by Alan Russell
“But we just came here for a getaway,” she said. Then, emphatically: “It was supposed to be romantic.”
“Romantic to me,” said Jimmy, “is walking along the beach at sunset hand in hand with my special lady. Romantic to me is dancing by moonlight. Romantic to me is finding a special view and sharing it with a special someone.”
He gave her a clueing look. She could be that special someone. Not that Jimmy had ever done any of those romantic things he had described. Up until now he had never even thought about doing them. Most of his relationships had been short-lived. For some reason the women he had dated hadn’t liked staying up all night getting the sporting scores from around the country.
“All of that sounds nice to me,” admitted Cleo.
“I know a special view,” he said. Mount Soledad, he was thinking. From there you could see half the world, but most people just went up there to make out.
She reached over and patted his hand. “You’ve been very special to me,” she said. “But I’m in a relationship.”
“One relationship I could understand,” said Jimmy, “but multiple…” He shook his head.
“What do you mean?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
Jimmy looked at her. She really didn’t. It was worse than he had thought. “Your boyfriend’s trying to get you involved with a bunch of swingers.”
“Swingers?”
“Adam and Eve and Dawn and Steve. Mate-swappers.”
With total incredulity, she said, “You’re wrong.”
“I wish I was. They call themselves the Swap Meat.”
“Bradford is not a—a—swinger,” she said. “He has been as upset about everything as I have.”
“He didn’t look too upset back in the room.”
Like most low blows, it worked. A thoughtful look came over Cleo’s face. She remembered their initial meeting with the other couple. Could it have been planned? Did that other man actually think that she… ? How disgusting. How absolutely repugnant. Cleo stopped accepting napkins. She was mad.
“I don’t believe any of this,” she said.
Words invariably uttered, Jimmy knew, by those who did believe.
Chapter Thirty-Three
They sat discussing murder in the Lobby Lounge. Bars that are located directly off hotel lobbies traffic mostly in the captive-audience market and the spontaneous-purchase category, with guests either waiting to get into their rooms, or wanting to get a drink without having to bother going very far. It was a better place than most to be discussing murder. The Lobby Lounge was very tropical, with lots of green foliage, running water, and fountains. Maybe there was too much water. Marisa had excused herself three times to go to the bathroom. On her most recent outing she had explained, not a little embarrassed, that “the running water keeps giving me less than subliminal messages.”
It was almost midnight. The lounge wasn’t very crowded, but it wasn’t a place to hide either. It was a spot to see, and be seen, with only floral barriers between the loungers and the lobby. Am was drinking a mineral water. One cup of Skylar’s Turkish coffee had been enough electroshock therapy for the night. He’d tried to return the mentalist’s favor, had left him a somewhat unbent spoon.
The cocktail server interrupted Am’s thoughts. “Would you like another?” she asked.
“Uh, no, thanks,” Am said, his smile covering up for his having been startled.
It was slow, so she wasn’t in any rush to leave. Am looked at her name tag, confirming the first name he wasn’t sure of. Tracy, it said, and in smaller letters, Mission Viejo, California. She’d been at the Hotel for less than a year. Am remembered they had talked one time about her graduate studies at San Diego State.
“Did you have a good night?” he asked.
“The good thing is my shift is almost over,” she said. “I have a date with a hot bath.”
“I think I have that same date.”
“Will your friend want a refill?”
Marisa was drinking cranberry juice. A diuretic, as if she needed one. Her glass was still half-full. Am was afraid the sight of a full glass might immediately send her back to the bathroom.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll close out the bill whenever you’re ready.”
“Thought you might say that,” she said. Tracy presented the bill on a little tray with two peppermints.
“Enjoy your bath,” he told her.
“You, too,” she said.
