Pretty City Murder

by Robert E. Dunn

  “Ralph, first we have to determine what has happened. How did you enter the apartment?” Larry kept looking for the casing.

  “With my key.”

  “When did you last talk to Cornelius?”

  “I tried calling him during the night from O’Hara’s, and the only person who answered was a woman. I don’t know it was. It was probably nine o’clock.”

  “What were you doing at O’Hara’s?” Larry saw the casing lying next to a baseboard in the living room and left it there.

  “Fourth of July party. I’m ashamed to say it after what has happened.” Father Ralph looked like a man standing over a suicide, unsure of who was at fault but willing to take the blame.

  “Who else has a key?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there a way up to this apartment besides the elevators?”

  “Yes, there’s a stairwell on the other side of the hall.”

  Larry walked to the front door and counted out the steps from the front door to the living room entrance and from there to the body – about ten steps for each. Father Ralph’s visage had turned gray. “Okay. Wait outside in the hallway. You’ll make a formal statement. Write down the time you arrived, how you came into the apartment, and what you saw.”

  “What will happen to Cornelius?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Larry put his hand on Father Ralph’s shoulder.

  “God bless you, Larry.”

  “Thank you, Ralph.”

  Larry withdrew his white handkerchief, placed it on the glass door knob, and let Father Ralph exit first. Once outside, he decided not to close the door. He turned around and punched number two for Central Station.

  “Take a few paces down the hallway. I don’t want you to hear what I’m about to say.”

  “Of course.”

  Larry explained the situation to the desk sergeant and asked for immediate notification of the Captain, Homicide Unit, and Situation Investigation Team.

  He began rehearsing an answer to the question why he didn’t call 911.

  He saw no blood on the mocha-colored carpet where he stood and pressed his handkerchief down on the lever of the stairwell door. Small gold stars sprinkled Venetian red carpet covering the short treads of a cavernous, unpainted stairwell. It would be possible to see blood on the carpet only if he got on his knees, as he did almost every day in church. He leaned his face to the side about an inch from the nap. Nothing glistened.

  I didn’t call 911 because Father Ralph and Cornelius are like family.

  Larry scanned Cornelius’ front door. Lauren had turned over when Father Ralph’s phone call came in, and he was glad for that, but why did Father Ralph ask for secrecy? Larry hoped that no one else would appear on the twelfth floor, but a plan of action was taking shape.

  Despite the shock and search, he had seen and recognized the framed picture in the entry hall. The original was a J Englehart “Yosemite Valley” painting which hung over the fireplace in the old Leahy family home in Dolores Heights. What a coincidence that Cornelius had a print of the same picture. Larry looked down at the floor.

  The MacKenzie Name! Name! Name! Protect it!

  Father Ralph’s intention was now clear. He wanted to protect his family and its reputation. Larry wholly understood Father Ralph’s reaction. Later in life, Larry had come to realize that he had become a cop to redeem his own family and its repute.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Larry licked his lips. “Did Cornelius have any enemies?”

  “You know him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Larry wanted to act, but stale air was depleting his energy, and this tragedy required a clear and calming presence. It was bigger than the problem that had been bothering him for more than a year, which was returning, and it did whenever there was pressure and confusion at work. He could hear his wife say, “Why don’t you do something about Mark? What kind of a father are you? Act.” Lauren knew nothing of Mark’s letter. Larry hid it in between the mattress and box spring on his side of the bed. The letter warned that things were coming to an end. Larry was planning to reread it and hadn’t.

  Fixtures spaced far apart down the hallway gave the same amount of light as flickering candles.

  A wraithlike image slowly formed. He saw himself at age five walking up the steep sidewalk of Twenty-First Street beneath black trees, white sky, and ropes of hanging gray moss. He heard his mother’s voice warning him to not to venture near the corner house on Sanchez Street, the house once was owned by a San Francisco mayor who had repeatedly rejected assertions that it was a whorehouse.

  “Would you like to say a prayer with me?”

  “Yes.”

  Father Ralph began.

  Hail Mary...

  Larry reached into his pocket.

  That’s right. Mark’s letter is now in the drawer at home. She won’t see it.

  Police protocols began circulating in his head.

  Damnit. What’s taking them so long?

  He took stock of Father Ralph, whose stamina now seemed to have taken over. He always had Larry’s admiration. Over the years, they had spoken about the bank robbery his father had committed. From counseling sessions with Father Ralph came the recognition of why Larry chose the same career as his own father. Lauren said that Larry idolized his father, but Father Ralph said that Larry wanted the past to be erased and idolizing his father was a way to paper it over. Father Ralph told Larry again and again that he needed to forgive his father.

  Larry’s head touched the front door.

  “How are you doing, Larry?”

  Only Ralph would worry about someone else in this situation.

  “I’m fine.” Larry knew the quiet and late hour were conspiring to dull his senses. It had happened before, on previous midnight-mad investigations, and so he let his mind wander a little more, but he was beginning to feel small and inconsequential. He knew a writer once who had gotten mixed up with the wrong woman. During the writing phase, he said that he knew there was something important to say, but afterward, all of it seemed trivial and inadequate.

