The Hotel

The Grand Bellweather Hotel stood in the middle of the city like a monument to money and bad decisions.

Its marble floors were polished every morning. Its chandeliers were cleaned every Thursday. Its employees were trained to smile at guests regardless of how unreasonable, rude, or unbelievably stupid they happened to be.

The hotel had five stars, three restaurants, two swimming pools, and a reputation for providing the finest hospitality in the country.

At least, that was what the advertisements said.

At 11:43 PM, a man was screaming inside Room 407.

Nobody came to help him.

At 11:51 PM, the screaming stopped.

And at 12:06 AM, the front desk received a complaint about the noise.

"You're telling me someone complained about screaming?"

Detective Jake Mercer stood in the hotel lobby, holding a paper cup of coffee that tasted suspiciously like burnt cardboard. He was thirty eight years old, hadn't slept properly in two days, and had already decided he hated the Grand Bellweather.

The night receptionist, Elliot Graves, nodded.

"Yes, Detective."

"Someone was screaming for eight minutes, and the first person to report it was a guest complaining about the noise?"

"Technically, the guest complained about the disturbance to his sleeping experience."

Jake stared at him.

Elliot stared back.

"People are unbelievable," Jake muttered.

"That is actually one of the main reasons I enjoy working in hospitality."

Jake took another sip of coffee and immediately regretted it.

"What is this?"

"Coffee."

"Is it supposed to taste like someone filtered it through a shoe?"

"That's the premium blend."

"Then I would hate to try the cheap stuff."

Elliot smiled politely.

Jake placed the cup on the reception desk.

"Get me the security footage. Now."

"Of course."

"And tell me exactly what happened."

Elliot's smile disappeared.

"Room 407 belongs to a man named Richard Voss. Forty nine years old. Businessman. Checked in yesterday afternoon. He ordered room service at nine, requested fresh towels at ten, and apparently began making a lot of noise at eleven forty three."

"What kind of noise?"

"I wasn't in the room with him, Detective."

"Funny."

"I thought so."

Jake leaned across the desk.

"Elliot."

"Yes?"

"Someone is dead upstairs. This isn't a customer satisfaction survey. Start taking this seriously."

For the first time, Elliot looked genuinely uncomfortable.

"Understood."

He turned toward the security office.

Jake watched him leave before looking around the lobby.

The Grand Bellweather was beautiful in the way expensive things often were. Everything shone. Everything smelled expensive. Even the air seemed to have been professionally cleaned.

A woman in a black suit approached him from the opposite side of the lobby.

"Detective Mercer?"

Jake turned.

The woman was in her early fifties, with perfectly arranged hair and an expression that suggested she had never once been late for anything in her life.

"Vivian Cross," she said, extending her hand. "General manager of the hotel."

Jake shook it.

"I assume you've heard about your guest."

"Of course. This is a terrible situation."

"Terrible situations usually are."

Vivian glanced toward the elevators.

"We would appreciate discretion. Our guests have paid a considerable amount of money for their rooms, and I would prefer not to cause unnecessary panic."

"A man's dead in one of them."

"Yes. Which is why I have every intention of cooperating."

"Good. Then you won't mind if I speak to every employee who was working tonight."

"Not at all."

"Or if we search the hotel."

"Naturally."

"Or if I ask you questions you don't particularly enjoy answering."

Vivian smiled.

"Detective, I manage a hotel. I receive complaints about pillows, bathwater, restaurant reservations, and the temperature of the lobby every single day. I assure you, I have developed a remarkable tolerance for unpleasant conversations."

Jake studied her for a moment.

"Wonderful. We should get along beautifully."

Room 407 was at the end of the fourth floor corridor.

Two uniformed officers stood outside the door while a crime scene technician photographed the room.

Jake stepped inside.

Richard Voss lay motionless beside the bed. A glass had shattered near the desk, and a chair had been knocked onto its side. The room looked as though a struggle had taken place, although Jake knew better than to decide that before examining the evidence.

