The Hotel Detective (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 1)

by Alan Russell

  Sharon measured the hypothesis and the fall as well. The theory came up short. “That’s still only a guess.”

  “No. Remember how we found water pooled in the bathroom the next day? That was the residue of Kelly’s filling his condom. There was also the digs in the wood which marked where he skidded, and the fallen decorative tiles.

  “And,” said Am, “there’s the couple who witnessed his fall. He’s seventeen and she’s sixteen. Next to the backseat of a car, there’s no more popular place than the beach for young couples to go and make out. I placed some online ads. And just a short time ago I heard from a very uncertain young man. He told me about being on the beach with his girlfriend, and their being disturbed by some sound, and his looking up to see a man falling to his death. Tim Kelly got his desired coitus interruptus, but not in the way he wanted. He landed not ten yards from the couple. They didn’t dare go to the police because the girl was afraid of what they’d have to say, of what they’d have to testify. Her parents didn’t even know she was out. When they left the beach, they were in a panic.”

  “They left behind the confusing second condom,” said Sharon.

  “Yes.”

  “So what do you do with the information?”

  “I tell Mrs. Kelly. Dying from a regrettable accident is a far better thing than thinking her husband killed himself.”

  “It could mean a lawsuit,” she said. “Lawyers running around taking depositions, engineers doing decking studies, and California Alcohol and Beverage Control investigating whether too much liquor was served.”

  “I guess that’s something the new owners will have to worry about, isn’t it?”

  Sharon didn’t move. What time was it? thought Am. Almost, it was a time to hate.

  “You graduated from Cornell ten years ago, not ten months ago. Care to tell me what you’ve been doing since then?”

  She didn’t back down. “I imagine you already know.”

  “I do,” said Am. “You’ve been working for Yamada Enterprises. Among their many holdings are hotels. You’re one of their top hired guns. I assume you came in here to play Mata Hari, to collect whatever damning evidence you could. Is there some rule that everyone has to have spies these days? Is it de rigueur?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not like that. I was just supposed to analyze operations.”

  “Do they pay you in silver?”

  “Try not to be bitter,” she said. “The acquisition has been in process for some time. Mr. Yamada doesn’t like surprises. He wanted me to look behind the scenes.”

  “I guess you gave him a real eyeful, huh?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “The murders didn’t scare him off?”

  “No,” said Sharon. “They were leverage to get a better price.”

  Am laughed bitterly. “So it’s a done deal?”

  “Yes. I was going to tell you . . . ”

  He didn’t want to hear it. “The Hotel California is owned by the Japanese?”

  “The paperwork is now being finalized.”

  It was wrong. You’re not supposed to sell national monuments to foreigners. Other San Diego resorts had been purchased by the Japanese, La Costa Resort and Spa, and the Colonial Inn, and Le Meridien just to name a few, but the Hotel California was different. It was a landmark.

  Sharon must have been reading his mind. “Didn’t Americans buy the London Bridge? It’s a global economy, Am. When the Japanese bought Radio City Music Hall, the Rockettes didn’t trade in their high kicking for Kabuki theater. And when the Japanese purchased the Seattle Mariners, bought their piece of America’s favorite pastime, the world didn’t stop.”

  She was right. She was persuasive. But in his gut her words were all wrong. The Hotel California had always been an American dream.

  “Are we going to get futons like some of those other hotels owned by the Japanese? And kimonos in the rooms instead of robes? And will all the Hotel restaurants feature sushi bars?”

  “You sound like a bigot.”

  “Good. Put that in your report.”

  “I already told you, that isn’t the kind of information I’m gathering.”

  “Take another note: tell them I think sashimi sucks. Tell them we have redwoods in California, and that bonsai isn’t nearly as impressive.”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “You’re fired,” said Am.

  “I’m an intern, you can’t—”

  “You misrepresented yourself, and you were here on our invitation. That invitation is now rescinded. When your bosses officially take over the place, you may return, but not until then.”

  “It would seem to be in both of our best interests—”

  “Spies aren’t welcome here,” said Am.

  He stared her down and wondered if she felt as sick as he did, but his face didn’t reveal his quandary, only showed his disgust. Her face offered more: shame, and anger, and a willingness to talk. But he closed those doors as they showed themselves.

