I arrived at the main parking lot of the Malamar Hotel which was crawling with black and whites and an ambulance which wasn't needed. Sometimes the medics just come out for a look see when their shifts slow. This must've been one of those nights.
The Malamar Hotel is one of those places that thinks putting lipstick on a pig means you can charge for a tenderloin. It ain't so. The place might have been swanky in the seventies. Nowadays under low lights it's pickpocketing tourists and Angelinos who just don't know any better. Not saying it's a bad place. In fact this is the first homicide here I'd heard of. But a couple of coats of paint and an indoor pool that'll gas you with its chlorine stench ain't worth two hundred bucks a night. Not when the hum of traffic is louder than a wasp's nest under your bed.
I donned my fedora and asked one of the young officers where Roberts was. He was on the third floor. I cursed under my breath and headed to room 303 to see what the fuss was about. The Malamar didn't even have an elevator. Classy. Not that I was outta breath when I got there, but I wasn't thinking of my Marlboros either.
As it turned out, 303 was on the far side of the set of stairs I'd chosen. You couldn't miss it. Officers were crawling in and out of the room like termites on driftwood. A smart looking officer whose uniform hadn't seen a scuffle yet didn't let me in.
"Get Roberts," I said. "He'll tell you what to do."
The young fella didn't have the chance. Roberts was crossing the entranceway of the room when he saw me and grinned. He came up to the officer and put his meaty hand on his shoulder and told him I was with them. He moved out of the way to let me in.
"So what have we got?" I asked Roberts.
"A dead body."
"You don't say. So what am I doing here?" I asked.
"You've gotta ask?"
I shrugged at him as we stood facing each other. He put his arm around my shoulder and led me into the living area of the hotel room.
"I heard your last show didn't go so good. Figured you could use a couple of bucks."
"It would've gone better if you'd have bought something, you cheap bastard. You sure you're not Scottish."
He was, but on his mother's side. He told me that as if it didn't count.
"Can't afford your stuff anyway," he said. "Besides, why can't you paint like Norman Rockwell?"
He grinned at me thinking he was funny.
"Why can't you appreciate real art?"
"Okey dokey," he said. "Onto more serious matters. This here is Marsden Hartley."
We were standing within kicking distance of a middle aged man who was lying staring at my shoe. His eyes were open and his mouth slack. It made him look like a guppy. There was a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead which had drooled a small river of blood which was now drying and thick.
Marsden Hartley looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, but he could've been a decade older. His hair was colored jet black and wavy. It was a great head of hair, and even as he lay awkwardly crumpled like a yoga guru on the floor, his hair was immaculate. He was tanned, but you could tell he was careful about it, and probably used moisturizer.
As I looked down at him, I figured I was looking at the godfather of metrosexuals. He had on a pink shirt that was open two buttons too many. He probably would have called it salmon. A puff of gray hair across his chest gave away his age. A chunky gold chain dangled from his neck. He was fit and handsome, though he hadn't been blessed by the Greek gods. He had earned his looks the old fashioned way. From plastic and iron. Cosmetic surgeons and personal trainers. His pants were cream and he wore white deck shoes without socks.
He looked to me like he cost a million bucks. And I had no idea what he was doing in a dump like this. His left hand was palm up by his knee. He had on his ring finger a big piece of silver bling. I grabbed the fleshy part of his hand and turned it up as I kneeled down to take a look.
"Did you see this?" I asked, looking up at Roberts. "It's the New York Giants Super Bowl ring."
Roberts nodded, not looking very impressed.
"I doubt it's real," he said. "You can get those things on eBay for forty bucks."
And he was right. But somehow this one felt different. I pulled it off Marsden's finger. It was heavy and big. It covered pretty much the whole first phalanx of his ring finger. I held it in my hand weighing it in my mind. It must have weighed at least half a pound.
I tossed it over to Roberts and he caught it.
