He was screeching now.

And Amelia Poole was suitably frightened.

This killing made five-and it was the third in one of her hotels. The cops had come up with nothing. She hadn’t heard from them in weeks. And this murder struck her as personal. Maybe some kind of warning. Any of her guests could be killed. It was too sick.

“Jared. Listen to me,” she said. “I’ll try to keep you out of it. Flip on the ‘Do Not Disturb’ light. Can you do that? Use your elbow, not your fingers.”

“Housekeeping called me to say that Mr. Bingham had ordered an extra blanket and pillows. That he didn’t open the door.”

“Did you bring bedding into the room?”

“No.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“No.” Jared was crying now. This was too much.

“Jared. Flip on the light and go back down to the desk.”

“Isn’t that breaking the law?”

“I’ll take responsibility, Jared. Just go down to the desk. Do not call the cops. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“If you can’t do your job, say you’re getting sick and take the night off. Ask Waleed to take over.”

“Okay, Ms. Poole.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Amelia Poole disconnected the line and thought again about a private investigation agency she’d heard about. The head guy was Jack Morgan, former CIA and US Marines. His agency promised “maximum force and maximum discretion.” It was called Private.

It was late, but she’d call Private anyway. Leave a message for Jack Morgan to call her as soon as possible.

CHAPTER 8

I called my friend chief of police Mickey Fescoe at home. He got on the line, said, “My dinner is on the table. Make this good, Jack.”

“I can’t make it good, Mick. Colleen Molloy, my ex-girlfriend-she was killed in my house. I didn’t do it.”