I nodded, “Yeah, room attendants do that sometimes.”
The detective continued, “But then, realizing that the privacy sign was still up, and that the room was a possible stay-over, she crossed out the “V” and changed it to a “PS” indicating the privacy sign. According to the room attendant, she checked back on the room multiple times throughout the day. But each time, the privacy sign was still on the door. At around two o’clock, the room attendant reported the…” the detective paused and glanced at his notes, “…discrepancy, I guess is the word you use for it, to her manager, indicating that the room was due to check out but still had a privacy sign up. The floor manager then called the room and left another message requesting the guest to call for service if it was needed or to contact the front desk if extending his stay.”
The detective moved back to the lock read page before continuing. “At around three Saturday afternoon, the room attendant had finished cleaning her last available room and was getting antsy about this privacy sign still being up on 11-121. She didn’t want to be hanging around all afternoon waiting for the guest to call for service. She wanted to know whether or not she had to clean the room, so she again contacted her manager. The floor manager once again called the room, but getting no response – and since the room was going on two days straight with the privacy sign up – she went down to check it, thinking that maybe the guest had left and not removed the sign.”
He pointed to another highlighted portion of the lock-read sheet again. “You see here, at 3:03 p.m., where it indicates entry to the room by way of the floor master twelve key?” he said.
I nodded, looking.
“The floor manager,” he went on, “confirms that this was the key that she used to enter the room and that she did so alone. She said that she wears the key on a strap that hangs around her neck and is positive that the key was in her possession at all times during the day. I also double-checked with security to confirm that this was the particular key that the floor manager signed out from the dispatch desk that morning. The floor manager said she opened the door, saw signs of luggage, clothing and other possessions inside the room, indicating that the room was still occupied. She also noted that the bathroom door was closed, so she thought that maybe the guest was inside and might be sick, thus the reason for the privacy sign. At this point, she marked the room as a discrepancy to be checked back in as a stay-over by the front desk. She says she contacted a front desk agent when she got back upstairs to the housekeeping office and told the agent the stay needed to be extended and that a front desk manager should contact the guest to confirm this later that night. Unfortunately, there is no way to confirm that she did or did not do this as she said she made the call by way of one of the housekeeping radios and doesn’t remember who she spoke with at the front desk.”
“Humph,” I grumbled. “How convenient for her. Blame the front desk, then forget who you spoke to.”
The detective nodded. “I have a feeling she probably just forgot and is covering her tail. Either way though, the room discrepancy wasn’t resolved until you found it later that night, or Sunday morning I guess I should say, and the trail kind of stops there since there are no other key swipes from the floor manager’s last entry on Saturday afternoon until security went up to check on the room the following morning.”
He looked up at me from the paperwork in front of him. “Do you see my problem here?”
I nodded that I did. “You have a period of almost two full days, from Friday morning until Sunday morning, when the guest could have been killed, and no one entering the room besides the guest himself on Friday morning and the housekeeping floor manager Saturday afternoon.”
“The guest didn’t strangle himself, and I don’t see a 64 year-old floor manager with 24 years of experience at the Lanigan under her belt committing such a crime. And while I think she’s lying about reporting the discrepancy, I think that she’s only doing so to protect her job, not to cover up a murder. And there are no other entries into the room other than those two. I’m still waiting on the coroner’s report for a possible time of death, so hopefully that will narrow things down a bit.”
I took a deep breath. “Yeah, sounds like a tough one. You got any ideas?”
“Not too many, unless someone repelled down the side of your hotel and entered through one of the windows, which is of course a possibility, albeit a small one. I was actually kind of hoping that since you’ve been around the hotel business for a while, you might have an idea or two.”
I leaned back in my chair, racking my brain for some sort of way that the room could be entered without a key, but I was at a loss.
“The only logical explanation I can think of is that it was either someone he knew or a hotel employee that got him to open the door and allow them entrance into the room without their having to use a key. But that opens a big can of worms. I wouldn’t think any hotel employee would have a reason to off him…of course you never know….no, I think I’d stick with people within the company.”
“Good” the detective nodded, “that’s exactly what I was thinking. I’ll continue interviewing the company executives and see where that leads.”