Dr. Naomi Reed crouched near the body, wearing blue gloves.

She glanced up when Jake entered.

"You're late."

"I was downstairs enjoying the hospitality."

"Did you try the coffee?"

"Unfortunately."

"My condolences."

Jake looked around the room.

"What do we have?"

"Male victim, approximately forty nine. Identification confirms Richard Voss. The preliminary examination suggests he died sometime between eleven thirty and midnight. I'll know more after the full examination."

"Cause of death?"

"I'm not giving you a definitive answer until I have one."

"That's why you're the scientist."

"And that's why you're the detective."

Jake crouched near the desk.

There were several papers scattered across its surface, a half empty bottle of water, and a hotel receipt dated that evening.

Something beside the receipt caught his attention.

A symbol.

It had been drawn in black ink on a small piece of cream colored stationery.

A bell.

A thin crack ran down its center.

Jake stared at it.

"Naomi."

"I see it."

"Any idea what it means?"

"At the moment, it means somebody drew a bell on a piece of paper."

"Thank you. Your insight is invaluable."

"You're welcome. My hourly rate is outrageous."

Jake picked up his phone and photographed the symbol without disturbing the evidence.

Something about it bothered him.

Not because it was particularly frightening. It wasn't.

It was the precision.

The lines were clean. The crack was deliberate. Whoever had drawn it hadn't been rushing.

They had taken their time.

"Did the victim draw this?" Jake asked.

"That's something we'll investigate."

"Any sign of forced entry?"

"Not obvious from the initial examination."

Jake looked toward the door.

"So whoever came in either had a key, was allowed inside, or never needed to enter in the first place."

Naomi raised an eyebrow.

"Three possibilities. All equally unhelpful."

"You're in a good mood tonight."

"I'm examining a dead man in a hotel room at midnight. I have learned to find joy in the little things."

Jake stood and approached the window.

The city stretched out below him, its streets illuminated by headlights and storefronts. From the fourth floor, everything looked peaceful.

He turned back toward the room.

"Check the symbol against any known cases. Local and national. Murders, missing persons, anything involving a similar marking."

"Already requested."

"Of course you have."

Naomi looked at him.

"Jake, there's something else."

He returned to her side.

She pointed toward the victim's bedside table.

A digital clock displayed 11:51.

"That clock is still running," she said. "But the room's smart system recorded a power interruption at eleven fifty one. The lights and television briefly shut off."

"Could be a fault."

"Could be."

"You're saying it like you don't believe it."

"I'm saying the system registered the interruption, but the hotel's maintenance log contains no record of a fault."

Jake looked at the clock again.

"Get me everything that system recorded tonight."

"I'll request it."

"And Naomi?"

"Yes?"

"Try not to let the hotel serve you coffee."

She gave him a tired smile.

"No promises."

At 1:17 AM, Jake returned to the lobby.

Elliot was waiting behind the desk with a tablet.

"Security footage," the receptionist said.

Jake took it.

The video showed the fourth floor corridor. The timestamp read 11:32 PM.

Richard Voss entered the frame, unlocked Room 407, and stepped inside.

The door closed.

Nothing happened for several minutes.

At 11:43 PM, the lights in the corridor flickered.

At 11:51 PM, the footage briefly went black.

When the image returned, the corridor was empty.

Nobody had entered Room 407.

Nobody had left it.

Jake watched the footage again.

"How long was the interruption?"

"Nine seconds."

"Nine seconds is enough time for somebody to move."

"Perhaps."

Jake looked at Elliot.

"Where were you at eleven fifty one?"

"At reception."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"The lobby cameras should."

"Should?"

Elliot swallowed.

"The camera covering the reception desk was also affected by the interruption."

Jake slowly lowered the tablet.

"You're telling me the cameras on two separate floors stopped recording at exactly the same time?"

"Yes."

