The doorman’s white-gloved hands push open ridiculously heavy glass doors, and I step into a lobby that’s several tax brackets above my salary range. Crystal chandeliers drip. Marble floors gleam.
"Damn," Penelope whispers at my side. "I feel like I should curtsy or sothing."
I snort. "Right? It’s like Versailles and Fort Knox had a baby, then bathed it in liquid gold."
We navigate around a fountain that could double as a small lake, complete with honest-to-god swans gliding across its surface. Because nothing says ’tasteful wealth’ like forcing waterfowl to be living decorations.
"Ten bucks says those birds shit gold nuggets," Penelope mutters.
"Twenty says so poor bastard’s job is to fish them out and resell them."
A concierge approaches, his smile so plastered it could hold up drywall. "Good evening, ladies. How may I assist you?"
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of my decidedly non-gilded attire. Even the employees are dressed better than I am, and they’re in uniform. "We’re here to see Marcus Ashby."
His eyes flick over us, probably checking for hidden money clips or designer labels. Finding none, his smile tightens a fraction. "Of course. Mr. Ashby is expecting you in the Platinum Suite. Please, follow ."
Seriously? Even the concierge is on his payroll?
Is this normal?
Clearly, I don’t have enough experience with the super rich. How can a hotel like this make money? Most people can’t afford to rent a room here.
As we trail behind him toward the elevators, Penelope whispers in my ear, "Platinum Suite? What, was the ’We’re Richer Than God’ penthouse already booked?"
The elevator is a work of art unto itself, with mirrored walls and what looks suspiciously like real gold trim. Then again, paint’s co a long way. Who knows.
"So," I murmur to Penelope as we ascend, "on a scale of one to ’selling my soul,’ how much do you think a night here costs?"
She pretends to consider. "Hmm. I’d say sowhere between ’firstborn child’ and ’small island nation.’"
The concierge clears his throat. "It’s closer to small island nation."
The doors slide open with a soft chi, revealing a hallway that makes the lobby look positively shabby in comparison. The carpet is so plush I half expect to sink in up to my knees.
Our guide leads us to a set of double doors that wouldn’t look out of place in a dieval castle. He raps softly, then steps back with a slight bow. "Mr. Ashby will see you now."
As the doors swing open, I brace myself for more obscene displays of wealth. I’m not disappointed.
The Platinum Suite is less a hotel room and more of a house. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city, twinkling like a sea of stars below us. The furniture looks like it should be covered in plastic, so our re mortal DNA dust doesn’t get all over it.
And in the center of it all, looking as comfortable as if he were born to inhabit spaces that cost more than most people’s lifeti earnings, stands Marcus Ashby.
"Ah, Ms. d’Armand, Ms. de Lucien. Welco." His smile is warm, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
It shouldn’t surprise that he recognizes Penelope imdiately, but it does.
She takes it in stride. "Hello, Mr. Ashby. It’s a pleasure to et you."
I glance around, half-expecting to see Logan lounging on one of the obscenely expensive-looking sofas. But the room is empty save for us and Ashby.
"Logan won’t be joining us?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.
Ashby’s expression doesn’t change. "I’m afraid not. He had so... pressing matters to attend to."
Great. Vague and unhelpful, my favorite combination.
"Now then," the lawyer continues, gesturing for us to sit down, "shall we get down to business?"
* * *
"I’m sorry I wasn’t much help."
Logan’s lawyer waves off my concern. "Don’t worry about that, Ms. d’Armand. You can only speak the truth. Now, about your relationship with Scott Bower, the first victim—you were engaged, correct?"
"No. Well, yes, but not when he died. Our relationship was over by then."
"I see." He writes on his notepad. "And why did you end your relationship?"
"He was cheating on . I found out."
Ashby’s pen hovers over his notepad. "How exactly did you discover Mr. Bower’s infidelity, Ms. d’Armand?"
I grimace at the mory. "I walked in on them. Scott and... her. In our bed." When he waits, eyebrow raised, I clarify, "Having sex."
"I see." His pen scratches across the paper. "And how did Mr. Bower handle the subsequent breakup?"
"Not well. He kept trying to get back together."
"Did you file any complaints about his behavior?"
"Yes." My voice doesn’t waver. "With HR. Sexual harassnt at work."
Ashby nods, flipping through his notes. "It seems there was no history of violence between you two prior to these events. Is that correct?"
I hesitate.
His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "Ms. d’Armand? Was there an incident I should be aware of?"
"I... might have thrown a vase at his head," I mumble, heat rising to my cheeks.
Penelope pipes up, her voice cutting through the tension. "Not just any vase, Nikki. The antique issen."
Ashby’s fingers press against his forehead, a long sigh escaping his lips. "Let get this straight. You assaulted Mr. Bower the week before he died?"
My throat tightens. "Yes, but—"
"It was right after she caught him in bed with that skank," Penelope interjects. "I’d say that’s a pretty normal reaction."
Ashby’s pen moves across the page in large, flourishing strokes as he mutters, "Well, that complicates things."
Penelope’s eyes flash with indignation. "Are you kidding ? That’s not assault. That’s a perfectly reasonable reaction to finding your fiancé in bed with another woman!"
Ashby’s pen pauses mid-stroke. He levels a cool gaze at Penelope. "Ms. de Lucien, I appreciate your loyalty to your friend, but the law doesn’t make exceptions for hurt feelings. Throwing objects at soone, regardless of provocation, is still considered assault."
"That’s bullsh—"
"Pippa," I interject, my voice still calm and steady. "It’s okay."
But it’s not okay. I don’t want my actions to sohow ruin Logan’s defense. "Mr. Ashby? Can I ask how this complicates things?"
He shakes his head. "It’s fine, Ms. d’Armand."
Penelope’s jaw clenches, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. The glare she directs at Ashby could lt steel. I can practically feel the heat of her anger raising the room temperature a few degrees.
Ashby, seemingly impervious to Penelope’s fury, turns his attention back to ."Ms. d’Armand. The woman you found in bed with Mr. Bower—was she the sa woman who later assaulted you at work?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Now, let’s turn to the night you were attacked on the mountain..."
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