He shuffled his papers into a stack, stood, and held out his hand. “Thanks for your time,” he nodded as we shook hands.
“Certainly,” I said. “Wish I could have been more help.”
“No problem,” he said. “Sometimes it’s just nice to have someone confirm your theories.”
***
Detective Marino was long gone before Kristen arrived at a little after ten.
“Rough day?” I asked her as she huffed loudly and threw her bag down on the desk.
She looked tired.
“Had to go to the doctor’s today at one. Couldn’t sleep after that.”
“Nothing serious I hope.”
She shrugged as if nothing was up, but I could tell something other than lack of sleep was bothering her.
“That’s the bad part about the third shift. The rest of the world doesn’t accommodate us, we have to accommodate them,” I said, in as upbeat a tone as I could manage.
She gave me a little smile and nodded, plopping down heavily at her desk. She slumped back in her chair and blew a hanging strand of blonde hair from her face.
“Want a cup of coffee?” I offered.
“Would you? That would be awesome,” she sank down farther in her chair.
“Sure. I’ll run across the street and get some of the good stuff. That sludge in the cafeteria will kill you if you’re not careful.”
“Thanks,” she sighed as she struggled to sit up and log in to her computer.
“No biggy,” I said. “Just don’t fall asleep before I get back.”
She grinned. “No promises there.”
I hurried out from behind the back office and took the stairs down to street level. There was a 24-hour donut and coffee shop across the street.
Outside it was chilly and there was a light drizzle of rain. It gave the street a greasy sheen that reflected an assorted rainbow of colors. Green and red glows of traffic lights, balls of orange streetlight haze, and the long yellow arcs of vehicle headlights slid across the slick surface as they passed.
Inside the warm, yet empty donut shop, I ordered two large coffees. The total came to five dollars and twelve cents.
I had exactly five dollars in my pocket. I had left my wallet upstairs in my room since I never really needed it when working.
“Gee, I’m a little short,” I said to the cashier as I dug around in my suit pockets in search of some spare change.
I looked up, meeting with the cashier’s eyes. The unflinching, half-closed lids of indifference told me that getting him to bend on the 12 cents was going to be losing battle.
I hesitated but a moment.
“Give me just a second,” I said, holding up a finger and then hurrying outside.
One of the block’s regular homeless was standing about 20 feet down the sidewalk, prop
ped up against the side of the building. He had long dreadlocks that were bundled under a knit cap, if you could call it that. It was actually a Rastafari-style knit job, but it had so many holes in it, it looked more like a hairnet.
I remembered that I had actually given him some of the hotel’s discarded blankets and a robe last winter to help him stay warm. It had been a particularly harsh winter and the homeless were having a bad time of it, so a few area hotels had pitched in to help.
This guy wasn’t much of a talker, so we weren’t on a first name basis or anything, but I had learned a thing or two about the homeless during my years in the hotel business.
“Barrow twelve cents?” I asked.
At first he seemed a little confused, maybe even startled by my request. I’m sure he was so used to the shoe being on the other foot that he was completely taken by surprise, but he recovered well. Silently he rummaged in his change cup for a dime and two pennies and then handed them to me.
“Thanks…I appreciate it,” I nodded, hurrying back inside the donut shop.
That was the thing about many of the homeless people with whom I had dealt over the years. While they took, they often were also surprisingly willing to give. I figured it was because their life on the street was so transient and forever in flux that they had more of an “easy come, easy go” sort of outlook.
The coffee shop cashier was still standing there, the half-dead look frozen in place on his face, my cups of coffee still sitting on the counter before him.
“Here ya go,” I said, slapping the change down on the counter and grabbing the coffees. “Thanks.”
I hustled back across the street to my office where I pumped the coffee into Kristen.
“Need me to hook up an IV?” I joked.
“Thanks,” she smiled, “this is perfect.”
Ensuring she was all set up, I then hustled up to the cafeteria and grabbed a couple plates of hot food.
Tonight’s options were mac ‘n cheese, lamb chops, chili, rice, green beans, and tater tots. I got a serving of everything, grabbed a few desserts and pastries from the day’s banquet leftovers and added them to the growing pile of food on my tray. Then I dug two chocolate milks and an ice cream bar from the freezer at the end of the food line and hauled my take out across the street.
