Mustafa shrugged and went back to his computer. “All local artists. Every room, different painting on the wall. The price is also on the wall.”
“Modern art should be priceless.”
“Yes. I agree.” Mustafa slotted a keycard into a programmer. He punched a button and then handed the card to Taylor with her passport. “Room three-oh-three. Third floor, park view.”
“Danke.”
He programmed another card and handed it with his passport to Brodie. “Room three-oh-five. Next door. The boy, Ayaz, will bring your bags up.” He added, “A small tip.”
“We can manage,” said Brodie.
“As you wish.” Mustafa gestured to an open doorway in the lobby. “Stairs over there.”
Brodie asked, “Where’s the elevator?”
“No elevator. On the second floor is the kitchen for everyone. There is free coffee and tea. You use the fridge, you put name on your food.”
Brodie asked, “Myname? Or the name of the food?”
Taylor said, “Scott. Stop.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mustafa handed them a slip of paper. “Web address for Wi-Fi login. Seven euros per day.”
Taylor asked, “Any recommendations for dinner spots around here?”
Mustafa reached under the counter and produced a sheet of paper listing local places to eat and drink, as well as a few sightseeing spots. Brodie scanned the list for the three places that they intended to check out tonight and noticed only the club—Proletariat—made the list.
Taylor slipped the paper in her satchel and asked, “Is it safe around here? I’m noticing a lot of police everywhere.”
Mustafa hesitated, then said, “In the park across the street… there was an incident.”
Taylor asked, “What kind of incident?”
“I am not sure, miss. Maybe gang stuff.” It must have occurred to Mustafa that he was frightening his paying guests and he added, “This is nothing for you to worry about. The area is very safe.”
“Well,” said Brodie, “it is now with all these cops around.”
Mustafa’s look darkened. He lowered his voice. “All these new Arabs cause problems. My people”—he pounded his chest—“Turkish. We have been here a long time. My family came from Ankara, 1962. No problems.”
Brodie was sure that the neo-Nazis didn’t make such fine distinctions. MUSLIME RAUS.
They thanked Mustafa and went to the small adjoining room that contained vending machines and the stairway.
Brodie gestured to Taylor’s suitcase, which was about twice the size of his own. “May I?”
“No, but thanks for asking.” Taylor humped up the steps with her large roller bag, and Brodie followed. They should have tipped the kid.
The second-floor kitchen looked bare-bones but clean, just like the lobby and hopefully the rooms. There were multiple signs in German, English, Spanish, and French taped all over the place, instructing the young and clueless backpackers who were probably the Art Hotel’s main customer base that they needed to label their items in the fridge, wash their dirty dishes, and not leave their food out.
They climbed to the third floor, walked down a short hallway, and located their adjacent rooms. The end of the hallway featured a small window with a view of the street and Körnerpark.
Brodie looked out the window. The Art Hotel aligned approximately with the midpoint of the park, and the northeast corner where Vance was killed was visible through the bare trees. The crime scene marker flags had been removed, and a few teenagers in winter parkas were skateboarding around the fountain. Apparently Körnerpark was back open to the public.
Brodie said, “Probably more than any other building on the park perimeter, people here could have been awake past threeA.M.If we run into other guests, let’s find out if anyone heard or saw anything.”
Taylor replied, “I’m sure the Germans have already thought of that and have checked here for witnesses.” She walked to her door. “I’m going to get some sleep. We have a late night ahead of us.”
