by G. K. Parks
“Yeah, I used my personal camera so PDN wouldn’t be implicated in any drug deals or providing escorts. Jason was nice enough to help me with it to ensure additional protection for PDN’s clientele and the hotel staff.”
“And Jason set it up every time a PDN client checked into a room?”
“Yes.”
“Who watched the footage?”
“Jason.” His face contorted.
“And what do you think he saw on the tape?”
“Everything.”
Twenty-four
Everything was such an umbrella term. Jason Oster probably had footage containing celebrity sex tapes, drug use, and plenty to make TMZ salivate. Dozens of avenues were available for him to profit from pictures and video like that. Blackmail, trashy tabloids, and internet gossip sites would do pretty much anything for a story on a B or C-lister. But, somehow, I didn’t think Oster was selling tawdry secrets. He had enough of his own, so it might have been far too hypocritical for him to stomach. That didn’t mean he wasn’t my prime suspect.
“Was the camera just inside the room, or did the two of you set up additional security cameras elsewhere?” I asked.
“Just in the room since I only have the single unit. It was to ensure that the hotel staff was behaving appropriately. We weren’t looking for dirt, if that’s what you think.”
“Did Jason ever give you any indication that the footage revealed something heinous?” Paul shook his head. “When did you use the camera last?”
“A week or so before the conference.” He scratched his chin. “Come to think of it, he never returned it. He said it was in his locker at work, but with all the craziness going on, he must have forgotten about it.”
“Right. That must be it.” Unless I viewed the actual footage, it was too soon to speculate if it was related to the crime spree that was wreaking havoc at the hotel. “Let’s get back on track.” Picking up the list Paul made, I wondered about SMI’s relationship with Klaus Manufacturing. “Are you positive the schematics are the same?”
“Yeah.” He reached into his pocket but realized his cell phone was gone, still at the precinct with the rest of his belongings that were on his person when they arrested him. “The proof’s on my phone. I snapped a shot of SMI’s plans.”
“Did you also snap a shot of Klaus Manufacturing’s?”
“No, I have something even better. Bernie gave me a copy of the documents.” Giving him a skeptical look, he added, “They’re at home. Bernie gave them to me to pass along to someone in charge at Martin Technologies.”
An unfortunate snort escaped my lips, followed by barely contained laughter. “If Bernie’s handing the schematics out like business cards, then it’s not a secret. He probably gave a copy to SMI too.” Rolling my eyes, I was no longer concerned with the connection between SMI and Klaus. It wasn’t relevant to either murder. At least that was progress.
“Well, if you’re so damn smart, why would the rep stick them inside the hotel safe?” he challenged.
“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to root out the corporate spies running rampant at the conference. It was to throw you off the scent.” Shrugging and shaking my head, I flopped back onto the extra bed. “How should I know? But it no longer seems particularly relevant.” Unless there was something else on the paper besides a copy of the schematics. Getting up, I flipped through the police file on Paul Eastman, but they didn’t have a warrant to access his cell phone, so none of the information it contained was cataloged. It was simply listed as part of the item manifest for personal effects taken into custody.
“What?” He looked quizzical.
“Nothing. I’ll get your personal effects out of custody in the morning.” Continuing with the questioning, I wondered if there were any other possible persons of interest I had yet to consider. “Aside from work, have you made any enemies lately? Or is there someone who stands to gain something significant upon your demise? Did you ever steal and sell water filter prototypes from one company to another and someone’s seeking revenge?”
A noise came from outside the room, and then Mark announced himself and opened the door. He gave me a curt nod, and there was a faint sparkle in his eyes. He was on to something.
“C’mon, I’m a likable guy. None of my friends want me dead, and I didn’t steal from a water filter or refrigerator company either,” Eastman insisted.
“Yeah, you’re so likable one of the ladies you described seems to remember being thrown out of your house the morning after. Another one described you as a little, selfish prick, and the third,” he winked at me, “seems to really get around.”
