Charlotte, had led with a live telecast
from the hotel lobby, where he imparted the rudimentary
facts to the reporters and viewers at home.
He didn't embellish. Primarily because all he knew
were the rudimentary facts. For once he wasn't being
coy when he had declined to give them more information.
He was as anxious for information as the media.
That's why the detective's terse summation of their
success took him aback. "What do you mean, zilch?"
"Just that." Mike Collins was a veteran. He was
less intimidated by Smilow than the others, so by
tacit agreement he was generally the spokesperson.
"We've got nothing so far. We--"
"That's impossible, Detective."
Collins had dark rings around his sunken eyes,
proof of just how tough his night had been. He turned
to Steffi Mundell, who had interrupted him, and
looked at her like he would like to strangle her, then
pointedly ignored her and continued his verbal report
to Smilow.
"As I was saying, we've put these folks through
the ringer." Guests and employees were still being
detained in the hotel's main ballroom. "At first they
kinda enjoyed it, you know. It was exciting. Like a
movie. But the new wore off hours ago. They've
given the same answers to the same questions several
times over, so now they're getting surly. We're not
getting much out of them except a lot of bellyaching
about why they can't leave."
"I find it hard to believe—"
"Who invited you, anyway?" Collins fired at Steffi
when she interrupted again.
"That out of all those people," she said, speaking
over him, "somebody didn't see something."
Smilow held up his hand to squelch a full-fledged
quarrel between his discouraged detective and the
outspoken prosecutor. "Okay, you two. We're all
tired. Steffi, I see no reason for you to hang around.
When we've got something, you'll be notified."
"Fat chance." She folded her arms across her chest
and glared defiantly at Collins. "I'm staying."
Reluctantly, Smilow gave the go-ahead for the
hotel guests to be allowed to return to their rooms. He
then assembled his detectives in one of the meeting
rooms on the mezzanine level and ordered pizzas to
be delivered. While they decimated the pizzas, he reviewed
the scanty amount of information they had
gleaned after hours of exhaustive interrogation.
"Pettijohn had a massage in the spa?" he asked, reviewing
the notes.
"Yeah." One of the detectives swallowed a large
mouthful of pizza. "Right after he got here."
"Did you question the masseur?"
The man nodded. "Said Pettijohn asked for the
deluxe massage, a full ninety minutes. Pettijohn
showered in the locker room, that's why the bathroom
in the suite was dry."
"Was this guy suspicious?"
"Not that I could see," the detective mumbled
around another bite. "Hired from a spa in California.
New to Charleston. Met Pettijohn for the first time
today."
Smilow studied the hastily compiled breakdown
of registered guests. All appeared above suspicion.
All claimed never to have met Lute Pettijohn, although
a few knew of him through the media blitz
given the opening of Charles Towne Plaza a few
months earlier.
Most were just plain folks on vacation with their
families. Three couples were honeymooning. Several
others pretended to be, when it was obvious that they
were secret lovers on an illicit weekend getaway to a
romantic city. These answered the detectives' questions
nervously, but not because they were guilty of
murder, only adultery.
All but three rooms on the fourth floor were occupied
by a group of lady schoolteachers from Florida.
Two suites were overfilled with a boys' basketball
team who had graduated high school in the spring
and were having one last fling together before scattering
to their respective universities. Their only
crime was underage drinking. To the consternation of
his buddies, one voluntarily turned over a nickel bag
of marijuana to the interrogating
from the hotel lobby, where he imparted the rudimentary
facts to the reporters and viewers at home.
He didn't embellish. Primarily because all he knew
were the rudimentary facts. For once he wasn't being
coy when he had declined to give them more information.
He was as anxious for information as the media.
That's why the detective's terse summation of their
success took him aback. "What do you mean, zilch?"
"Just that." Mike Collins was a veteran. He was
less intimidated by Smilow than the others, so by
tacit agreement he was generally the spokesperson.
"We've got nothing so far. We--"
"That's impossible, Detective."
Collins had dark rings around his sunken eyes,
proof of just how tough his night had been. He turned
to Steffi Mundell, who had interrupted him, and
looked at her like he would like to strangle her, then
pointedly ignored her and continued his verbal report
to Smilow.
"As I was saying, we've put these folks through
the ringer." Guests and employees were still being
detained in the hotel's main ballroom. "At first they
kinda enjoyed it, you know. It was exciting. Like a
movie. But the new wore off hours ago. They've
given the same answers to the same questions several
times over, so now they're getting surly. We're not
getting much out of them except a lot of bellyaching
about why they can't leave."
"I find it hard to believe—"
"Who invited you, anyway?" Collins fired at Steffi
when she interrupted again.
"That out of all those people," she said, speaking
over him, "somebody didn't see something."
Smilow held up his hand to squelch a full-fledged
quarrel between his discouraged detective and the
outspoken prosecutor. "Okay, you two. We're all
tired. Steffi, I see no reason for you to hang around.
When we've got something, you'll be notified."
"Fat chance." She folded her arms across her chest
and glared defiantly at Collins. "I'm staying."
Reluctantly, Smilow gave the go-ahead for the
hotel guests to be allowed to return to their rooms. He
then assembled his detectives in one of the meeting
rooms on the mezzanine level and ordered pizzas to
be delivered. While they decimated the pizzas, he reviewed
the scanty amount of information they had
gleaned after hours of exhaustive interrogation.
"Pettijohn had a massage in the spa?" he asked, reviewing
the notes.
"Yeah." One of the detectives swallowed a large
mouthful of pizza. "Right after he got here."
"Did you question the masseur?"
The man nodded. "Said Pettijohn asked for the
deluxe massage, a full ninety minutes. Pettijohn
showered in the locker room, that's why the bathroom
in the suite was dry."
"Was this guy suspicious?"
"Not that I could see," the detective mumbled
around another bite. "Hired from a spa in California.
New to Charleston. Met Pettijohn for the first time
today."
Smilow studied the hastily compiled breakdown
of registered guests. All appeared above suspicion.
All claimed never to have met Lute Pettijohn, although
a few knew of him through the media blitz
given the opening of Charles Towne Plaza a few
months earlier.
Most were just plain folks on vacation with their
families. Three couples were honeymooning. Several
others pretended to be, when it was obvious that they
were secret lovers on an illicit weekend getaway to a
romantic city. These answered the detectives' questions
nervously, but not because they were guilty of
murder, only adultery.
All but three rooms on the fourth floor were occupied
by a group of lady schoolteachers from Florida.
Two suites were overfilled with a boys' basketball
team who had graduated high school in the spring
and were having one last fling together before scattering
to their respective universities. Their only
crime was underage drinking. To the consternation of
his buddies, one voluntarily turned over a nickel bag
of marijuana to the interrogating
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