
    When Gavin didn’t say anything, she selected a ham and cheese croissant and began. “It’s pretty certain Steiner died in the bathroom. Probably right over the toilet where he was found. Blood spatter is fairly conclusive about that. No signs of injury or damage in the main room. Getting identification out of a hotel bathroom, as you can imagine, Chief, is a nightmare. Hundreds of people could have been there in the past year.”
    “And they all leave something behind,” Keller said.
    “That floor was renovated about three years ago, which means that maybe a thousand people have pissed down the toilet. Tomorrow, when we have some more manpower, we’ll be digging out the drains, which is gonna be a lot of fun.” She wiped crumbs off her chin.
    “What exactly will you be looking for?” Lopez asked.
    “There was plenty of uneaten food in the room,” Winters said. “Along with unused place settings and glassware for two.” The photograph continued to burn a hole in his pocket. He had not called his wife to tell her the trip to San Francisco was off. He still didn’t know what he was going to say to her, if anything, about the picture. “Mrs. Steiner said she didn’t have dinner with her husband, but before I could ask if she knew who he was planning to entertain, she walked out and has confined herself to her room, awaiting the arrival of her lawyer. It’s possible Steiner invited a friend up for a drink and a snack, they had an argument, and the friend offed him. If we’re lucky the shooter dropped his wedding ring or high school graduation ring, maybe a cigarette butt brimming with DNA, in the toilet.”
    “Champagne, cheese, stuff like that,” Lopez said. “Doesn’t suggest to me an old high school buddy. Sounds like what you lay on to impress a woman.”
    “Sounds like what you lay on, Ray,” Townshend said. “The sort of guys I used to date think a six pack and left-over pizza’s enticing.”
    The men laughed.
    “What do we know about the guy?” Keller sipped at his tea. “Steiner. German?”
    “Just pretentious,” Lopez said, checking his notebook. “Born Albert Jones in Sydney, Nova Scotia. Rudolph Steiner is his professional name. Nom de something-or-other. Fifty-six years old, lives in Vancouver. Married for the fifth—note that’s fifth as in five wives—to the former Josephine Marais. He’s a photographer, apparently some kind of hot-shot in the world of glamour. High fashion stuff. You know, skinny women who never learned how to smile wearing clothes that make them look like they crawled out of a dumpster.”
    “Or failed clown school,” Townshend added.
    Winters shifted in his seat.
    “I’ll start digging into his finances. And his wife’s,” Lopez said.
    “At a guess,” Winters said, “the former Josephine Marais doesn’t have much in the way of finances to investigate. She looks like a gold digger, and my impression is that she was trying to put on a show of grief, but not feeling much emotion.”
    “Think she might be behind it?” Keller asked.
    “Not ruling her out,” Winters said. “The first person she wanted to speak to after getting the news was her lawyer. He’ll be here tomorrow, probably on the same plane as the IHIT guys.”
    “Money, then,” Keller said. “If the lawyer’s rushing right over. Always complicates things. No one suspicious seen hanging around the hotel?”
    “I want to speak to the person Steiner ordered the champagne for,” Winters said. “The chambermaid who found the body confessed that she had a couple of good slugs before going into the bathroom.”
    “I can testify to that,” Townshend said. “Found it all over the