“What are you talking about?” Paul asked, reddening. “I never threw anyone out. I might have been in a rush to get to work, and I don’t like letting people stay in my house unattended.”
“Yeah, they might poison your water,” I mumbled.
Tossing a glare in my direction, he continued. “And whoever else you spoke to must have been thinking of someone else because I’ve never been with a hooker.”
“They prefer the term escort,” I added, helpful as always.
“No, she isn’t a working girl.” Mark grinned, and I cocked my head to the side, intrigued. “The reason she’s so flexible is because she teaches yoga classes.”
“Seriously?” I asked, considering the new implication.
“Let’s find out.” Mark pulled out a folded sheet of paper containing a photo of Rachel Romanski and held it out to Paul. “Is that one of your flings?”
“Yeah, that’s Lexie,” he said. “Flexie Lexie.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “It’s a pneumonic device to help me remember her name.”
“I’m just curious. Did Alvin Hodge ever talk about his personal life or ex-wives?” I asked.
“Maybe he mentioned them once or twice, but nothing major. Why?” Paul wanted to make sense of my question in relation to Mark’s most recent declaration, but there was an apparent disconnect in his brain.
“No reason. Is Jason Oster seeing anyone special?”
“He’s boning some chick. She stops by occasionally and meets him in the mornings in one of the empty rooms at the hotel.” Paul scratched his head. “At least that’s what the other security guards said.”
“Did they ever describe her?” Mark asked.
“Yeah.” Realization finally dawned on Paul. “No way. There’s no way it’s the same chick.”
“Did you and Jason frequent the same watering holes?” I asked, and Mark grimaced at the unintended pun. Tossing a brief glare, I waited for an answer. Paul appeared to be appalled and incredulous, so it took him a moment to finally realize I was speaking to him.
“We went out for drinks after work sometimes. Fuck. Do you think he knows?”
“That you were enjoying his leftovers?” Mark asked.
“Did she introduce herself as Lexie, or was that what you decided to call her?” I asked, diverting the conversation back to something practical.
“No, she said Lexie,” Paul insisted, looking at the photo. “I take it that’s not her real name.”
“Not even close, kid,” Mark replied.
“What is it?”
“That’s need to know, and right now, you don’t.” Rubbing my neck, I stood up and took a deep breath. “This might just be the break we need. Did you call Jacobs?”
“Not yet.” Mark glanced in Paul’s direction, silencing him before he could interrupt. “It’s up to you, boss, but,” he was being cute, and I didn’t care for it, “I would suggest we tread lightly. They could go to ground if we spook them. The PD tends to be quite loud about things, and we don’t need evidence or suspects to disappear.”
“I agree,” Paul piped up, as if he were actually part of the conversation. Obviously, he didn’t understand the grown-ups were talking. “I want you to find my would-be killer, and if you think Lexie and Jason are in on it, that can’t be good. It’d be nice to know who my real friends are, so see if you can make that happen.”
Grittin
g my teeth at his comment, I threw another look at Mark. “Do you mind if I hand over babysitting privileges for the rest of the evening while I do some digging and recon?”
“Not a problem. What should I do if he gets fussy?” Mark chuckled, and Paul gave us each a hard look.
“Well, there is ice cream in the freezer. Or you can shoot him if the whining gets to be too much.” Smirking at Paul, I went to the door.
“I can still hear you,” Paul said, realizing it was a joke, but still not appreciative of our sense of humor. Maybe it was only funny to federal agents, former and current, which he was clearly neither.
“Great. I’d suggest you don’t whine too much,” I added, letting myself out of the room. With any luck, this was square two.
* * *
Rubbing my hands down my face, I leaned forward against the steering wheel, stretching my back and cursing how boring sole surveillance was. After I left the motel, I went to my office, ran complete profiles on Jason Oster and Rachel Romanski again, and checked for any known aliases that I might have missed. Of course, they both came off pretty much spotless. It was too late to call around for favors, so I flipped a coin and found myself parked outside Jason Oster’s apartment building.
