by Sue Grafton
Several courtesy shuttles passed us in succession. She made no move to flag them down, nor did the other two waiting with us. Finally, a red van swung around the curve into view. On the side, in flowing gold script, The Desert Castle was written with a symbolic castle depicted in silhouette. Laura Huckaby raised a hand, signaling the van. The driver spotted the gesture and pulled over to the curb. He stepped out of the bus and helped the businessman with his luggage while she and I got on the bus, the businessman following. The young woman with the backpack remained where she was, her gaze still focused anxiously on approaching vehicles. I found a seat near the rear of the darkened bus. Laura Huckaby ended up near the front, her cheek propped wearily against the palm of her hand. Most of her hair was straggling out of her topknot. ‘
The driver returned to his seat and closed the door, then picked up a clipboard and turned halfway toward us to confirm the names on his list. “Wheeler?”
“Here.” The man in the business suit identified himself.
“Hudson?”
To my surprise, Laura Huckaby raised her hand. Hudson? Where did that come from? Interesting development. Not only had she deplaned in a city that was not her intended destination, but she’d apparently made hotel reservations in another name. What was she trying to pull?
“I’m meeting someone,” I said, speaking up in response to his inquiring look.
The driver nodded, set the clipboard aside, put the bus in gear, and took off. We followed a complicated course of crisscrossing lanes around the terminal and finally sped through the open countryside. The land was flat and very, very dark. An occasional lighted building shot up out of the blackness like a shimmering mirage. We passed what must have been restaurant row: steak house after steak house as gaudily lighted as one of the main streets in Las Vegas. A big commercial hotel finally loomed into view, one of those tasteless facilities with the room price – $69.95 single occupancy – posted right below the name. The red neon letters of the Desert Castle appeared to empty of color and then fill up again. In subscript the sign read WHERE YOU’RE GUARANTEED A GOOD KNIGHT’S SLEEP. Oh, please. The logo consisted of the outline of two green neon palms, flanking a red neon tower with crenellated battlements.
We passed an oasis of tall palms that surrounded a mock-up of the tower depicted on the building, a structure of faux stone complete with an empty moat and drawbridge. When the shuttle pulled into the hotel’s passenger loading area, I hung back until Laura Huckaby (aka Hudson) had been assisted to the curb. There didn’t seem to be any bellhumans on duty. The man in the business suit picked up his briefcase and his garment bag. The three of us moved into the lobby through revolving doors, with me bringing up the rear. Aside from the duffel, Laura Huckaby was without luggage.
Inside, the “merrie aulde England” motif had been given full play. Everything was crimson and gold, heavy velvet drapes, crenellated moldings, and tapestries hung from metal pikes sticking out of the “castle” walls. Just beyond the elevators, an arrow pointed the way to the rest rooms, which were marked Lords and Damsels. At the reception desk, I made sure I was third in line, reluctant to attract Laura Huckaby’s attention. Given the hotel rates, I could afford maybe two nights’ stay, but I’d have to be careful about additional charges. I had no idea how long Laura Huckaby would be here. She completed the checkin procedure and crossed to the elevators with the duffel in tow. By craning my neck slightly, I could see that the bank of elevators had a vertical strip of lights, indicating the floor each elevator was on at any given moment of operation. She entered the first elevator, and once the doors closed, I murmured, “I’ll be right back,” to no one in particular and sped in that direction. The red light advanced systematically from floor to floor and stopped on twelve.
I returned to the counter just as the man ahead of me finished checking in and crossed to the elevators. I moved up to the desk. Given the decor, I expected the clerk to be wearing a wimple or a corselet at the very least. Instead, she wore a regulation hotel management ensemble: white shirt, navy blazer, and a plain navy skirt. Her name tag read Vikki Biggs, Night Clerk. She was in her twenties, probably new to the staff and therefore relegated to the graveyard shift. She gave me a form to fill out. I jotted down my name and address and then watched while she ran off a credit card voucher.