"Pretty heavy," he said.
"Pretty real, I reckon."
"I'll have my guys check it out."
"Can do, or I can tell you who it belongs to."
I grinned at him. He looked at me sideways.
"Is that right?"
"It is."
"Then whose is it?"
"Larry James Baines."
"You're shitting me," he said. "You mean to tell me, that this ring belongs to Larry J. Baines, the wide receiver for the Giants."
"The very same."
"The guy with the most receiving yards ever?"
Roberts was smirking at me now as if I was having him on. I grinned and nodded at him as if I'd just swallowed a mouse.
"I don't believe you."
"Take a look on the inside of the ring's band."
Roberts held the ring up to the ceiling light and took a look at it. Sure enough inside it was inscribed with "Larry J. Baines".
"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle."
"Yes, you are," I said.
"Funny," he replied. "Villacorta!"
A detective who was standing outside the hotel room came back in. He was an average looking swarthy guy. Short brown hair and naturally brown skin. I figured him for Italian or something like that. He wore a brown suit that he'd picked off the rack from JC Penney's. Probably without even trying it on first. He walked up to us, carrying a notebook and pen.
"Captain," he said.
"Have you met my pal, Anthony Carrick?"
Roberts cocked his neck towards me.
"No, I haven't," said Villacorta, as he extended a hairy hand at me and we shook.
"Anthony here was the only detective in LAPD's history to close one hundred percent of his cases."
"Is that right?"
"It is."
Villacorta was now looking impressed. Roberts handed him the ring.
"Log this for me," he said.
Villacorta brought out a small plastic bag from his jacket pocket and put it in. He wrote something on it with his ball point pen and then tucked it back into his pocket. He jotted something else down in his notebook.
"The guy doesn't look like a football player," said Villacorta.
"He's not," I said. "The ring belongs to Larry Baines."
"No shit?"
"No shit," I answered.
"Anthony thinks it's real. I want you to bring in Mr. Baines for an interview and ask him about it."
Villacorta nodded.
"Stick around," said Roberts to him. "We might have some questions for you."
Villacorta nodded again, like he was a bobblehead on the dash of a police cruiser.
"Can we turn him over?" I asked Roberts. He nodded and we turned the vic over.
I took a closer look at his third red eye. There didn't seem to be any burning or gunpowder residue around the entrance wound. I took out my phone and snapped a picture of him. The mask of death wasn't pretty. It never was. Might as well have been looking at a slab of butcher's meat.
"Must have been shot from a couple of feet away," I said.
"That's what we figure," agreed Roberts.
"Who found him?"
"Housekeeping. Neighbor got back from the bar downstairs just after one. Said there was a racket coming from this room."
"A fight?"
"No, blaring TV. He couldn't stand it so he called it in. Housekeeping came up couldn't get the guy to open up, so the manager came up and let them both in. Housekeeping turned down the TV."
I nodded and looked over Marsden. There didn't seem to
be any sign of struggle. The room was neat and tidy. It was a nice room for a dive. A sofa against the far wall where Marsden was probably sitting when he was shot. A coffee table with nothing on it just to his side. The bed was on the opposite side of the room. A TV stood on a chest of drawers with a swiveled base. Next to the chest of drawers was the bar fridge. I walked over to it and opened it up. It was fully stocked.
The queen sized bed had two bedside tables. On each was a plastic cup and in an ice bucket was slushy ice with a half full bottle of cheap champagne. It was sparkling wine, the grapes had likely never heard of France. It was a bottle of Gruet Brut. An American attempt at champagne. A good one too, at least for ten bucks.
The bed was the only thing that was messed up. It wanted to tell me its dark secrets but I didn't want to hear about it. I walked to the far side of the bed by the window and looked out over the parking lot. Like I said, this was a swanky place. The windows were closed and the hum of the traffic was an annoying mosquito in your ear. I looked at the bedside table. This side's plastic cup had a smear of pink lipstick. I started to get the idea.
