“Mr. Leahy, can’t we just order everyone out?” She looked around Larry and said, “Where did Doris go?”
“The officers at the front door won’t allow anyone else into the lobby.”
Larry noticed that the spilled liquid affected Pepper, whose face bore a likeness to a photograph of something that shouldn’t be there.
“Pepper, are all the rooms on the twelfth floor occupied?”
“Yes, the hotel is booked solid.”
“Thanks.” He started down the hall. At the elevator, he recognized O’Hara’s footsteps on the stairs. Larry looked at his cell phone: 2:30 a.m.
“I’m so glad to see you, Mr. O’Hara.” Pepper came running from behind Larry and tripped into O’Hara’s arms. His chest covered her face. She looked up. He whispered something, and she nodded. Larry couldn’t hear what was said.
O’Hara stepped back and said loudly, “Just be gracious and keep on working until 3:00 a.m.... and tell Doris to keep working.”
He didn’t have to push. She seemed in synch with the pressure to retreat.
“Yes, sir.” She started down the hall and looked back. “What about the girls coming on shift?”
“Inspector Leahy will tell them what’s going on.” He looked at Larry. “Just work alongside them...and Pepper, you are senior clerk until you leave.”
He brushed off his jacket.
“Yes, sir.” She rearranged her blouse, pulled down on her skirt, and walked with added verve.
O’Hara exhaled loudly.
Larry scrutinized O’Hara.
“Glad you’re here,” O’Hara said. He looked at the officer guarding the elevators. “I’m the one in charge in my own hotel, and it looks as if I’m not.”
“Let’s go to the vault.”
“See what I mean.”
“Just follow me.”
Larry led him into the counting room. “Cornelius has been killed by a gunshot to the forehead. We don’t have a cause or a suspect. Ralph found him in his apartment. I saw a pile of money on Cornelius’ coffee table. I think the money might have come from the vault. How much cash do you keep in there?”
“Let me open it.”
“I brought some gloves for the occasion.” Larry pulled them out of his pocket. “Here, put them on.”
O’Hara entered the combination, and the heavy door sprung open an inch. An automatic light switched on as he entered. Larry smelled booze when O’Hara’s mouth fell open.
“The one-hundred-dollar trays are empty. $50,000 is gone. What the hell has happened?”
He yelled for Pepper and kept roaring her name across the counting room and down the hall. Around the corner she came, sifting fingers through tangles in her hair.
“Yes, sir? What is it?”
O’Hara grabbed her arm and pulled. Her serenity and his conduct surprised Larry. He moved between them and pulled O’Hara’s grip loose.
“Let me do the asking. Pepper, please walk to the counting room.”
She got out in front of them. The counting room door was still open, and they walked in.
“The top tray is empty. Has anyone else had access to the vault during the evening?”
“No, Mr. Leahy, just me.”
“When was the last time you were in the vault?”
“Probably before midnight.”
Larry entered the vault, focused on the steel ceiling, and backed out.
“James, do you have cameras in here?”
O’Hara pointed at the black globe attached to the ceiling’s decorative molding.
“Where are the other cameras?”
“There’s one outside. It’s pointed down at the entrance to this room. There are more on both sides of the front desk.”
“Where can we watch the video?”
“My office.”
“Pepper, is there any way that money could have been removed during the night, maybe, when you weren’t looking?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
O’Hara interrupted. “Cornelius took the money.”
“Mr. O’Hara!” Pepper exclaimed.
Larry stared at him. “What makes you say that?”
O’Hara took off his monogrammed glasses. “Can we talk alone?”
“No, say what you have to say now.”
“Pepper took the money to Cornelius. She’s in love with him.”
Pepper’s face turned yellow-green, and she collapsed into a chair.
Larry looked at her and said, “Is this true?”
“No. No.”
O’Hara put his glasses back on and rubbed the back of his neck.
