Killer Look by Linda Fairstein Page A

before.
    Charles Wetherly asked Mike where he wanted to begin. The answer was the room in which Wolf Savage had died.
    â€œMercer will be here any minute,” Mike said to me as we stepped off the elevator on the tenth floor.
    Crime-scene tape dangled from the doorknob of Suite 1008. Wetherly unlocked the door and we all entered the suite.
    â€œDetectives came back early this afternoon,” Wetherly said, looking around the large sitting-room area. “They dusted for fingerprints, just like you ordered.”
    We avoided objects and arm rests with black dust and each found a place to sit.
    â€œHave you had a chance to look more closely at the hotel register, Mr. Wetherly?” Mike asked him.
    â€œI told the officers who came first thing yesterday that there had been no other guests checked in to rooms on this floor. Not for days. No reservations, no guests.”
    â€œBut you didn’t mention that every room on this floor was registered to Wolf Savage.”
    â€œExcuse me, Detective. They’re all registered to Velvel Savitsky, like I told you,” Wetherly said. “And I have no idea who that is. Or had none, I should say. Not until your men informed me.”
    â€œDon’t you think it’s unusual that one guy had an entire floor?”
    â€œNot at all.” Charles Wetherly was flushed, clearly nervous about being questioned. “It’s very common in this business, Detective. We’re half a block from Fashion Avenue.”
    The “Fashion Avenue” name had been added to lampposts as signage in the Garment District all up and down Seventh Avenue back in the 1970s. That’s how the thousands of people who worked in the industry knew the street.
    â€œWhen Oscar de la Renta was alive, he kept the top two floors for his design staff when they worked late and for his models—they often came here to relax, be made up, and have their hair done for events. Most of them didn’t even stay in the rooms overnight.”
    Charles Wetherly listed a who’s who of prominent designers who kept blocks of rooms in the Silver Needle and neighboring hotels. Each floor of this one was named for a fashion magazine. There were VOGUE , GLAMOUR , and ELLE suites, while others were ESQUIRE , VOGUE HOMME , and GENTL EMAN ’ S QUARTERLY. The walls of the lobby and the hallways were covered in a blue pinstripe fabric, like an elegant suit.
    â€œDo you have a practice?” Mike asked. “Do you require these companies to make reservations, or to give you the names of the people who’ll occupy the suites?”
    â€œOf course we do. First of all, we have to let housekeeping know what to prepare for and clean up after. We have to restock the minibars, change the key cards, replace the flower arrangements, let security know what’s happening on every floor,” Wetherly said. “Every department has to be notified—day and night—about who’s under our roof.”
    â€œWho’s ultimately in charge of all that?”
    Charles Wetherly cleared his throat. “It’s my responsibility, of course. I share it with the head of security, who happens to be a retired detective.”
    Mike put on a pair of vinyl gloves and pushed back the door to the next room. He was studying it from the threshold, and knowing his style, he was scrutinizing the death scene for any details the men might have missed the day before.
    â€œDid Savage use this suite often?” he asked.
    â€œQuite a lot, Detective. Usually his secretary would call ahead to ask us to get the room ready, if it was for an evening. Peonies were his favorite flowers, no matter what the season. We knew what wines he preferred, and that he liked small-batch bourbons.”
    â€œThat’s for evenings,” Mike said. “Did he use it during the day?”
    â€œThat, too,” Wetherly said. “In those instances, the secretary never called. Never. It was Mr. Savage