  She left, not looking back, probably afraid to. Am watched her walk to the door and out of his life. He stood on the balcony, alone, and tried to find some answers in the ocean. It was talking gently, the surf slow and easy.

  Am had always thought a GM was much like a ship’s captain. He had imagined that when he became the GM of the Hotel California, he would invite guests over to his table, just like the captain of a ship. He would take them on their voyage, guide them on their journeys. And though he was that captain of the ship now, his ship was going down. Was he supposed to stay with the ship? He wondered what someone who was Japanese would do in his position. Commit hara-kiri? Perform seppuku?

  That wasn’t his way. Am looked down to the sand. If he had to choose a death, he thought it would be better to die as Tim Kelly had, throwing a water-filled condom down at a thrashing couple below. That was more the American way. If not honorable, it was at least darkly amusing.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Am returned not to Kendrick’s office, but to his own. He closed the doors, turned off the lights, and made himself a cave where he could lick his wounds. On his desk was a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka with a note saying it was compliments of Mr. Harmon.

  He wasn’t in the habit of drinking on the job. With free-flowing liquor all around, the hospitality business either attracts, or breeds, a disproportionate amount of lushes. Though Am knew it was the oldest excuse in the world to say he’d earned a drink, this was one time he almost felt justified in mouthing that lie. He kicked his legs up on his desk, leaned back, and eyed the bottle. His love interest was gone, his job was going, going, and almost gone, and his dreams were getting maudlin. He felt like fodder for a country music festival.

  His hand worked over to a mug that looked fairly free of mold. He unsealed the Stoli with slow, languorous fingers. Almost, he could imagine himself undraping Sharon the same way. He poured three fingers into the mug, stopped, then reconsidered and added another finger.

  “To the new general manager of the Hotel California,” he said aloud.

  He took a long sip, then started laughing. It was a good thing he had closed the doors. His laughter bordered on the hysterical. Harmon had gotten the last laugh, having substituted water for the Stoli.

  There were so many toasts Am could make: To illusion; the emperor’s clothes; Vanity Fair; the Emerald City; the fantasy Hotel; the human comedy; and to the genie emerging from the bottle.

  Am laughed until tears rolled down his face, then collected the bottle, if not his wits, and drove home. That night he slowly sipped away, savoring every drop of the Russian counterfeit, getting drunk on the water and his thoughts. Colorado River water never tasted so sweet.

  He knocked at her door at midmorning. Sharon was surprised to see him.

  “What you did was wrong,” Am said. “And I think it best you not return to the Hotel. But . . . I did a lot of thinking last night, and I finally realized what time it is: it’s a time to heal.”

  His o
live branch was disarming, but she also felt it was still damning. “Maybe it’s just a time to explain,” said Sharon, her words defensive. “I didn’t take this assignment to hurt anyone.”

  “I think I know that.”

  “I was supposed to get a sense of the property, something beyond a P and L sheet. I was there to help.”

  “That’s usually the greatest sin of all.”

  “Don’t be so superior, Ian Caulfield.”

  He flinched. It had been so long since Am had heard his real name, it sounded unnatural and condemning.

  “You’re not the only hotel detective, you know. You challenged me to find your real first name, and I did, Ian.”

  She put gleeful emphasis on the name, as if it were something she should be proud of and he ashamed of. Am responded in singsong kind: “You’re just jealous because you’re stuck with the name of Sharon instead of being blessed with an exotic nickname.”

  “What’s wrong with Sharon?”

  “It’s old-fashioned. It exudes this wholesomeness, this picture of some apple-cheeked woman presenting a pie.”

  “Oh, and now that I’m in Southern California I should be called Moonbeam, or Freedom, or Wave?”

  “No. Those are too common. Maybe I’ll call you ‘Are.’”

  “R?”

  “I, Am, you, Are?”

  They offered each other a smile. It was a start.

  “Don’t think I’ve given up on finding the story behind your nickname, Ian Caulfield. I’m sure someone in this city knows its genesis.”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Tell me.”