He looked at the bill, and not for the first time was glad he didn’t have to pay the Hotel prices. Because he was entertaining someone from the Fourth Estate, he would charge this to advertising and promotion. The Hotel policy afforded the servers only an eight-percent gratuity on such accounts, so Am added a few dollars of his own. He placed the bills atop the bar charge. Just a few hours back, he remembered, he had been examining Dr. Kingsbury’s bar charges. Come to think of it, one of the doctor’s tabs had come from the Lobby Lounge.
Tracy was talking with the bartender, and Am had to use all but semaphore flags to get her attention. She casually made her way back to him. “What do you need?” she asked. “Bubble bath?”
He fished through a pile of papers, came up with a recent picture of Dr. Thomas Kingsbury. “Wonder if either you or Dave recognize this man.”
Tracy didn’t need to show the picture to the bartender. “He came in here late the other night,” she said. “Was sitting right about where you’re sitting.”
“Was he alone?”
“No. He was joined by a woman.”
“What did she look like?”
“Platinum blond. Good-looking. She was at least twenty years younger than he was. Not his daughter, though.”
They never were. “Did you hear any of their conversation?”
“No. They wanted to be alone.”
“How would you describe their mood?”
“Happy. He was rather jovial. He ordered several shots of Goldschlager Schnapps.”
“I’m not familiar with that drink.”
“The yuppies like it. It’s damned expensive, and for a reason. There’s actual flakes of gold in the bottle.”
“No!”
“I’ll show you.”
Tracy went back to the bar just as Marisa returned to the table. In the time it took to explain his inquiry Tracy reappeared with the bottle. She also had two full shot glasses.
“Dave signed these to the management folio as an educational tasting,” Tracy said.
Am raised an eyebrow, then gave a dubious wave of thanks to Dave. He hated to think how many red flags would be raised if his own day at the Hotel were tracked through receipts. It would be tough enough to explain everything, and he was alive. Poor Kingsbury wasn’t.
Marisa shook the bottle and held it up. Golden flakes rained down through the amber liquid.
“It reminds me of Christmas,” said Marisa.
“Christmas?”
“The day after Thanksgiving we’d always bring out our Christmas boxes. I couldn’t wait to play with the snow domes.”
“Snow domes?”
Marisa excitedly demonstrated with her hands. “You know,” she said, “the glass domes you shake and then the snow falls down.”
Ah, he thought. His family had called them water globes, but like Marisa’s, they had also brought them out for the holidays. The winter scenes were as close as he ever got to snow growing up in San Diego. Am looked at the bottle. She was right; when it was stirred up it reminded him of the globes, save that these were golden flakes, not snowflakes, and they didn’t fall on carolers, and chalets, and ice skaters; they were supposed to fall down upon open throats, not open sleighs.
They thanked Tracy, handed her back the bottle of Goldschlager, then raised their own shot glasses. The gold flakes had settled at the bottom, but when they clicked glasses the gold rose and dispersed. They downed the contents in a gulp. The schnapps kicked in from the gullet on down.
“
Phew,” said Marisa. “That’s what I call a real gold rush.”
Am felt the same way. The liquor packed a punch. He looked at his glass, and noticed some gold flakes clinging to its side.
“ ‘Saint-seducing gold,’ “ he said, quoting from Shakespeare, but remembering neither the play nor the scene.
A few gold flakes also clung to Marisa’s glass. “I suppose these are dregs we should drink,” she said.
A strange idea came to Am. He considered explaining, but it was too late. Besides, the idea was far-fetched.
“Let’s leave them,” he said. “The drink’s too rich for my blood anyway.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
They waited for the valet to bring Marisa’s car to the front of the Hotel. Am always thought the Hotel was particularly beguiling at night. Beyond the entryway, soft lights illuminated the gardens, the coastal clouds adding a fairy-tale mist. The Hotel always dressed up for the evening, her antique lines accentuated by the shadows. She was an ageless storybook setting, a place where once-upon-a-times began. The gentle ocean breeze circulated pleasant promises, the scents of jasmine, gardenia, and roses making wonderful chemistry with the brine. Swaying palm trees lined the road, gently dancing to some airy tune and the rhythm of the sounding ocean.
