Frankel didn’t pull his weapon, but he kept his hand close enough to it.

“Mr. Silver? NYPD.”

Frankel cautiously entered the room. Grant followed close behind.

Unless Silver was hiding in the closet (spoiler alert, he wasn’t), it was obvious that the man they were looking for had vacated the room.

The drab decor was a perfect match for the ho-hum hallway they had just left. The furnishings were simple and at best nondescript. A made-up bed, a sofa, and a chair by a wooden desk were basically it.

The detective moved back to the hallway and called again for the housekeeper. “Ma’am? One more moment of your time, please?”

The maid came back into the corridor and headed toward 515 with more than a trace of trepidation in her step. “Yes?”

Frankel waited for her to join them at the threshold. “Not having seen the other rooms in this fine establishment, I was wondering if this was something that came with the other ones?” he asked.

Frankel pointed at the wall directly above the bed.

The maid shook her head. “No, sir. I’ve never seen that before.”

“I didn’t think so,” said Frankel.

Grant looked from the two of them back at the wall.

And the cross that hung directly above the bed.

A couple of hours later, the cross from the wall of the abandoned insane asylum in Far Rockaway was waiting for them in a plastic evidence bag on Rachel’s desk in the basement office.

Grant wasn’t surprised to see it could have been the twin of the one found in room 515 of the Hotel Penn.

“Things are looking a little gloomier for your old friend Prior,” said Frankel.

“I highly doubt he’s going to be waiting for us in the BA lounge on Christmas Eve to have a little chat before he heads back across the pond,” agreed Grant.

Rachel was looking at a calendar on her laptop. “He was supposed to stay what—three more nights? I wonder why he left so early.” She glanced back up at the two of them. “Do you think he knew you were coming?”

Grant shook his head. “No way of knowing. But it doesn’t look like he spent last night there.”

“What makes you say that?” Rachel asked.

“The bed was made,” explained Frankel. “I don’t care if you’re a tourist, businessman, or serial killer, no one makes up their rooms when housekeeping will do it for nothing.”

“Where do you suppose he went?” she wondered.

“Out disposing of victim number six?” replied Frankel. “Maybe looking for a cheating spouse’s forehead he can carve a Roman numeral seven on?”

“That’s presuming he’s still in the city,” Rachel pointed out.

“We’re checking flight manifests and waiting for another hit on his debit card,” said Frankel. “He hasn’t used it since checking in to the Penn.”