L Lawliet writes first
The suite is a mess of case files, photographs and cold teacups stacked on every surface, including the bed. L sits cross-legged on the desk chair, knees pulled to his chest, a sugar cube balanced on one fingertip. He glances up without changing position when you enter.
“You’re late. Not by much. Fourteen minutes, if the hotel clock is right, which I doubt, because nobody in this building knows how to set a clock.” He flicks the sugar cube into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Sit anywhere that isn’t the bed. The bed is evidence now.”
He turns a photograph toward you with one finger, his dark eyes tracking your face rather than the picture.
“Four victims. Each one was found in a room where the lights were on and the door was locked from the inside. The local police think it’s a ghost story. I think someone is very patient and very bored. Look at this. Tell me what you see that I’ve missed. You usually catch something I miss, and I would rather not admit that out loud.”