"What did you find in his pockets?" I asked Roberts.
"Just his wallet. His car keys were on the bedside table."
"What did he drive?"
"A 2005 M5."
"What was in his wallet?"
"Driver's license and wad of cash. Almost a grand."
I turned and walked back over to Roberts.
"Anything else?"
"A picture of him with his wife. At least that's what we figure. We're gonna look into it. He also had a fifty dollar chip from Rustler Casino."
"Larry's emporium of debauchery."
"It's just a casino," said Roberts.
I walked into the bathroom and the sink was filled with male grooming products, expensive cologne. A crumpled and damp bath mat was just outside the shower and towel had been thrown casually against the wall by the toilet. I glanced into the trash can. A white slimy slug of a scumbag was lying dead on top of facial tissue. Nice. I walked back out.
"There's a scumbag in the trashcan for your guys," I said to Roberts.
"A what?"
"Condom."
"I see," said Roberts. "And where do you come up with this stuff?"
"MTV mostly."
He laughed.
"I'll get crime scenes on it."
"You mean Cardigan?"
"Yeah, he'd love that. Sadly he's not working tonight. Villacorta!"
Villacorta ambled up to us.
"Make sure crime scenes doesn't forget the scumbag..."
Villacorta looked at Roberts with a furrowed brow.
"Condom," said Roberts. "Make sure they don't forget the condom in the bathroom trashcan."
Villacorta nodded.
"I want prints on anything and everything."
"You got it," said Villacorta.
"Have housekeeping and the neighbor been interviewed yet?" I asked.
"Gray has them in the next room interviewing them."
I nodded.
"I'd like to go hear what they've got to say."
Roberts nodded.
"Anything else you want to tell me?" I asked him.
He shook his head.
"Can't figure this one out. Looks more like a hit to me. Certainly not a robbery right? I mean why leave a thousand bucks behind?"
"I can think of a thousand reasons to leave it behind," I said to him, grinning.
"Go on then."
"Could be as simple as the killer getting startled during the robbery and getting scared."
"Or it could be a hit," said Roberts.
"Could be that," I replied.
All In: Chapter Two
Room 301 was the spitting image of 303. There were even about the same number of people in them. Roberts and I walked into the room and found a young fat Hispanic woman in her gray and white housekeeping uniform sitting on the bed. Her mascara had run down her cheeks. I think kids nowadays call it the Goth look, but that wasn't her excuse. It was easy to see she had been crying.
Detective Gray was asking her questions as she sat on the bed and he stood in front of her in his blue slacks and blue and red striped shirt. He had brown hair and an angular jaw with piercing green eyes. He was tall and good looking, and I immediately didn't like him. He was the kind of guy who got where he did on looks. That's what I figured. I was wrong.
"Captain," he said, then looking at me. "You Carrick?"
He was smiling a hedgerow of perfect white teeth. I couldn't help but wonder how many baby kittens he had to drown for a set of choppers like that. He reached out a hand which I shook. It was as firm and warm as overcooked steak and just as smooth. I nodded at him.
"I'm a huge fan," he said. "I've studied all your cases."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. Man, the way you got Goliath to confess on that Gath homicide was off the charts. I'm Lee Gray by the way."
He turned to Captain Roberts.
"Is he helping us out on this one?"
Roberts nodded. Gray grinned even wider. I looked harder, and it almost seemed like he had two sets of teeth, a spare just in case.
"Awesome," he said.
I didn't think boys over thirteen said that anymore. I was wrong. I looked at Roberts.
"He reminds me of you. Five and oh is his record."
"Good work," I said, patting him on the back. He grinned at me, and if he was a puppy he probably would have pissed on my leg. What can I say, sometimes I'm wrong about people. I went from zero to liking him in about three seconds.
"What have we got so far?" Roberts asked him.