  He took a deep breath, reminded himself that the genie was already out. “It was my first promotion,” he said, “and my first memo. It taught me how important it is to proofread whatever you write. I signed the memo, proudly affixed my new title, and circulated it around. What I didn’t notice was how I had abbreviated my title. I shortened assistant manager to ass man, and that’s what everyone called me. Of course, in front of guests, they referred to me as Am. That’s what stuck.”

  “Ass man,” she said.

  “Truth to tell,” he said, “I’m more of a leg man.”

  “And that’s the whole great secret?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Ian,” she said, doing a name comparison. Then, “Am.” She sampled the names as though they were food, chewed on them some, then announced, “If the ass fits, wear it.”

  “I don’t exactly feel like I’ve been knighted.”

  “Jousting is a part of every knight’s training.”

  “Is that the only way to win a lady?”

  “Are you trying to win a lady?”

  Instead of answering directly, he asked, “What are you doing today?”

  “I’m working on a report,” she said. “You just interrupted me. I was describing security at the Hotel California. The interim director, and I think I’m directly quoting, has ‘the deductive talents of Sherlock Holmes, the tenacity of Harry Bosch, the charm of Travis McGee, the inquisitive mind of Hercule Poirot, and the inner toughness of Sam Spade.’”

  “Don’t stop now,” said Am.

  Sharon suddenly became serious. “Yamada’s son is going to take over the operation of the Hotel,” she said. “He’ll be bringing a management team along with him. There’s not going to be a bloodbath, but your old position won’t be available. I’m recommending that you be retained as security director.”

  Angrily Am said, “As if I’d accept that demotion.”

  “At your same salary.”

  As much as he wanted to, Am didn’t immediately naysay the job. He had always pictured himself as the GM of the Hotel, had never in his wildest dreams imagined himself as its security director. For a moment he played his own devil’s advocate, went through the pros and cons of the job, before letting his pride speak: “I don’t think so.”

  “Give it some consideration.”

  Am shrugged. He didn’t want to admit it out loud, but he liked solving mysteries, and there was something romantic about him being named the defender of the Hotel. He could still be that catcher in the rye. “Tell me that part about Sherlock Holmes again.”

  “Do you want to come in and have some coffee?”

  “No,” he said. “I want you to come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to take a train. Every morning and every evening for the last ten years I’ve lived near the tracks in Del Mar, and I have heard it calling. Today is the day we follow the Sirens.”

  “What’s our destination?”

  In a stationmaster’s voice, Am said, “Oceanside, San Clemente, San Juan Capistrano, Anaheim, and Los Angeles.” Then, speaking normally, he said, “I figure we’ll just keep getting off until we find that someplace that looks right. Or we’ll just keep going.”

  “We could find a hotel on the beach.”

  “We could act like tourists.”

  “And complain about the service.”

  “And make a mess.”

  “And take the towels.”

  “And palm the silverware.”

  “And make noise all night.”

  “I like the sound of that,” said Am.

  She leaned over and kissed him lightly. He didn’t complain.

  “I stopped by the Hotel this morning,” Am said, “and I told everyone I’d be gone for a few days.”

  “You were confident.”

  “I was hopeful.”

  “Any calamities?”

  “No. The mail had already arrived. I thumbed through the guest comment cards and noticed some familiar handwriting.”

  “No!” she said.

  He handed her the comment card. Carlton Smoltz had mailed it from the San Diego County Jail. It was probably the first hotel guest questionnaire ever mailed from a prison. Carlton had judged his stay as excellent and in the comments section had written, “I had a wonderful visit, and can’t wait to return.”

  “I hope,” said Sharon, “he doesn’t recommend it to his friends.”

  About the Author

  Critical acclaim has greeted bestselling author Alan Russell’s novels from coast to coast. Publishers Weekly calls him “one of the best writers in the mystery field today.” The New York Times says, “He has a gift for dialogue,” while the Los Angeles Times calls him a “crime fiction rara avis.” Russell’s novels have ranged from whodunits to comedic capers to suspense and have been nominated for most of the major awards in crime fiction. He has been awarded a Lefty, a Critics’ Choice Award, and the Odin Award for Lifetime Achievement from the San Diego Writers and Editors Guild. A California native, Russell is a former collegiate basketball player who nowadays plays under the rim. The proud father of three children, Russell resides with his wife in Southern California.