by Alan Russell
He set up a surveillance of the law firm, and waited outside the office until Stern’s secretary took her lunch break, then he stole back inside. Rifling through her papers, he found his letter to Deidre. Attached to it was a fax cover sheet addressed to David Stern at the Hotel California.
The hotel’s name sounded familiar. Carlton had some vague recollection of the property, remembered it as one of those posh resorts that had been around forever. But that wasn’t why it stuck out in his mind. Carlton hadn’t been on a vacation since his honeymoon. It was Deidre who was always mooning over one brochure or another, who was always planning her next trip. She had said his busy schedule forced her to vacation by herself. That was her word: “forced.” Odd how she had been forced so often. Every other month or so she was always going somewhere. And then Carlton remembered the connection—just a few days back he had seen Deidre looking at a Hotel California brochure. She had put it aside after noticing his attention, and rather hurriedly, now that he thought about it.
Maybe Deidre was with David, consulting on the divorce. Then something else occurred to Carlton. He didn’t like the thought, but he found it hard to put aside.
The staff at the Hotel California was apparently as well trained in obfuscating as Stern’s secretary. When Carlton called to ask whether the lawyer was registered, he was told, after only a short pause, that he was not. Deidre Smoltz wasn’t registered, either. Carlton didn’t ask about a Mr. and Mrs. John Smith.
The flight from San Jose to San Diego takes little more than an hour, but Carlton felt he could have walked the five hundred miles just as fast. He took a cab from the airport but stopped to pick up a bottle of fine wine, a wheel of gourmet cheese, and a card. Spurred forward by a fifty-dollar gratuity, the cabbie happily made the deliveries to the front desk, where a busy desk clerk accepted the tagged items.
It was only after the cabbie left that the clerk seemed to have second thoughts. He consulted a timid-looking man with glasses, who seemed to throw the decision back to the clerk. With a shrug of his shoulders, the clerk beckoned for a bellman and handed him the wine and cheese. What Carlton hadn’t calculated on was the service elevators. He almost lost the bellman, had to walk by two Employees Only signs, and jumped in just ahead of the elevator’s closing doors.
“This place is a maze,” Carlton said to the surprised bellman.
“This is a service elevator, sir,” he was told, but the car was already moving.
The bellman got off on the sixth floor and Carlton the seventh. He ran down a flight of stairs and, from a cracked-open stairwell door, watched where the bellman made his delivery. The room revealed, Carlton suddenly found himself reluctant to go forward. It wasn’t only that he chanced looking foolish; part of him wanted to embrace denial. But a greater part of him had to know.
He remembered knocking . . .
Memory and reality blurred and merged. There came a loud knocking at that same door, but Carlton wasn’t outside now. He was inside. Someone had heard what happened, he thought. It’s the police. It’s all over. He was relieved and afraid at the same time.
Murderer. No, twice as bad. A double murderer. No one would believe it. He could barely believe it himself.
Carlton walked to the door. He felt it was a tune-up for the last mile. He noticed the blood on his hands, and without thinking, or without trying to think, he picked up a towel and wiped them clean. He still looked a mess, but he supposed it didn’t matter. The loud rapping came again. The police. He opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stern. Where would you like the champagne?”
In front of him was a short, smiling Hispanic man. He was about sixty years old, and his dress resembled the livery of a beefeater. Carlton blinked his eyes. This was the strangest-looking cop he had ever seen.
Augustin Ramirez had been a room service waiter for over forty years. His lilting Spanish accent rivaled Ricardo Montalban’s. He had been at his job long enough to not require an answer. He had a long repertoire of rehearsed words. Some of his favorites were “Very good,” or “As you please,” or “If you will excuse me . . . ” When Carlton didn’t say anything, Augustin employed the last phrase. Gently guiding Carlton out of the way, he carried a tray into the room and then went about setting up.
“Strawberries on your glasses, Mr. Stern?”