Gray nodded and looked over at the housekeeper. She was looking down. Her hands in her lap clutched a wet tissue. It wasn't like any origami I had seen.
"Cleofás Jasso, says she was sent up by the manager to check on the noise complaint. When she got here she banged on the door three separate times but the guy never answered. She said the noise was extremely loud so she went downstairs to get Celestino Hernádez, the manager over there."
Gray cocked his head to the short young Hispanic man standing next to him in a black suit that was worse than Villacorta's if that was possible.
"She says he came back up with her and Celestino tried banging on the door three separate times but the guy wouldn't open. Celestino used his manager's key fob to override the door and when they got in they saw the guy lying dead on the floor."
"Did they touch anything?" I asked him.
Gray turned to her and spoke in Spanish. He was asking her what I had just asked him. I don't speak Spanish, but I'm street smart that way. She said something back to him. I looked at him like I'd just been put in the middle of a Pentecostal religious practice of glossolalia.
"She says they didn't touch anything. They went downstairs and called the police and waited for them. They only came back up to open the door for the police."
"When did he arrive?" asked Roberts.
"She doesn't know. Must have been today though, because yesterday the room didn't need cleaning because there was no one in it."
"Carry on," said Roberts, "see what else you can get out of her. We'll talk to the manager."
Gray nodded and turned to the housekeeper. Roberts and I walked up to the short Hispanic guy in a big suit.
"You the manager?" asked Roberts.
He nodded and smiled. He looked us both in the eyes. He was a friendly guy, and you could tell he was eager to help.
"Do you mind stepping over here with me," said Roberts as he led us to the far side of the room for some privacy.
"I'm Captain Roberts, and this is Anthony Carrick," he said.
Hernádez shook our hands warmly as if he were presenting some sort of real estate seminar.
"I'm Celestino," he said. "Celestino Hernádez. Most people think its Hernandez, but my folks dropped the second N when we crossed the border. It was too heavy."
He grinned at us. I smiled back at him. He was a funny guy, and s
ociable. You could see how he made it to management being so young.
"You've got the same name as that Panamanian boxer Caballero."
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "'Cept I don't box and I'm shorter than him."
I was trying to break the ice, but I figured he'd done a better job of that than me already.
"Your housekeeper said you sent her up here to check on the noise complaint."
Celestino nodded vigorously.
"Yeah, Mr. McSpadden - this is his room - called in a complaint so I had Cleo check it out. She came back and told me the guy wasn't answering so I went upstairs with her and tried myself. I banged three times, really loud, but I got no answer. I announced myself and then used my manager key to open up his door. The TV was on and blaring. That wasn't the first thing I saw though. The first thing was Mr. Hartley dead on the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead."
"Did you touch anything?"
"No way, man. I watch CSI so I know not to disturb the scene. I told Cleo we needed to go call the police so we left the room and went downstairs where we called you guys."
"And the doors to the rooms, they all close by themselves?"
"Yes, I heard it close when we were down the hall a bit."
"Do you know when Hartley signed in?"
"I'd have to check the computer downstairs, but it was today. Around lunchtime."
"How did he pay?"
"With cash. I thought he was crazy, man, he pulled out this huge roll of cash and peeled off two Benjamins. The room's actually $206.75 with taxes but I let is slide. He said he only had Benjamins on him."
I looked at Roberts, and he looked at me.
"He had a variety of bills," Roberts told me. "Mostly twenties, and hundreds, but some fives and tens."
"Oh," said Celestino.
"Had he been here before? Have you seen him anywhere?"
Celestino shook his head.
"No, but I like to talk to my guests when they sign in, if I'm at the front desk, and I was. I saw all that money, like I said, and I asked him what he was doing here. He said he was going to play poker at the Rustler Casino."
"Do you know where he's from?" asked Roberts.
Celestino shrugged his head.
Four Ways To Midnight (An Anthony Carrick Short Story Collection Book 1) Page 8