“I enjoyed myself tonight,” Marisa said, “even though I’m leaving with more questions than when I arrived.”
They had dissected the motive for someone’s wanting to murder Dr. Kingsbury. There were reasons aplenty, revenge heading the list. Besides Skylar and Brother Howard, there were countless others that the doctor had exposed. Fear could have also contributed to his murder. Brother Howard, in particular, must have been feeling vulnerable. He had already been driven out of one business by Kingsbury, and just as he was starting another, the doctor had turned up. Adding gasoline to the fire was a game that Kingsbury evidently relished. He had confronted both Skylar and Brother Howard in front of crowds, had acted as if he were ready to duel with them again. Were there others the doctor had challenged?
“I enjoyed myself, too,” said Am.
“We shouldn’t have, though, should we?” she asked. “I mean, here we are looking into the death of a man.”
“You needn’t feel guilty,” said Am. “And you don’t have to take my word, you can take Kingsbury’s: ‘Be positive.’”
She smiled, raised her face up to his. “Yes, that’s right, isn’t it?”
Her smile, and upturned face, remained looking at him for a long moment. Was that an invitation, or was she just being friendly? Should he kiss her? Hadn’t they just agreed there was nothing to be guilty about?
A screech of tires interrupted the moment. The headlights of Marisa’s red Mazda Miata spotlighted Am’s uncertainty. The car came to a sudden halt, and the valet jumped out and opened the door. They walked over to the car. Am had already validated her parking, but there was the matter of a tip. The valet gratefully accepted her money, but still stood sentry, waiting to close the door behind her.
“I’ll tuck her in,” said Am.
“Yes, sir,” said the valet, and took off at a run. There were others waiting for their cars.
They both laughed a little, and then laughed a little more, neither knowing what to say, or how to end their evening. “I’ll call you,” she said. “The autopsy results are supposed to be announced sometime tomorrow, which means I’m going to be busy writing a story.”
“And I’ll be following up on a few leads,” said Am. He almost told her about his idea again, but held off.
“Thanks for everything,” she said, extending her hand.
He started to shake it, then brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it instead. Marisa got into her car without saying anything, barely acknowledged him with a wave as she closed the door and drove off. Am couldn’t help but wonder if he had misread the situation, if he had put his personal interpretation on professional friendliness.
Her car had to do a loop to get out. He was still standing at the curb when she passed by. Her return message to him wasn’t in Morse code, and wasn’t hard to interpret. The headlights of the Miata opened and closed, gave as blatant a wink as was automotively possible. And then the roadster sped off.
Am wasn’t sure how long it took him to notice he was being summoned, but the voice on the walkie-talkie sounded absolutely peevish by the time he responded.
“This is Am,” he said.
Flanders had the graveyard dispatch. He had started him on his workday, sending him off to see Takei over sixteen hours ago. Am wondered if his day would ever end.
“About time,” said Flanders. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
His last words were hopeful. The Hotel grapevine, which circulated any personal information faster than light, was obviously in good working order.
“What do you have?” asked Am.
“Call came in at twenty-three hundred and…” There was a pause while Flanders tried to figure out military time. He soon gave up. “At ten minutes before midnight.” Am had to endure the rattling of papers over the walkie-talkie. Flanders was the least officious of all the dispatchers, just one of the reasons he worked graveyard. There are some people who are made for the vampire shift, who know they don’t fit in with people who circulate during the light of day. Flanders was one of those.
“We got us a code…” Some more shuffling of papers. “…a code green in the Crown Jewel Suite.”
Code green, thought Am. Green was, he remembered, a suspected break-in of a guest room. When Chief Horton had made up the color codes, his logic had been that burglars usually took “the green.”
“If I were you, Am,” said Flanders, “I’d go up armed.”
Alarmed, Am asked, “Armed?”
“Lady’s none too pleased,” Flanders said.