She glanced at the address as she stapled the voucher to the registration form. “My goodness. Everybody’s coming in from California tonight,” she said. “That other woman was flying in from Santa Teresa, too.”
“I know. We’re together. She’s my sister-in-law. Is there any way you could put me on the same floor with her?”
“We’ll sure try,” she said. She tapped a few lines on the ubiquitous keyboard, watching the monitor, her expression studious. Sometimes I want to lean across the desk and take a look myself. From Vikki’s perspective, the news wasn’t that good. “I’m sorry, but that floor’s booked. I have a room on eight.”
“That’s fine,” I said. And then as an afterthought, “What room is she in?” As if Vikki Biggs had just mentioned it and it had slipped my mind.
Ms. Biggs was no dummy. I’d apparently just crossed over into hotel management no-no land. She screwed her mouth sideways in a look of regret. “I’m not allowed to give out room numbers. I’ll tell you what, though. You can give her a call as soon as you get to your room and the hotel operator will be happy to connect you.”
“Oh, sure. No problem. I can always check with her later. I know she’s as tired as I am. Flying the red-eye is a drag.”
“I’ll bet. You here for business or pleasure?”
“Little bit of both.”
Ms. Biggs put my room key in a folder and slid it across the counter toward me. “Enjoy your stay.”
Going up in the elevator, I was treated to symphonic music while I stared at myself in the smoky-glass mirror. “You look disgusting,” I said to my reflection. Once on the eighth floor, the lighting was dim and it was dead quiet. Thieflike, I padded down the wide carpeted corridor and unlocked my door. The medieval affectations hadn’t extended this far. I found myself transported from fourteenth-century England to the wild and woolly West, decor left over from some previous ownership. The room was done up in burnt orange and browns, the wallpaper textured like wood paneling. The bedspread was patterned in cactus and saddles, with a variety of cattle brands stitched across the surface. I did a quick roundup survey, circling the room to appraise the accommodations.
To the right of the door was a double closet containing four wooden hangers, an iron, and an ironing boardlet two feet long with short metal feet. Across from the closet was a dressing area with a mirrored vanity and sink, with a hair dryer affixed to the wall on the right. On the counter was a four-cup coffee maker with packets of sugar and nondairy creamer. A basket held small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotion, plus a little mending kit and a shower cap in a box. In the bathroom, there was a fiberglass tub with a shower nozzle extending from the wall at about neck level. The plastic shower curtain was patterned with horseshoes and bucking broncos. There was a toilet, three bath towels, a bathmat, and one of those rubber tub mats designed to reduce the chances of a nasty spill and an even nastier lawsuit.
There was no minibar, but there was a jar of cellophane-wrapped hard candies in four gaudy flavors. Well, hey. What a treat. I’d also been blessed with a telephone, a television set, and a clock radio. In the morning, I’d call Henry and get an update on the situation in Santa Teresa. In the meantime, I closed the drapes and peeled off my clothes, which I hung neatly on my meager allotment of hangers. In the interest of sanitation, I laundered my underpants while I had the chance, using a dollop of hotel shampoo. In a pinch, I could use the hair dryer and the iron to dry them before I put them on again. A quick call to American Airlines showed no flights of any kind out of Dallas to Palm Beach until later that day, which meant Laura should be in for the night.
It was close to three-thirty a.m. when I put out the Do Not Disturb sig
n and slipped between the sheets buck naked. I fell almost instantly into a deep, untroubled sleep. If Laura Huckaby pulled a fast one and checked out any time within the next eight hours, then forget it. I’d put myself on a plane and head home.