  Larry recognized the feeling, and yet, there in the apartment...

  Suddenly, the elevator doors opened and out came the Situation Investigation Team. Larry looked at his watch: 1:45 a.m.

  “This way, gentlemen. Where’s Captain Dempsey?”

  “On the way. We informed the front desk clerks of the death. They are to remain at their posts. We’d like you to handle the lobby.”

  Larry and Father Ralph rode the elevator to the first floor.

  “Ralph, stay here. I’m going to talk to the front desk people.”

  He nodded at one of the clerks, and she directed a short line people over to the other.

  “You’re Inspector...?”

  “Leahy, and you’re?”

  “Pepper.”

  “You’ve been told what has happened?”

  “Well, yes, sort of, but it’s all so hard to believe. Exactly what happened?”

  “Mr. MacKenzie has died. The circumstances are under investigation. We know nothing at this time, and you are to say nothing.”

  As he was finishing, she fell backward.

  “Pepper, Pepper?” the other clerk said, looking frightened.

  “I’m okay.” Pepper righted herself by pulling on the counter. “It’s so shocking.”

  A brush against the front counter opened Larry’s jacket and exposed the service revolver on his hip.

  Pepper stuttered, “Is that your gun?”

  “Yes,” he answered and closed the jacket.

  “Doris, look busy.”

  Doris tried and failed to hide her umbrage.

  “Inspector Leahy, is there anything I can do? Anything?”

  Larry scanned the lobby. Flashing lights streamed through the windows and cast the white and gold drapery in ghoulish colors. The front door was like a sieve filtering exhaust and the sounds of cars slowing and people grinding against each other.
One couldn’t see across the street for the number of faces whose collective pressure against the windows seemed to have flattened the rippling in the old plate-glass. Two cops stood outside, balance-shifting, talking to keep themselves looking officially occupied.

  “Just stay calm,” Larry said to Pepper and Doris.

  Larry’s feet hurt. Leaning on the front counter gave him a new friend. “Pepper, a crowd may start filling up the lobby, and they’ll want to know what’s happened. You’re to say nothing. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Doris, you are to say nothing about what’s happened. Is that understood?”

  “I know.”

  Pepper clicked her tongue.

  Sleepy, giddy hotel guests were filling the lobby, and some kissed total strangers and some of those who were kissed pulled away and some didn’t.

  “Let me come around to your side of the counter and speak to you privately.”

  Pepper opened the swinging door.

  “Is there a place for Father MacKenzie to have some privacy?”

  “The employee lunch room. This time of night, it’s practically empty.”

  “He’ll need a blank sheet of paper.”

  Pepper grabbed some paper from the shelf near the lock box and visibly shook.

  “And we need a place to talk.”

  “The counting room. Is that okay?”

  “Fine.”

  They walked down the hall to Father Ralph, and once he was in the lunch room, she reversed direction and slowed.

  “This is it.”

  On the window across from the door where Pepper stopped was a big, round decal with the word, “Security”, printed in green and white. It was dark inside.

  They entered the other room. It had a long table.

  “Let’s begin with your full name.”

  “Pepper Darlene Chase.”

  “What is this room used for?” he asked, looking around.

  “Brinks picks up money and delivers small bills and change for us to use.”

  “Can you tell me who has a key to Mr. MacKenzie’s room?”

  She looked up at the ceiling.

  “His brother. The master key is kept in a lock box.”

  “Is the master key in the lock box now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is the lock box?”

  “Under the front desk counter.”

  Other employees might have access to it.

  The vault’s five spoke handle had a dull spark, like cowboy spurs.

  The money in the vault might have found its way onto Cornelius’ table.

  “Is something wrong?” Pepper asked.

  “It’s warmer in here than Furnace Creek.”

  “Do you want me to open the door?” she asked.

  “No. Is all the cash kept in the vault?” Larry’s blue eyes began to water.

  “Yes, sir, except for the money in our cash drawers.”

  “How much do you keep in your cash drawers?”

  “Well...we keep $500 in small bills and change. When the amount is over $500, we take the excess to the vault. Two clerks count the money, the senior clerk brings it here, places the money in the trays, fills out a receipt, and places the receipt in the cash drawer.”

  “How many clerks and bellhops were on duty this evening?”

  Larry noticed her thumb touching the tops of her fingers as if she were counting how many gnats could be mashed in ten seconds.

  “We have overlapping shifts, two are on duty, myself and Doris, and we are about to be replaced by two more.”

  “Number of bellhops?”

  “Two, and they will be replaced by two more.”

  “Is the vault always locked during the evening?”

  “Yes. Should I check?”

  “No. Don’t touch the handle. Do you have the combination?”

  “Yes. Only the senior clerk has the combination.”

  “Does it change every day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else knows the combination?”

  “Mr. O’Hara, the chief accountant, and the Security office manager.”

  “Did you see anything unusual tonight?”

  “I...I...don’t think so.”

  “Did you see anyone...other than guests...did you see anyone you didn’t recognize?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Are the bar and restaurant open?”

  “No, they close at ten o’clock.”