He should lecture Flanders about dispatch protocol, order him to switch to the alternate channel and pointedly, graphically, even, describe how many goddamn hours he’d been at the Hotel and how he didn’t need any of his crap. But Am was too tired to expend that kind of energy, and this wasn’t something he could delegate. You don’t send an underling to Lady Death.
“Okay,” he said.
“Ten-four,” said Flanders. The words sounded like “tent floor.” Flanders was chewing on something, probably another jelly doughnut.
Lady Death was surprised to see him. It was usually the other way around. She was waiting outside her room, and looked as if she were afraid to go inside. Am reintroduced himself, and announced his position at the Hotel. Angela said she had figured Am for some other Hotel capacity, something he was pleased to hear, but the rest of what she had to say wasn’t so pleasant.
“I arrived back at the Hotel just minutes ago,” she said. “And found,… well… you’ll see.”
He entered the room and she followed, quite clearly wanting him to lead the way. “In the next room,” she said. “On the bed.”
Am walked into the room and saw that someone had come in after turndown and left more than good-night mints on the pillows. The bedspread had been pulled back, the white sheets apparently a better backdrop for the bloodlike lettering that had been left: R.I.P. Beneath the large red letters were torn-out pictures of Angela Holliday and the word DEAD.
“I assume they found my books,” she said, “and ripped out my picture, and that particular word, from the book covers.”
For once, “dead” didn’t seem to be Lady Death’s favorite word. It only took Am moments to confirm her suspicion. Several dozen of her books lay strewn on the floor, their covers torn apart.
“Did you notice anything else of yours missing or disturbed?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t hang around after seeing that message. I ran from the room and found a house phone. I doubt whether my call to the front desk made much sense.”
“You did the right thing,” said Am.
He turned on some more lights, then stopped at the bar and picked up a comfortable cudgel, a bottle of win
e, before starting his exploration. Am methodically made his way through the suite. With each step he became more and more convinced that the suite had been designed for paranoia. There were too many places for a potential assailant to be hiding. His search took in bathrooms, walk-in closets, cabinets, sofas, beds, armoires, and hidden corners. In the suite’s second bathroom Am discovered the “blood” on the sheets—two empty bottles of red fingernail polish. The bottles had been tossed at the mirror above the sink, causing the glass to crack in several places. Someone had seven years of bad luck coming.
Angela entered the bathroom behind Am, gasped as she saw the damage. Through the cracked reflection he watched as she raised her hand up to her mouth. Her pale features were now preternaturally so. In another circumstance, with another person, Am might have thought she had seen the dead.
“The fingernail polish yours?” he asked.
She moved closer, examined the labels without touching them. “They’re my brand,” she said. Angela searched through her cosmetics bag, and confirmed they had been taken from there. As far as she could determine, nothing else was missing.
He continued examining the suite. There were no more surprises, nothing else out of the ordinary. Am was thorough, even went so far as to open the Steinway baby grand piano, but found only a little dust. He made a mental note for housekeeping.
His inside search concluded, Am turned the balcony lights on and went outside. No one was lurking behind the planters, or hiding under the patio furniture. There was only the ocean, calling from seven floors below. He looked for signs of forced entry, but didn’t see any. Then he checked the two entry doors to the suite, which didn’t appear to have been tampered with either.
“Was the door locked when you returned?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And are all your own keys accounted for?”
“I was only given one,” she said, “and I still have it.”
Takei had promised him they’d be getting electronic locks by next spring. There had been relatively few problems with the automatic dead bolts currently in use at the Hotel, but there was the constant concern of outstanding keys. Security was good about rekeying rooms with unaccounted-for keys, and keeping an accurate key inventory, but they weren’t perfect. Human error couldn’t be ignored either, with guests often not shutting their doors completely, and housekeepers forgetting to lock all the windows and sliding glass doors. Since the Crown Jewel Suite had two entry doors, it was only too possible that one could have inadvertently been left open. Thieves were opportunists. But Am reminded himself that this wasn’t a case of a thief calling, but a terrorist.
