After closing the door, Schiller sighed. The coordinates Little Bruce had sent were far too vague, covering an area of five kilometers by five kilometers. If he had not inferred from the last four digits, 1905, that it might be a hotel room number, he probably would not have found the exact location even by tomorrow morning.
Schiller turned and surveyed the living room. Nothing seemed amiss. Wayne Hotel was decorated in a lavish Victorian style. The room was carpeted in dark green, with wainscoting the deep, blood-red color of wine and the upper walls adorned in rich black, most of it accented with bright gold. The atmosphere was somber yet luxurious.
An electronic fireplace stood to the left of the sofa. The flickering firelight shone against the windows, turning the raindrops on the glass into scattered pearls. Schiller casually picked up the remote and turned on the television. A midnight drama was playing, and the glow from the screen illuminated the room completely.
He pushed open the bedroom door. It was equally unremarkable, still dominated by dark tones, though the flooring had changed to a patterned design. The soft king-sized bed was made with silk sheets, and the quilt was burgundy.
There was a bottle of red wine on the nightstand. Schiller picked it up and found a label on the back saying it was complimentary. He carefully checked the Production Site and vintage, only to find that it was ordinary Bordeaux wine, probably worth around two hundred dollars.
After setting the wine down, Schiller checked the sheets and duvet cover. There was nothing beneath the quilt, nor beneath the sheets. The bed was a heavy solid-wood model, so there was no space underneath it at all. The nightstand drawers contained only the central air-conditioning remote, batteries, and a