  “All right, those are all the questions I have for now. Do not discuss our conversation with anyone. Thanks.”

  He watched her exit, the back of her white blouse covered by a tangled mess of red hair.

  I’m not any closer to what really had happened.

  Father Ralph was writing his statement in the lunch room.

  Larry quietly backed out to call O’Hara.

  “It’s Larry. Cornelius has died. I need you here at the Greenwich.”

  “What happened? Does Ralph know?”

  Except for voices and music in the distance on the other end of the phone, there was silence.

  O’Hara’s assessing the situation.

  “Where’s my security man?”

  “I don’t know, and Ralph is here.”

  “All right. I’ll do whatever is necessary. I should be there in thirty minutes. How bad is it? What about the other employees? Do they know?”

  “The front desk clerks have been informed. Don’t run any red lights. We have things under control. Just get here.”

  Larry stepped back into the lunch room and said, “Go home, Ralph.”

  Father Ralph embraced Larry, something they had not done in a long time. Still holding onto him, Larry said, “Don’t worry, Ralph. I’ll do my best.”

  They parted in the hallway, and Father Ralph descended the stairs to the garage.

  At that moment, it all came crashing down. A man of utmost integrity and innocence had died. Feelings both immediate and remote forced him back into the lunch room. He sat down and wanted to weep. Father Ralph’s statement on plain, white paper lay on the table What could be worse, the actual event or the piece of paper, a soundless testimonial to a brother’s life and death? He dared not read it.

  He felt himself entering the darkest shade of blue, the kind that cannot be blotted out by florescent light.

  What’s wrong with me?

  He needed to escape the emptiness of the room and lifted the statement by one of its corners. Hopeful that faces would raise his spirits, he left the room and reentered the lobby. Its buzz softened the impact of all that had happened, and the faces of people he might have disliked at a party gave him what was needed, purpose.

  At 2:00 a.m., two unmarked police cars parked in front of the Greenwich, and four men stepped out. Larry told a sidewalk loafer sitting against the flower boxes and trying to get a look up skirts to beat it. He huffed away.

  “Captain, the team is on the twelfth floor.”

  “We can find the way.”

  The body snatcher arrived two minutes later and asked where he should go.

  A young man and another girl passed the front desk. Two bellhops looked fresh and ready to go to work. The girl said, “Pepper, what’s happened?”

  One of the bellhops chimed in, “Everyone wants to know what’s going on.”

  “Yeah,” the shorter one said.

  “People, I’m Inspector Leahy. I understand that you want answers. There has been a death in the hotel. Unfortunately, we can’t give out any other information at this time.”

  The lobby got quiet except for the noise outside.

  “My name is Larissa Rey. I’m the switchboard operator. Can’t you tell us anything?”

  “Larissa, don’t ask the inspector,” Pepper answered. “It’s a police secret.”

  Larry swallowed a grunt.

  The young man with Larissa bobbed from side to side, keeping his distance from Larry, and yelled over the noise. “Larissa, let’s go.”

  Pepper leaned in and w
hispered, “Inspector, that’s Pablo. Larissa and Pablo live together.” She had apparently deputized herself.

  “Okay,” Larry replied, thinking about Mark and his girlfriend and trying not to be intolerant.

  Larissa turned and said something to Pablo about going home.

  The bellhops got busy. Guests milled about.

  Larry stayed close to Pepper, and Doris and Pepper leaned on each other.

  Two men, one with a bulky camera balanced on his shoulder, approached the front desk. Guests moved out of the way. “Hello, John Roberts from Channel 5 News. Can you tell me who was shot?”

  Roberts had TV hair, the coif a funeral home director designs.

  Pepper looked annoyed and said, “No, I’m sorry, I can’t say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have to speak to the hotel owner. He hasn’t arrived.”

  “When do you expect him? Where did it happen?”

  Larry stepped in front the reporter. “Please stand back, out of the way.”

  The cameraman looked around Larry and asked, “What’s the owner’s name?” Like a creature from outer space, the camera bobbed and floated and zoomed in and out, following Pepper’s movements as she tried to get an unobstructed view. The lobby was in a slow frenzy as more and more guests assembled.

  “Inspector, we seem to be losing control.”

  “Pepper, just carry on. We can expect some interest. I’ll keep them away from the front desk. O’Hara will be arriving soon.” He retold the reporter to step away from the counter.

  Someone dropped a glass bottle on the lobby carpet and out poured a currant-colored liquid. Pepper grabbed a rag and ran over to wipe it dry. A lady bent over, trying to clean up the mess. “Oh, dear, so sorry,” she said.

  “No problem. It spilled on the red part, not the black.” Pepper’s eyes were forgiving. The lady adjusted the bra strap beneath her worn flowered dress and looked around. Pepper wiped her nose to clear away the lady’s perfume.

  “Inspector Leahy, can you come over here?” Pepper looked as if she were praying. “I can’t get Cornelius out of my head. I saw the anniversary pin on his lapel today.” She dabbed the red liquid with the rag and suddenly pressed with all her might.

  “Leave that alone. Let me help you get up.”