Kurt shrugged. “Maybe it is.” He smiled.

Like ice being dropped down the inside of her shirt, Nikki’s body grew freezing-ass cold. “That’s wrong.”

“Why?” Kurt asked.

Simon and Rose Pearlman looked at each other, and this time it wasn’t with mutual dislike, but mutual fear.

“Well, because the man was just murdered last night. That’s why. And you have a photo of him and next to it you wrote ‘slaughtered.’ Don’t you think that’s wrong?” Nikki asked. She wasn’t afraid of this bully.

“How do you know that Iwao Yamimoto was not a terrorist and that a hit man from the CIA needed to take him down? Huh? Have you ever thought of that?” Kurt stared at her.

Was this guy serious? “A terrorist? He was Japanese,” Nikki replied.

“Do you know that for sure? Maybe he was Chinese.”

No one said a word. Then Kurt Kensington started cracking up. “Oh, my God, you people don’t think I’m serious, do you? I told you that my dream and goal is to be a bestselling horror or even espionage-type author. And I want to write horror movies. Freddie Kruger type. That’s all there is to it. Sorry you don’t find my humor amusing.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Nikki figured at this point she had nothing to lose by being straightforward. She had witnesses in case the guy went berserk or she was later found dead-not a comforting thought-but at least Simon and Rose Pearlman would know whom to point a finger at. “By the way, were you the guest who brought down Mr. Yamimoto’s suitcase to the front desk this morning?”

Kurt didn’t say anything for a second, but rather glowered at her. “Yes. So? The hotel obviously mixed our bags up.”

“Why did you wait until the morning? You must have needed something from your bag last night, I would think.”

“I had two bags. One I carry books in, like the one Mr. Yamimoto had. Last night we got in late and I didn’t exactly feel like reading. I discovered it this morning when I went to get one of my books out.”

“You actually carry an entire suitcase filled with books? And didn’t you realize you had two of them in your room?” Nikki questioned.

Everyone at the table watched the ping-pong dialogue go on between them, heads flipping from one person to the next.

“I told you, I’m working on being an author. As far as the two look-alike suitcases, I can answer that. When I checked in, I asked the bellhop to bring my things up. I wasn’t in my room when he did so, so he set them in the closet. I assume that’s your protocol.”

It was. Nikki nodded.

“Okay, then we went out for the train ride. I never changed so I never went into the closet. When we came back from the ride, I spotted the bag downstairs in the lobby set down by those palm tree plants you have, and that was where I’d set my things when I checked in. I figured the bellhop forgot the smaller bag. I picked it up and brought it into my room.”

“What, and you fell asleep with your clothes on then?” She wasn’t buying this at all.

“If you want to know, Ms. Sands, I sleep in the buff.”

She wrinkled her nose, but remained quick on her toes. “Okay, then, what about the bag itself? A bag filled with books I would think would be pretty heavy. Couldn’t you tell by the weight you had a different bag?”

“It was late. I’m strong. I work out a lot. I don’t think about a pound or two here and there. Are you finished questioning me, Detective Sands? Or would you like to come to my room and see all of my books?”

Simon looked over at her warningly. Going alone to Kurt’s room was definitely not something she desired to do. “I believe you, Mr. Kensington, and trust me, I’m no detective.” But the police might think it was odd. The first chance she had to speak with Robinson she would be sure and get this idiot on the detective’s radar.

“Call me Kurt, please.”

“Kurt, then.” She tried to smile, but it was impossible. This guy epitomized creepiness and again Nikki had to wonder how he’d become a part of the S.E.E. group. She needed to get ahold of those applications that Hayden had told her about and find out what she could dig up on Kurt Kensington because at that moment all she could hear in her mind was David Byrne of the Talking Heads belting out “Psycho Killer” and the part where he sings Run run away.

Well, that was exactly what Nikki desired to do. Get away from Kurt the psycho.

STILL shaken after the dream board session by Kurt Kensington, Nikki had an hour and a half to get prepared for the winemaking event she was to host. Not a lot of time and still quite a bit to do. She needed to get ahold of Derek. What time was it in New York? Almost eight. He was probably at dinner. She also really needed to speak with Mizuki and see how the woman was faring. The lady knew more than she’d been able to tell Nikki. If only there was a way to really communicate with her.

She’d try. Sooner or later she’d get ahold of Derek. It wasn’t as if he could change things here anyway, and he’d worry needlessly. He needed to work out the business between him and old man Vicente and she didn’t want to distract him. Oh boy, though, if he caught whiff of what was going on around here without her being the one to tell him, she knew there’d be hell to pay.

What to do?

Her question was answered when she spotted Robinson coming down the stairs from the top room suites.

“Hey,” she called out.

Robinson turned to her as he slipped his aviator sunglasses over his bad boy green eyes, same color green as the ivy that grew up the side of the walls of the hotel. He nodded in her direction and smoothly moved down the stairs. “Hey, yourself.”

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Not great. I’ve got about a hundred-plus tourists who were on that train last night in different cars and several of them have plans to leave today. I’ve got as many men as I can conducting interviews and working on this thing. I’ve got my boss breathing down my back and I was upstairs trying to get something out of that geisha of Yamimoto’s. I tell you my head is pounding.”

“Geisha? She’s not a geisha!”

“Isn’t that what they call them in Japan? I don’t think it’s ‘hooker.’” He looked at her over his shades.

She took a step back. “No. She’s not a hooker or a geisha.”

“What the hell is she then?”

“I don’t know.” God! Why did he fluster her? “Girlfriend?”

He laughed at that. “Yeah. No. Not a girlfriend, Sands. I’ll give you ‘sweetly paid mistress.’”

“Did you confirm then that he had a wife?”

“Yes, he does. But she’s loco in the cabeza, like kamikaze style.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She lives in some kind of mental institution there in Japan. From what I’ve been able to find out, the poor woman barely knows her name, much less who her husband is or was. She tried to slit her wrists a half dozen times before Yamimoto had her committed.”

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?” Robinson asked.

“I don’t know, just, huh. I got the impression that Mizuki really loved Iwao.”

Robinson crossed his arms and rocked back onto his cowboy boots. “Mizuki and Iwao? When did you get on a first-name basis with the vic and his, uh, mistress?”

“I did help coordinate this thing and so it’s kind of natural that I would call people by their first names, not like you, the cop. Everyone is a last name to you. Even me.”

“Even you? What am I supposed to call you?”

“My name might be good for starters. We are friends, sort of.”

He pushed the shades back up onto the bridge of his nose. “I suppose we are sort of friends. So, friend. My gut says you got some info for me because I’m not buying the deal about you being the coordinator and having to get to know everyone on a first-name basis. What can you tell me?”