He lived in a second floor corner apartment. It wasn’t too swanky. No doorman or intercom system, but it looked much nicer and better lit than a crack house. It was in a pleasant area, devoid of drug dealers and whores working the corners. Shit, it was nicer than my place, and judging from the number of windows, it was probably larger too. However, it certainly wasn’t nice enough for someone selling dirty little secrets or involved in insider trading.
Something was bothersome about the Jason/Rachel dynamic, and after two hours of sitting in deafening silence, I realized what it was. There was no reason for her to meet him at the hotel. As far as I could tell, he lived alone. He wasn’t married, and neither was she. So why the secrecy? Frankly, going to the hotel wasn’t the best way to keep whatever was going on a secret. The security guards suspected Jason was having an affair, and her ex-husband worked there. The chances for getting caught, getting fired, or worse were much greater. Perhaps they liked the danger of being discovered. Crazier things had happened, but it didn’t feel right.
Checking the time, I did some quick calculations in my head and dialed a familiar number. “I’m not leaving you a voicemail tomorrow or today, whatever day it is for you. So just accept this as your daily call.”
“Okay,” Martin replied, confused by my random bossiness.
“Why would you meet a woman at a hotel to have an affair if neither of you were married and lived alone? Let’s add the fact that her ex-husband is the night clerk and someone is bound to talk at some point.”
“Alexis, just to be clear, no one is having an affair. The only hotels I’ve checked into have been necessary for work, and unless you think Bruiser had gender reassignment surgery and has an ex-husband stashed somewhere, then I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about because he’s the only one staying in my suite.”
“Not you,” I laughed, realizing how poor my conversational skills could be, “hypothetically.”
“Well, hypothetically, the only woman I’d meet in a hotel for reasons of debauchery would be you.”
“Charmer.”
“That isn’t to say I haven’t met many women in hotels recently. For purely business purposes, I assure you.”
“Oh, so that’s what you call it. I see how it is. It’s probably because of that charming attitude of yours that has forced you to pay for sex.”
“God, you’re in a mood.” He laughed. “Any reason in particular you’re being this snarky?”
“Just working out some kinks on a case.” What other reason would Rachel have to meet Jason at the hotel? Maybe it wasn’t for the reasons everyone thought. Deciding on my next course of action, I turned the key in the ignition. “Thanks for the help. I better go.”
“Be careful.”
“Yeah, you too. And don’t let Bruiser get too frisky.”
“I’ll do my best, but you did call in the middle of some grab ass.”
“Do we need to go over sexual harassment in the workplace again?” I asked.
“Good night, Alex.”
Twenty-five
One of the easiest ways to get what you want is simply to take it. Granted, that often involves breaking a law or two. But asking first requires the acquiescence of too many other people. There was some type of saying about begging for forgiveness instead of asking for permission, and seeing as how I already managed to sneak my way into the employee area of the five-star hotel and was scanning the labels on the rows of lockers for Jason Oster’s, now wasn’t really the time to ask permission. Plus, walking into the hotel like I owned the place and ordering people with actual hotel-sanctioned positions to give me directions would become counterproductive if I stopped now.
Locating Oster’s locker, I performed a quick sweep of the room, noting the absence of surveillance equipment and hotel personnel. It was now or never, so digging out my lock picks, I set to work. The combination lock was the cheaper model that could be purchased from discount retailers or hardware stores, but thankfully, it had a keyhole at the back in case the user forgot the combination or, in my case, didn’t know the combination. One quick turn and the lock opened. At least it was easier than having to borrow a set of bolt cutters from maintenance, which had been plan B.
