“Yes,” she murmured.
“You must be a very busy lady to travel on business over Christmas.”
“Some things can’t wait.” This was one of them. She planned to do all the research she could while waiting for the lab results—build this case from square one, like she would any case.
But as they turned into the French Quarter, she realized again just how foreign New Orleans was to her. The city had a distinctly European feel, one she would’ve loved had she been on vacation. As it was, the narrow streets, wrought-iron balconies and center courtyards, more reminiscent of Spanish influence than French, made her feel out of place. And the crowds and clichéd but famous Laissez les bon temps rouler atmosphere of the many bars, jazz clubs, hotels, restaurants, “gentlemen’s clubs” and boutiques contrasted a little too sharply with her purpose and mood.
“What is the address of your hotel, madam?”
The driver turned on the cabin light as Jasmine fished the receipt she’d printed out on the computer at home from her purse and rattled it off.
“That should be ici,” he said, pointing out the window.
They both stared at the front of a bar named The Moody Blues. Painted completely in purple, it had a throng of revelers, an abundance of Christmas lights and a lot of loud music, which sounded more like rock than jazz.
Putting the taxi in Park, the driver got out and went in to speak to the bartender. When he came back, his squat legs carried him with a quicker gait, and he swept his arm out for her to exit as he opened the door. “You can get down.” He gave her a slight bow. “This is it.”
“This is…what?” she asked in confusion.
“The hotel. It is above the bar.” He stopped on his way to the trunk and motioned toward the entrance. “Once inside, you will see. Turn to your right and go up the stairs.”
No wonder there hadn’t been any pictures of the hotel posted online….
Swallowing a sigh, Jasmine paid him and stepped into the damp, fifty-something weather to accept her bags. He hesitated as if he was tempted to carry them up for her, but she could tell he was reluctant to leave his cab. “I’ve got it,” she said.
Wishing her a pleasant stay in town, he drove off, leaving her to thread her way through the crush of bodies partying in the bar to the bead-covered entrance of a narrow staircase that led, according to a glittery sign posted above, to the Maison du Soleil.
When Jasmine woke up, she was fully clothed and lying on the covers of her narrow bed. The dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was still on; the psychology journal she’d been reading had fallen to the floor. She wasn’t sure how late it was. It was still dark outside but the music that’d drifted through the floorboards when she first arrived had stopped and she could no longer hear the television of the guest next to her. She would’ve opened the window to see what was going on down in the street, except the only window in the room was part of the door leading to the fire escape, which overlooked the redbrick wall of the adjacent building.
So much for location…
Blinking to clear her vision, she checked her watch and worked out the two-hour time change. It was five-thirty in the morning. She didn’t know what had awakened her but she had vague memories of disquieting dreams, the kind of nightmares that’d plagued her as a girl after Kimberly’s disappearance. There were many different versions, but mostly she dreamed that her sister was crying out to her as she was being pulled into a large dark room. When Jasmine followed, the room always changed into a labyrinth of corridors. Her sister seemed to be right around the next corner and yet Jasmine could never reach her. She usually woke up drenched in sweat, and this morning was no exception. But she was pretty sure that was partially due to the wall heater she’d cranked up before lying down. It had to be close to eighty degrees.
Feeling rumpled and more exhausted than before she’d fallen asleep, she got up, switched off the rattling heater and stumbled toward the shower. Afterward she’d go downstairs to speak with the manager. Before reserving her room, she’d called to make sure the hotel had Internet service. She had to retrieve her e-mail and, depending on what she found in New Orleans, would need access to the usual search engines. But she hadn’t been able to connect when she got in last night.
The shower consisted of a small cubicle with barely enough room to turn around, but it was clean and the water pumped out forcefully enough to massage the stiff muscles in her shoulders and back. She supposed it was the quality of the shower that convinced her not to hunt for a better hotel—the shower and the fact that it seemed pointless to waste the time. She had too many other things to worry about.
Feeling almost human after she’d dressed, she grabbed her hotel key and took the rickety elevator down to the second floor. She found a slight young woman at the front desk and asked for the manager.
“Mr. Cabanis owns the hotel and the bar. He should be downstairs.” Because she was dressed in gothic black and looked barely nineteen, Jasmine got the impression she was somehow related to Cabanis, possibly his daughter.
“Thank you.” Jasmine descended the final flight of stairs to ground level, where a wiry, energetic man with dark hair was restocking the beverage glasses in The Moody Blues.
“Mr. Cabanis?”
His eyes flicked her way, but his hands continued to transfer glasses in a smooth, well-practiced motion. “Yes?” Thanks to his muscular forearms, which were covered in tattoos, he reminded her of Popeye.
“I’m one of your hotel guests. I called before I left home to confirm that you have Internet service, but I haven’t been able to connect.”
“It’s not in the rooms yet.” News played on the television bolted to the ceiling in the corner. He glanced at it every now and then as if he resented being interrupted during his morning ritual. “We just opened the hotel and are still making improvements. This building used to be apartments,” he added.
Somehow that came as no surprise. “So how do I gain access to the Internet?
Can I move to a different room or something?”
The television showed highlights of the latest Hornets game. “The ten rooms that are finished are full. For now, Internet is only available in the lobby, anyway.”
“That isn’t what I was told over the phone.”
He finally gave her his full attention. “Someone told you we have Internet service in the rooms?”
She couldn’t exactly make that claim. She’d said, “Do you have Internet service?” and the person on the other end had said, “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie, but it would’ve helped had that person expanded on his answer.