Again Carlton did not answer. “Quite right, sir,” Augustin said. “Better to let the taste of Dom Pérignon stand by itself. I’ll put them on the side.”
Displaying two chilled glasses, Augustin asked, “Would you like the champagne served at this time, Mr. Stern?”
This time Carlton remembered to nod.
With a flourish, Augustin popped the cork. Not a drop spilled out. He poured a thimbleful into the champagne glass and presented it to Carlton.
For a moment Carlton considered putting down the glass. He wanted to confess. He was ready to spill his guts. But somehow it didn’t seem right confessing to a room service waiter, especially a room service waiter who was waiting with such an expectant look. He sipped. He nodded. Almost magically the glass was filled.
“The other glass, Mr. Stern?”
Being addressed by the dead lawyer’s name was disconcerting to Carlton. He didn’t know that the staff at the Hotel California was instructed to use the names of the guests whenever possible, and that the room service waiters always tried to address the recipients of their deliveries.
Carlton nodded. White gloves lifted the bottle. Augustin served with fine technique and flourish; four fingers supporting the bottle, thumb pressed into the mold, bottle raised high above the fluted vessel. The second glass was filled.
“May I be of any other assistance, Mr. Stern?”
Carlton shook his head.
“If you will be so kind as to sign this,” said Augustin, presenting a gilded leather folder that housed a restaurant check and a Cross pen.
This is ridiculous, thought Carlton. For a moment he almost signed his own name, but then he remembered to write “David Stern.” He also remembered to sign for a tip.
Augustin retrieved the folder, offered his thanks with a bow, then walked out of the room. Only after the door closed behind him did he check the amount of the gratuity.
Fifty dollars. Much better than he had expected. Mr. Stern might not talk much, and he might look a mess, but at least he knew how to tip. And for a waiter, few things in life are more important than that.
Carlton stood at the door, the champagne glass in his hand. He didn’t know what to do. It was bad enough that he had murdered his wife and her lover. For that he expected immediate and horrible retribution. But to be delivered champagne when the corpses weren’t even cold—why, that was unthinkable. It was almost as though he were being rewarded. Carlton took a sip of the champagne. He needed some bolstering. He was surprised at how easily the first sip went down. And then the glass. And finally the bottle.
Chapter Four
Sharon Baker wasn’t typical of most interns. She was older, probably early thirties, and professionally attired in a gray business suit, a far cry from the high school or college kids who usually interned at the Hotel. Sharon was about five and a half feet tall, with a light complexion and dark, short hair with finger waves running through it. Her face was angular, but her full lips softened the sharp lines. Her eyes were dark and intelligent and rather regal.
The riddle of her internship grew as Am listened to Sharon and Kendrick talking. She wasn’t a homemaker entering the work force or someone looking for a career change, but a graduate in the Master of Professional Studies program at Cornell University, Kendrick’s alma mater. They didn’t do a Masonic handshake for one another, but Am felt a certain clubbiness in the air—whether it was there or not.
Sighing, Am waited for old home week to end. Because he knew that theory was so different from practice, he liked to tease hotel school graduates, saying that hotel programs thrived in those schools that emphasized major collegiate football. He had learned th
e trade while on the job, working in hotels for the six years it took him to earn a degree in philosophy, and in that time not one guest had asked him about nihilism or existentialism or logical positivism. They cared more about a clean room, a comfortable bed, and soft towels.
While at the university, Am thought of his hotel jobs as way stations between more important ventures. It was only after graduation, when he took the grand tour around the world, that he began to see innkeeping in a different light. There were times in his travels when nothing mattered so much as the haven of a well-placed bed. A good inn, Am discovered, was a sanctuary, a godsend, and with that epiphany he returned to San Diego, a born-again believer in the hotel trade.
Sharon’s talking to Kendrick gave Am the chance to observe her. And the more he looked and listened to her, the more he kept thinking she arrived with the caption “What’s wrong with this picture?” Finally she took notice of his scrutiny and turned away from Kendrick to return Am’s gaze.
