Maximum Exposure by Allison Brennan Page B

Bloody Marys?”
    He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Max had always appreciated a nice smile. “The best in Colorado. I prepare my own mix fresh every morning.”
    “I want the good vodka, but make it weak.”
    He dipped his head and mixed her drink. She watched his fluid, sure movements. He set it in front of her and she read his name tag: JOHANN . “Why do you look so glum, pretty lady?”
    She wasn’t in the mood to flirt, so instead said bluntly, “I couldn’t bribe your concierge.”
    Johann laughed, and his next words to her held a hint of an accent she couldn’t immediately place. “Sugar, you should have asked me.”
    She slid over the fifty she was going to give to Mr. Anderson. “Keep it. You can’t help me.”
    “Try me.”
    She sipped the Bloody Mary. Nodded appreciatively. “You’re right. Best in Colorado. Better than my cousin’s five-star Vail resort.”
    “I know.”
    “You know the resort?”
    He winked. “I just know I’m the best.”
    She laughed and felt the tension washing away. “Six months ago, three college students stayed here. I know it, I have a photo they took elsewhere but uploaded through your hotel Wi-Fi. But I need to confirm it.”
    “Aw, yes, our guest privacy. Wouldn’t you expect a hotel to respect your privacy?”
    “It depends.”
    “Depends?”
    “I’m a reporter. Sometimes I want people to find me.”
    “Did they drink?”
    “Probably. But they were nineteen and twenty.”
    “Did you have a fake ID when you were nineteen or twenty?”
    “No,” she answered truthfully. Then she smiled. “But my college roommate did.”
    He slid over a napkin and pen. He didn’t have to tell her to write down the names. She put them down—including Scott Sheldon. He didn’t look, but took the napkin and walked to the end of the bar, into a small office she hadn’t noticed until he stepped in and the light flickered on.
    She wasn’t going to hold out hope, and instead enjoyed her drink. Already, a plan began to form. She knew Tom Keller was the weak link, but she’d also learned from Ian Stanhope, Scott’s roommate, that he and Tom shared a class together. If she could catch up with Ian, she could convince him to reach out to Tom. She’d play on the roommate’s guilt if she had to. She’d present the evidence to Tom—the photo would have to be enough. Max could spin the story, watch his reaction, play off it, until Tom broke down.
    Johann returned and Max said, “Thank you for the delicious drink. It helped—I have a plan.”
    He smiled. “I can tell you—though I can’t give you a copy—that the third name on your list signed for a room service charge that included a bucket of Corona. Our buckets come in four or eight; he signed for the eight bucket.”
    Her heart thudded. She had them.
    “How long do you keep the records?”
    “One year.”
    She drained her Bloody Mary and left the fifty on the bar. “Thank you, Johann. That’s just what I needed.”
    *   *   *
    Max drove toward the police station to give Detective Horn all the information she had and ask what she was going to do about it. If Max were the cop, she’d haul all three of those boys into the police station and question them until they admitted they killed Scott Sheldon. At this point, Max didn’t think it was an accident. Maybe they hadn’t intended for Scott to die, but their callous actions resulted in his death. Manslaughter at a minimum, and maybe even second-degree murder.
    If premeditated ? That would put this crime on a whole other field.
    Her phone rang; it was Chuck Pence.
    “You have news?” she asked.
    “Officially, cause of death was hypothermia. Scott’s organs shut down. The coroner is sending tissue and blood samples for further analysis, particularly drug screenings, but right now the preliminary cause of death is accidental.”
    “It wasn’t an accident!” Max pounded her fist on the wheel of her SUV.
    Chuck remained silent. Max needed to control her