"And nobody reported a technical issue?"

"Not until you requested the footage."

Jake stared at him.

"Does your hotel have any working security systems?"

"We have a very expensive security system."

"That wasn't my question."

Elliot opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.

Jake handed the tablet back.

"Get me the maintenance records. Every repair, every outage, every replacement camera. I want the name of the company that installed this system, and I want to know who can access it."

"Of course."

"And Elliot?"

"Yes, Detective?"

"If you remember anything else about tonight, tell me before I discover it myself."

Elliot nodded.

Jake started toward the elevators.

"One more thing," Elliot called.

Jake stopped.

"Mr. Voss requested a wake up call for six thirty tomorrow morning."

Jake looked back at him.

"That's unfortunate."

"Indeed."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because I thought it was relevant."

Jake considered that.

Then he nodded.

"Keep thinking."

He stepped into the elevator.

As the doors closed, Elliot's polite expression slowly faded.

He looked toward the corridor leading to the hotel's administrative offices.

Then he reached beneath the reception desk and opened a drawer.

Inside was a small stack of old guest receipts.

He removed one.

On the back was a familiar symbol.

A black bell with a crack running down its center.

Elliot stared at it for several seconds before returning it to the drawer.

Then he shut the drawer, straightened his waistcoat, and smiled at the next guest who approached the desk.

"Good evening," he said. "Welcome to the Grand Bellweather Hotel."

At 2:04 AM, Jake sat in his car outside the hotel, reviewing his notes.

Richard Voss. Forty nine. Businessman. No obvious forced entry. Security interruption. Unknown symbol.

He searched his phone for similar markings but found nothing useful.

Then his phone rang.

Naomi.

"Tell me you've got something," Jake answered.

"I have something."

"That sounded suspiciously optimistic."

"I ran a preliminary search on the symbol."

"And?"

"Three years ago, a woman was found dead in a hotel room across the state. There was a similar marking at the scene."

Jake sat up.

"Why wasn't that in the initial report?"

"Because the case was classified as an accidental death. The symbol wasn't documented in the public report."

"Who was the victim?"

"Her name was Eleanor Price."

"Any connection to Voss?"

"Unknown. But there's more."

Jake waited.

"The hotel where she died was the Grand Bellweather."

For a moment, Jake said nothing.

Then he looked up at the building.

Most of the windows were dark. A few guests still moved behind the curtains, unaware of the investigation taking place beneath them.

"Three years ago," he repeated.

"Yes."

"And the symbol was there."

"According to the photograph in the archived evidence file."

Jake started the engine.

"Send me everything."

"Already did."

He ended the call and opened the photograph Naomi had sent.

The image showed a hotel room, a police evidence marker, and a small piece of stationery beside the victim.

On it was a cracked bell.

The same symbol.

Jake enlarged the image.

Then he noticed something written beneath it.

Three words in tiny black lettering.

WELCOME BACK, DETECTIVE.

Jake stopped breathing for a moment.

He had never investigated Eleanor Price's death.

He had never visited that hotel room.

And he had never seen the symbol before tonight.

At least, he didn't think he had.

His phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

One message.

Enjoy your stay, Jake.

He looked up at the Grand Bellweather.

A light switched on in a window near the top of the building.

Someone stood behind the glass.

Watching him.

Jake grabbed his phone and zoomed in, but the figure had already disappeared.

He stepped out of the car.

The street was silent.

He looked at the message again.

Then he called Naomi.

"Get everyone back to the hotel."

"Why?"

"Because someone just sent me a message."

"What did it say?"

Jake stared at the dark window.

"That I'm welcome."

A pause.

"Jake, what does that mean?"

He looked at the hotel's entrance.

Above the revolving doors, the golden letters of the Grand Bellweather shone beneath the streetlights.

He had a terrible feeling that the murder of Richard Voss wasn't the beginning of anything.

It was an invitation.

And somebody had been waiting a very long time for him to accept.