Kendrick noticed their eye contact. “Mr. Caw-field,” he said, “will be seeing to your work program.”
She tilted her head slightly. Her brown eyes weren’t as deferential as the movement. They challenged, and behind them was almost a smugness. Am had noticed that Kendrick hadn’t mentioned a word about her helping him with security. Of course not. He had the feeling that Sharon wouldn’t be jumping for joy when she learned about her duties.
After thanking Kendrick for his time, she left him with all the right parting words. The GM wasn’t oblivious to her charms; he looked about as contented as a dog getting his hindquarters scratched. Turning to Am, Sharon motioned with waving hand, inquiring, “Shall we?” Am fell a step behind as she led the way out of the office and down the hall, moving forward as if she knew the path better than he did.
“You have an unusual name,” she said. “Am.”
Kendrick never called him Am. His “Mis-tah Caw-field” was indictment enough. Am wondered where she had heard it spoken.
“It’s an abbreviation of sorts,” he said.
“For what?”
“Long story,” he said, “and I’d rather hear yours. So far it doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Your interning. People like you are supposed to step out into high-powered jobs.”
She arched one eyebrow. Am had always been envious of those with that talent. “Haven’t Cornell graduates ever worked here before?”
“Sure. They come in here thinking they know everything, and then we go about training them. Generally they take just a little bit longer than high school grads to learn.”
His words were light, joking, but Sharon wasn’t anywhere near a smile. “I also have an MBA,” she said, a hint of superiority in her voice.
“In that case I’ll speak slower,” Am said.
“Maybe,” she said with false sweetness, “you should consider not speaking at all.”
“Partners in crime need to communicate.”
“Partners in what?”
“The hotel security director just quit. We’re the replacements.”
“I don’t think my talents will be best utilized,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “by having me walking around saying ‘Ten-four’ into a walkie-talkie.”
“With so many talents,” said Am, “I still find it hard to understand why you’ve chosen to intern at all.”
“Have you ever spent a winter in Ithaca, New York, Mr. Caulfield?”
“No. I’m a born-and-bred Californian.”
Sharon gave him a knowing, if not very complimentary, look. “Ithaca gets more snow than most of Alaska,” she said. “I promised myself to go to a place that was warm, a place where there wouldn’t be any snow.”
“Ever consider a vacation?” he asked.
“I expect to be enjoying myself while I am here. I also figure two or three months of operational experience will look good on my résumé.”
“Two or three months,” said Am. “Gee, by that time you should know everything.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Security holds little interest for me.”
Her attitude, Am realized, echoed his own of just a few minutes past. Instead of explaining, he had acted like Kendrick. Belatedly he tried to appeal to her. “Sometimes management is filling in,” he said.
“Ever hear of delegating?” she asked.
His reasonableness vanished. “Thanks for volunteering.”
Her jaw tightened. Then she relaxed. Somehow Am knew she wasn’t capitulating, though, merely reformulating her plans, whatever those were.
“It couldn’t be short for am-enable,” she said.
For a moment Am wasn’t sure what she was talking about; then he remembered that Sharon had asked about his nickname. She wasn’t easily distracted.
“No,” he agreed.
“Amoeba? Amentia?”
He stopped her, doubting seriously whether she would come up with anything flattering. He had forgotten he had another name. Even his parents called him Am now. The renaming had occurred over fifteen years ago.
“No. And it’s not some exotic name.”
“So, what is it?”
He opened his mouth to tell her, then held back. There was something about Sharon that wasn’t forthcoming. He decided he should be the same way with her.
“You’re a hotel dick now,” Am said. “Figure it out.”
Chapter Five
Carlton wandered aimlessly around the suite. Nothing in his life had prepared him for being a murderer. Other people did things like that. Terrible people. Evil, awful people. Not him. He finally settled in front of the wine and cheese that he had purchased only a few hours, and another lifetime, ago.