Inside was an extra dress shirt and tie, a pair of running shoes, a few pictures cut out of Maxim taped to the door next to a mirror, and a box with various charging cables for cell phones and other electronic devices. Just as I was prepared to slam the door shut in defeat, I located the tiny wireless webcam at the bottom of the box. It fit in the palm of my hand and was probably the envy of all the other security cams in the building. After determining where the internal memory was, I removed the card, replaced the camera and everything else inside Jason’s locker, and shut the door.
“That’s not your locker,” one of the maids said, entering as I was sliding the combination lock back into place.
“No wonder I can’t get this thing to open,” I said, tugging ineffectually at the newly relocked lock. “Silly me.”
She glared, but I ducked past her and out of the room. With any luck, she wouldn’t report me to hotel security. But in case she did, I needed to figure out what was on the memory card before anyone decided to check on my illegal activities.
Exiting stage left, I wandered back down the corridor, past the lobby, and out the front door. The valet smiled and handed over my keys. For twenty dollars, he had been willing to leave my car parked out front for ten minutes. That was a fair enough trade. Considering my options, I returned home, powered up my laptop, and inserted the memory card into the slot.
“Seriously?” I growled. It was blank. I went to the hotel and broke into Jason’s locker for nothing. “Goddammit.” Glowering at the empty file folder on the screen, I right-clicked and searched for hidden files. Still nothing. Ejecting the worthless piece of plastic from my computer, I wondered if it ever contained any information. It could be a brand new memory card, or the files were deleted. Files, sheesh. I didn’t even know what I hoped to find. Evidence for at least one of the recent murders or perhaps evidence of a conspiracy would have been nice. Instead, I ended up with a blank memory card.
Checking the time, I didn’t know who was working graveyard at the precinct, but I could leave a note for Jacobs if nothing else. Halfway there, I changed my mind and detoured back to the motel where I stashed Paul. Implicating myself in a theft in the midst of a homicide investigation wasn’t necessarily the best way to win over Detective Jacobs, particularly if the memory card proved to be absolutely useless.
“I’m back,” I announced, waking Paul by slamming the door. He squinted and rolled over in bed, deciding I wasn’t much of a threat. Mark was at the table, reading through the files and making notes. “Did I miss anything?”
“I
doubt it.” He finished writing and assessed me. “How’d it go?”
“Superb.”
“Oh, that good?” He knew my sarcasm well.
“Oster’s home alone. So I did some digging and pulled this out of the camera Eastman lent him.” Tossing a glance at Paul, he didn’t stir, and I figured he was out like a light. “The damn thing appears to be blank.”
“And you want me to get tech to see if it was always blank.”
“Thanks for offering.” I sat across from him and stared at the ceiling. “The way I figure it, either Oster wiped the card because of what was on it, or he replaced it with a new one because of what was recorded.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Room 709 was trashed. It was a few dozen feet away from where Alvin Hodge’s body was left hanging, and there were obvious signs of a struggle. Supposedly, the FBI was renting the room to maintain eyes on Frank Costan. At least, that’s the story Jason Oster told. I’m thinking either Oster got the room number wrong or things got out of hand while the FBI was surveilling Frank Costan. Either way, something went down in that room.”
“Why would you think it’s the same room that Oster had under surveillance?”
“Call it a hunch.” Thinking back, I knew Oster had access to rooms that weren’t in use, whether or not they were registered to guests was beside the point. He knew where everyone was and when. It’s probably how he and Rachel stayed under the radar for their rendezvous. “From what we know, the FBI was conducting an operation for the last eight months to trap Costan and gain enough evidence against his suspected partner, Wheeler. Hodge was tipping off the authorities, and that room was incredibly close to the staging of his body. It can’t be a coincidence. Maybe it was a ‘fuck you’ to the feds, or Uncle Sam rented the room and never used it. You should ask Walton about it. He was running point.” I tossed another glance at Paul to make sure he was still asleep. “According to Oster, he claimed that he spotted Costan at the hotel and informed his boss who in turn informed the FBI. Don’t you think he’d want to keep tabs on the agents to see what they were doing, especially if he might be implicated in something?”