I woke at noon and used my travel toothbrush to get the fur out of my mouth. I showered, shampooed my hair, and got back into yesterday’s clothes, using my spare underpants since my newly laundered panties were still damp to the touch. I then enjoyed a wholesome meal of hot coffee with two packets each of sugar and whitener and four hard candies, two orange and two cherry. When I finally opened the drapes, I staggered back from the harsh Texas sun. Outside, I could see dry, flat land all the way out to the horizon, with scarcely a tree or a shrub in sight. Light blasted off the only other building in view: an office complex with a mirrored exterior on the far side of the cul-de-sac. To the right, a four-lane highway disappeared in two directions with no clear indication of the destination either way. The hotel seemed to be built in the middle of a commercial/ industrial park with only one other tenant. As I watched, a group of runners appeared on my left. They looked to be kids, maybe middle school age, that stage of adolescence where body sizes and types are all over the place. Tall, short, squat, and thin as rails, knobby kneed they ran, with the slower ones bringing up the rear. They were dressed in shorts and green satin singlets, but they were too far away for me to read the school name on their uniforms.
I pulled the drapes shut and went over to the bed, where I stretched out, propping pillows behind me while I put in a call to Henry. As soon as he answered, I said, “Guess where I am.”
“Jail.”
I laughed. “I’m in Dallas.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I talked to Chester this morning and he said you were off on some kind of wild goose chase.”
“What’s the latest from Bucky’s? Has anybody figured out what was stolen last night?”
“Not as far as I know. Chester did tell me the kickplate at the bottom of the kitchen cabinet was pried off. It looks like the old man constructed some kind of hidden compartment when he put the sink in. The space might have been empty to begin with, but more likely somebody walked off with whatever was in there.”
“A secret compartment in addition to the safe? That’s interesting. Wonder what he had to hide.”
“Chester thinks it was war documents.”
“He told me about that. I can’t believe it, but I intend to find out. The fellow I saw passed the duffel over to his wife or girlfriend, and she carried it with her on the plane last night. The guy wasn’t on the flight, but he probably intends to join her. She was booked through to Palm Beach, but she got off in Dallas, so naturally I did, too.”
“Oh, naturally. Why not?”
I smiled at his tone. “At any rate, you might have the police check the Capri motel. I didn’t have a chance to tell Chester about that. I’m not sure about the number, but it was the second unit on the right. Her pal might still be there if he hasn’t taken off by now.”
“I’m making notes,” Henry said. “I’ll pass this along to the police, if you like.”
“What about Ray? Do they think he was in on it?”
“Well, he must have had some connection. Police tried to question him, but he clammed right up. If he knew anything about it, he wouldn’t say.”
“Sounds like somebody pounded on him for the information about the kickplate.”
“That’d be my guess. One of the officers took him over to the emergency room at St. Terry’s, but as soon as the doctor finished treating him, he disappeared and nobody’s heard from him since.”
“Do me a favor. Go over to the Lexington Hotel and see if he’s there. Room 407. Don’t call first. He may not be answering his phone –”
Henry cut in. “Too late. He’s already gone, and I don’t think there’s much chance of his turning up. Bucky went over there this morning and his room’s been cleaned out. Not surprisingly, the police are interested in him as a material witness.
What about you? You want me to tell the detective what you saw?”
“You can, but I’m not sure how much good it will do. As soon as I figure out what’s going on, I’ll call the Santa Teresa cops myself. The police here won’t have jurisdiction, and at this point I’m not even sure what kind of crime we’re discussing.”
“Assault, for one thing.”
“Yeah, but what if Ray Rawson doesn’t show up again? Even if he surfaces, he might not know the identity of his assailant or he might refuse to press charges. As for the alleged burglary, we don’t even know what was stolen, let alone who did it.”
“I thought you saw the guy.”
“Sure, I saw him come out of Johnny’s place. I can’t swear he stole anything.”
“What about this gal with the duffel?”
“She might not even know the significance of the bag she’s toting. She certainly wasn’t involved in the assault.”
“Wouldn’t she be guilty of receiving stolen goods?”
“We can’t even swear there was a theft,” I said. “Besides, she might not have the slightest idea anything’s amiss. Husband comes home. She’s going off on a trip. He says, Do me a favor and take this with you when you go.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I’m not sure. I’d love to get my hands on that duffel. It might give us a feeling for what the deal is here.”