I won’t get this kind of thing in prison, he thought, suddenly maudlin. Unconsciously he began to gorge himself on the cheese, his motivation akin to an animal’s instinctive preparation for a long winter. After retrieving a corkscrew from the nearby wet bar, he opened the wine and started drinking from the bottle. It didn’t dull his senses as much as he hoped it would.
Carlton caught a look at himself in the mirror. He was a mess. His clothes were disheveled, and his thin, stringy hair was matted in little unkempt clumps. There were stains on his shirt, telltale marks of the horror he had committed. He stripped off his clothes and walked into the bathroom.
The fragrant smell of potpourri welcomed him inside. Strains of Brahms sounded, so restrained as to be almost subliminal. Carlton looked around the enormous bathroom. It had a separate shower and an oversize sunken spa. Both were marble. The ceramic tile floors, he noticed, were heated, warm to the touch. It was the first bathroom he had ever seen that had its own television and telephone. There were even headsets in the spa. Five kinds of soap were displayed, one seashell-shaped, one in a box, one scented, one with a designer label, and one that was even functional. There were two sinks and two amenity baskets. Among the offerings were bath salts, bubble bath, hairspray, hand cream, shaving cream, razors, a sewing kit, body lotion, conditioning cream, cologne, toothpaste, and toothbrushes. A lump came to Carlton’s throat. The Hotel had been so thoughtful. It was almost as if they had anticipated his dilemma.
He filled the spa, poured in a little of the bubble bath, and turned on the churning jets. His conscience still troubled him, but as he descended into the suds his other senses were soon overwhelmed by pleasure: the gentle music, the bubbling water, the lilac scent. It had been a long time since he had indulged himself. The thought brought on a twinge of self-pity. In his lifetime he had never taken time to smell the roses. Now it was too late.
After twenty minutes in the spa, Carlton regretfully raised himself out of it. All good things must come to an end, he thought darkly. He reached for a towel. It was thick, more like a mink stole than a towel. While drying off, he took a moment to examine an item new to him: an electric towel warmer. He was tempted to warm some towels just for the novelty of it but decided instead to wrap himself in a terry-cloth robe. The blue-and-gold
Hotel California crest was emblazoned on the robe. He felt it with his hands, touched the stitching that stood out proudly like a royal signet. Then he picked up the cologne and sprinkled some on his hands. It was Old Spice. He patted his red cheeks and dared to peek into the mirror. He looked better now, no longer resembled one of those post office Wanted posters.
Trying not to think, Carlton walked into the bedroom. It wasn’t in his nature to leave a mess. He went to the bed and stripped off the bedspread, then used it and the extra blanket to wrap the bodies. The bedroom’s large walk-in closet provided ample space for their placement.
The strewn food, scattered room service trays, and spilled blood weren’t as easy to tidy up, but Carlton’s work was simplified by the thick, stain-resistant carpet. When he finished, he felt an almost desperate need for fresh air. He opened the curtains and the sliding glass doors and stepped out to the suite’s double balconies. Breathing deeply, he took in the panoramic expanse of La Jolla Strand. Six floors below was the sandy beach. From where he stood, everything looked like an interweaving mosaic. Couples walked arm in arm along the boardwalk. Weaving between bodies were skateboarders and roller skaters. Beyond the seawall were the volleyball games, half a dozen or more being contested. The center of the strand was taken up with Frisbees, and paddleballs, while joggers pounded along the surf line. Even the ocean had its territories, with waders, then the divers, and finally the boogie boarders and surfers.
The sun was setting, and everyone was trying to get the most out of the waning light. How long has it been since I’ve watched a sunset? thought Carlton. He settled onto a balcony chair, front row to the blue Pacific eating fire. When the sun set, he heard clapping from below, San Diegans applauding the colorful end of the day.
The vermilion sky gradually gave way to darkness, and Carlton’s mood followed the colors. He thought about his life. His thinking was mostly in the past tense. He was full of regrets, the enormity of his crimes overwhelming everything else.