Larry studied James for a moment and began to feel as if they were all in a surgical theater. The walls were white-hot, and he felt as if he needed to get out. “Pepper, I will be looking at the video, so you had better be telling the truth. Go back to the front desk.”
She hobbled out of the room.
“James, this is a serious accusation you’ve just made. Is it true?”
O’Hara rubbed the back of his neck. “She was in his apartment today. She’s in love with him. She knows more than she’s saying.”
“The videotape will be picked up, and I’ll be viewing it tomorrow. Let’s get out of here. Stay in your office. The police will question you.”
O’Hara groused and aimed for his office. He waved on a man passing by.
The man limped and was wearing black earphones. He snatched a soggy toothpick out of his mouth when he saw Larry and said, “Hello, Inspector...?”
“Inspector Leahy.”
One hand stuck the toothpick in his suit pocket, and the other hand pulled the earphones out of his ears.
“Did you escort Mr. MacKenzie to his apartment tonight?”
“No.”
“Mr. MacKenzie died. An investigation is underway. Did someone else escort Mr. MacKenzie to his apartment?”
“No.”
“What? No one?”
“That’s right.”
“I asked you to escort Mr. MacKenzie to his apartment. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, but that was earlier, I mean, and then he said, ‘Don’t bother.’”
“What? Repeat that.”
“O’Hara told me not to escort Cornelius to his room tonight.”
Dumbfounding. Absolutely dumbfounding.
“Where did you come from?”
“The basement. I was doing my rounds.”
“Were you on the twelfth floor this evening?”
“No. I stick to the first and second floors and the basement.”
“When did your shift begin?”
“I’m working swing shift, but it can change, depending on what O’Hara wants.”
“Did you see anything unusual tonight?”
“No.”
“Do you keep a log?”
“Yes.”
Yes’s and no’s is all I will get out of him.
“Where is the log?”
“In Mr. O’Hara’s office.”
“Do you have the combination to the vault?”
“No.”
“Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Are you present when money is brought from the front desk to the vault?”
“No. Is there anything else?” Fletcher asked. He moved heavy black glasses up his nose and pawed at his five o’clock shadow.
“I would stay a while longer, in case the police want to question you.”
“No problem, I can stay as late as they need me, but I really didn’t see anything tonight.”
“Good-night.”
Larry had seen enough of him.
The Situation Investigation Team would be in the Greenwich for several more hours. He returned to the lobby and got on Pepper’s side of the front desk when he noticed two broken fingernails.
“What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. When the lady dropped the red liquid and I bent down to clean it up, I must have pressed too hard.” The baroque smell of the stain linger
ed, even on the employee side of the counter.
She beamed at Larry as if he were catnip and smiled at a couple approaching the front desk.
Larry heard them ask, “What is happening here? Is this normal?” Larry saw a blue and yellow Lufthansa tag on their luggage.
Pepper answered, “Oh, nothing to worry about. You’re late, but we held the reservation just for you.”
The front door was wide open, and the air in the lobby had cooled. Two middle-aged women hanging onto each other’s arms ogled the two newsmen. The Channel 5 camera man dropped his equipment on the three-seater.
Larry followed Pepper as she strode over to him and boldly ordered the equipment on the floor.
“Miss, you might get in the news. Can’t you tell me something?”
Larry shook his head back and forth.
Back behind the desk, she said, “I haven’t seen Gerald Smith since he came in.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s an ex-employee.”
“He will be questioned.”
“Doris, I need a break. I’m not feeling well.”
“You’ve been gone from the desk most of the night, Pepper.”
“I’m sorry. I had to answer lots of questions.”
“Let’s go to the lunch room, Pepper.” She walked very close to Larry’s side when they passed the counting room door.
Once they were inside the lunch room, she expired loudly and said, “I feel as stubborn as a mule.”
Larry patted her on the shoulder and said, “It’s the effects of all that’s happened tonight.”
She looked at her nails. “I feel like lying down. Maybe, I should call my aunt.”