“Kinsey….” Henry warned.
“Henry, don’t worry. I’m not going to take any risks.”
“I hate when you say that. I know what you’re like. Where are you staying? I want the telephone number.”
I gave him the telephone number printed on the telephone pad. “It’s a hotel called the Desert Castle, near the airport in Dallas. Room 815. The woman’s up on twelve.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Beats me,” I said. “I’m just going to have to wait and see what she does. She’s ticketed on through to Palm Beach, so if she gets back on a plane, I guess I’ll get on, too.”
He was silent for a moment. “What about money? Do you need additional funds?”
“I got about forty bucks in cash and a plane ticket home. As long as I’m careful with my credit card, I’ll do great. I hope you’ll impress Chester with my professionalism. I’m really not interested in getting stiffed for expenses.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I’m not crazy about the situation myself. I just wanted you to know where I was.”
“Try not to commit a felony.”
“If I knew the Texas statutes, it would help,” I said.
Chapter 8
*
I went down to the lobby. I cruised the area, trying to get a feel for the place. By day, the red velvet and gilt had all the drab ambiance of an empty movie theater. A white guy in a red uniform pushed a whining vacuum cleaner back and forth across the carpeting. The night clerk was gone and the reception desk was personed by a corps of wholesome-looking navy-suited youths. No one on duty was going to give me any help. Any odd request would be referred to the shift supervisor, the assistant manager, or the manager, all of whom would regard me with the sort of skepticism I deserved. In my quest for information, I was going to have to use ingenuity, which is to say the usual lies and deceit.
Most hotel guests tend to see a facility in terms of their own needs: the concierge’s desk, restaurants, the gift shop, rest rooms, public telephones, the bell stand, conference halls, and meeting rooms. In my initial foray, I was looking for the executive offices. I skirted the perimeter and finally pushed through a glass door into a lushly carpeted corridor defined by pale wood paneling and indirect lighting. The offices of various department heads were identified in gleaming brass letters.
In this part of the hotel, there was no attempt to carry out either the medieval or the buckaroo conceit. Since this was a Saturday, the glass-fronted offices of the sales manager and the director of security were dark and the doors locked. Hours of ope
ration were neatly lettered in gold, making it clear I would have free rein until Monday morning at nine. I assumed there were security guards on duty twenty-four hours a day, but I hadn’t seen one yet. The sales manager’s name was Jillian Brace. The director of security was Burnham J. Pauley. I made a note to myself and continued my swing through the administrative quarters and out a door at the far end of the empty hallway.
I returned to the front desk and waited until one of the desk clerks was free. The kid who approached me was in his mid-twenties: cleanshaven, clear complected, blue eyed, and slightly overweight. According to his name tag, he was Todd Luckenbill. Mr. and Mrs. Luckenbill had made sure his teeth were straight, his manners were impeccable, and his posture was good. No earrings, no jewels in his nose, and no visible tattoos. He said, “Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”
“Well, I hope so, Todd,” I said. “I’m passing through Dallas briefly on a family matter, but it happens my boss has been looking for a hotel where we can book a big sales conference next spring. I thought I might recommend this place, but I wasn’t sure what sort of group package you offered. I wonder if you could direct me to the sales manager. Is he here today?”
Todd smiled, his tone slightly chiding. “Actually, it’s not a ‘he.’ Jillian Brace is our sales manager, but she doesn’t work on weekends. You might try her Monday morning. She’s usually here by nine and I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you.”
“Gee, I’d love to do that, but I have a flight out at six. Do you think you could get me her business card? I can always give her a call when I get back to Chicago.”
“Sure. If you can wait just a minute, I’ll bring you one.”
“Thanks. Oh, and one more thing while I’m thinking about it. My boss is concerned about conference security. We had a little problem with one of the big hotels last year, and I know he’s reluctant to schedule anything until he’s confident about security procedures.”