They sat down.
A spider crawled along the edge of the table. Two sets of eyes stared at it. Pepper backed her chair away. With a half-turn and quick survey of the counter behind, she grabbed a bottled water. One crunch would have debilitated the bug, but two more whacks sent it to bug heaven. Larry laughed and so did Pepper.
At three o’clock, Pepper and Doris ended their shifts and said their good-byes.
“Pepper, do you live close by?” Larry asked.
“Just three blocks.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
“Oh goodness, you’re so sweet. I’ve only got my red cardigan, so I walk fast.”
After Doris exited the front door and Pepper reached for the handle, Larry whispered, “Did you take the money out of the vault?”
“No. I didn’t.”
They stepped around stragglers. The police had stopped redirecting traffic. One hooker stood on a corner, and a homeless man howled about personal possessions he had laid out in front of a shop’s black scissor gate.
Before parting at the front door of Pepper’s apartment building, she asked, “Do you think Gerald has something to do with the murder?”
What made her say that?
“Good night, Pepper.”
“Good night and thank you.”
Larry returned to the Greenwich. Ten minutes later, he was driving home and repeated what she had said, “Do you think Gerald has something to do with the murder?”
Chapter 5
Friday, July 5
Father Ralph leaned against the cold sink, grabbed a comb, and pushed it through thick black hair. A gray streak ran from his forehead, up and over the top, and down to his neck. Once, he heard someone say that it made him look as if he were marked by God, so Father Ralph left it untouched. He stepped out of the bathroom and straightened a black and white photograph of a snowfall on Lone Mountain hill, dated March 3, 1896, the site of Loyola House, the Jesuit residence, his home.
“Hi Ralph. How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you, Larry?”
“Didn’t get much sleep. Lauren sends her condolences.”
“It’s still a shock. I’m not sure if my Jesuit brothers know.”
“Does your sister know?”
“Yes. She couldn’t stop crying. Morning Mass is for Cornelius.”
“All right. I’m on my way. We’ll talk later.”
“God bless.”
Father Ralph looked around the room. Above his bed was another rare, original photograph with a brass plate at the bottom, inscribed, San Francisco Waterfront 1864. He donned a black sweater and closed an electronic tablet holding an impressive collection of his favorite mystery novels, which he read almost every night after dinner, but not last night. Framed in blue and gray was an MA in Philosophy from Gonzaga University, and beside it, in mahogany and glass, hung a Doctorate in Biblical Theology from the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome.
He sat on the edge of his bed and thought about his friends, Larry and James, whose lives might be ineffably linked to his forever because of what had happened.
The last step at the bottom of the stairs took him into the foyer and the sound of a door bell. The porter greeted Josh Hawkins and turned to Father Ralph. A tear clung to the porter’s lower eyelash. Father Ralph squeezed his hands. “I’m okay. Josh, let’s go.”
On the way down the Lone Mountain steps to St. Ignatius Church, Josh’s black and orange baseball cap blew off. Father Ralph kept descending while Josh scrambled, grabbed the hat, and returned to Father Ralph’s side.
Three days a week, Josh hiked a half mile from his home in the Laurel Village neighborhood. He lived with his mother, Larry’s divorced sister.
“I hear you’re doing a fine job at the Greenwich.”
“Yes, Father, bell hopping and running cross country during summer keep me in shape.”
I ran at St. Ignatius, but how do I tell Josh the news?
“Did you have a good holiday?” he asked.
“My friends and I watched the fireworks at Aquatic Park.”
The hazy sunshine took Father Ralph’s mind off the present moment and buoyed him up under feelings that had kept him awake all night.
The sunny miasma evoked a memory. He saw James and himself meeting at Larry’s house and lining up in the schoolyard on a day just like this, barely half-a-mile away. Chubby white seagulls searched for scraps, and little blackbirds danced on their toes. He heard the snap-snap of black clackers as each one of the sixteen, habited, black and white nuns straightened her line.
Cornelius’ last joke came to mind.
“A boy asks his father how to catch a fish. The man says, ‘Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.’ He goes into the house, comes out with a fish, and says, ‘Son stand back thirty feet.’ The boy backs up, and his dad says, ‘Okay, catch this.’”
The memory brought Father Ralph back to the Greenwich and the awful scene the night before.
Waiting for a consolation, Lord.
Instead, he got a distraction, a vision of James standing out in front of the hotel like a reigning president.
Josh stopped whistling at the bottom of the steps. Once more, he reminded Father Ralph of himself when he was young, and another consolation arrived: James, Larry, and Father Ralph had remained in the city that had claimed their love.
I hope Josh stays.
He crossed the street against a red light. A car screeched to a halt. The driver made an obscene gesture and cursed out the window. Father Ralph’s black sweater slid up his forearm when he raised his hand and waved the sign of the cross at the back of the vehicle.
“C’mon, Josh.”
“Yes, Father. That was kinda close.”
Father Ralph’s sleeve bunched up as he withdrew a starched handkerchief monogrammed RHM. His middle name was his father’s first name. Henry expressed resignation when his eldest child chose religious life over leading the family real estate brokerage. “Well, you won’t do any real harm,” he had said. Father Ralph’s becoming president of a university might have impressed him. A cool line of sweat on Father Ralph’s forehead left him wondering if he should quit drinking coffee in the morning.
He saw a child playing in a driveway that he passed every day on the way to church. She looked up at him as if she had never seen a pri
est before. He wavered on whether he should say hello.
If he did, she might ask, “What does God look like?”
You were created in His image, so you know what He looks like. Look for him in the faces of the rejected, poor, unborn, and voiceless, but not in mine.
Father Ralph’s imaginary conversation was broken by the sound of Josh’s footsteps as they approached the sacristy. The cell phone in Josh’s hands had the full attention of this sixteen-year-old charge, and as soon as they were inside the sacristy, Father Ralph was glad Josh made it safely through two doors without tripping.
“Take off your hat, Josh.”
Josh stifled a burp. “Sorry, Father, pizza from last night.”
Father Ralph picked up his chasuble and stole laid out by the sacristan and turned the morning Chronicle over.
“I might be going up to Uncle Larry’s cabin this month. How come you never go?”
“I have other things on my mind.”
“Oh yeah, you have your annual retreat at the end of this month.”
“That, and other things to take care of.” As Josh lifted the black cassock and white surplice over his head, Father Ralph pushed the Chronicle against the yellow window. On its Sunday society pages were families like the Mackenzie’s and O’Hara’s, families that were emblematic dynasties representing one face of San Francisco. They were the former newspaper owners, bank founders, old-order politicians, and squire class of funeral directors. They were Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish, and all hid their influence on society under the protection of athletic and social clubs that concealed membership and purposes.
Now, high-tech, new arrivals were replacing these families, and people like his mother were disappearing into assisted living facilities.
“Shoes polished. I’m ready.”
“Good. After Mass, I’ll explain what happened last night. Do you know?”
“Yes, I know. Mom saw it on her phone. I didn’t know if I should bring it up.”
Father Ralph placed his hand on Josh’s shoulder and leaned more heavily on him than ever before. “Cornelius’ death is being investigated.”
“What happened?” Josh asked.
“We’ll talk about it after Mass.”
Josh rang the bell, signaling their entrance to the sanctuary.
As he bent his knee in front of the altar, Father Ralph wondered how Cornelius’ death might affect his chances at becoming a university president, or his standing at school or the other Jesuit universities around the country. He worried over how the death might affect the reputation and profitability of the centerpiece of the family’s wealth, the MacKenzie Real Estate Company. He worried about the man now leading the firm, Leonard Morton, his brother-in-law. All of it was base, and he asked God for forgiveness.
Pretty City Murder Page 8