The homeless guy had moved over to the relative shelter of an empty doorway overhang. He wore a quizzical expression as he saw me approach.
It was raining harder now, and the reflected light shimmered in black glossy puddles as I ran.
“I come bearing gifts,” I called as I dodged an oncoming cab that managed to hit the puddle right beside me, soaking my right pant leg to the knee.
I made it across the street and handed him the tray.
“Thanks for your help tonight,” I said.
He remained silent, just staring, but accepted the tray.
I turned to leave, but spun back around. “By the way, what’s your name, partner?”
I didn’t expect an answer, but I thought it was worth a shot.
His gravelly voice sounded like a record that hadn’t been played in years.
“Charlie,” he managed to get out.
“Robert,” I nodded. “Nice to meet you, Charlie. Enjoy your dinner.”
As I dodged puddles back across the street, I heard him squawk behind me, “Thank you…and thanks for the blankets.”
I was surprised he remembered the winter blankets, but maybe I shouldn’t have been.
I waved a hand in the air behind me as I continued to run, using my other hand to pull a side of my suit jacket up over my head to block some of the driving rain.
Back inside, I grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the front desk and returned to my office to give my wet hair a quick rub down.
It was busy tonight. We had three agents working the desk and all of them were speaking with guests.
While replacing the paper towel roll, I could hear the phone ringing in my office. As I hurried back to answer it, I saw Kristen was sipping her coffee and checking her email. At least she was making an attempt to get into the work groove whatever the bad news at the doctor’s office had been.
I grabbed the phone and took a deep breath, “Good evening, front desk, this is Robert.”
“Hi Robert, my name is Nancy Strauss. I stayed at your hotel over the weekend and needed to speak to someone who could help me resolve a billing issue. Your operator said accounting was closed so they thought you might be able to help.”
Damn communications department!
I hated when they did this. They knew they should just transfer the guest to the accounting department’s voicemail so that they could handle the issue in the morning.
“Sure thing, Ms. Strauss” I said pleasantly. “How can I be of assistance?”
I sat down at my computer and opened the front desk system to pull up her reservation.
“Well Robert, I have a problem. On my reservation, there were specific instructions to direct bill my company, Howard Transportation, but for some reason your hotel billed my personal debit card that I had on file to hold the room.”
Oh boy. I knew exactly where this was going.
“Since they did that, they’ve put my bank account into the negative and I’ve accumulated several overdraft fees in the process. I’m very upset about this and I expect you to fix it immediately.”
By this time, I’d pulled up her guest folio in the system and was looking at her receipt set up.
She was correct. The notes at the bottom of the page indicated that her room and taxes should have been directly billed to her company, while her incidentals – of which there were none other than her parking costs – were to go to her debit card. Whoever had checked her in, which by the user initials on the page appeared to be Steven Kneel (we’d had problems like this before from him – a great personality but a definite lack of attention to detail), had forgotten to split the receipt charges and left them all routed to the debit card.
I shook my head. It was indeed our mistake.
“First off, Ms. Strauss,” I said as sympathetically as I could, “let me be the first to apologize on behalf of the Lanigan Hotel. I certainly understand your frustration, and let me assure you that I’m adjusting those charges as we speak.”
I paused for a moment, and I could hear her breathe a sigh of relief on the other end of the phone.
“Now, what were the amounts of the overdraft fees?” I continued after I had adjusted her receipt, credited the amount charged to her debit card, and moved the room charges onto the Howard Transportation direct bill account.
As I waited for her to tally up the number, I checked her home address, which appeared to be a town in northern Indiana.
“There were a total of three fees. Each one was for thirty-five dollars,” she said. “The total comes to a hundred and five dollars.”
I shook my head again. The banks were making a killing off people on these ridiculous fees these days. They probably loved situations like this.
“I called them,” she went on angrily, “but they refused to remove any of the charges. I don’t know whether to be more upset with you guys or the bank.”
“Well, Ms. Strauss, please don’t be upset with the Lanigan. We’ll make this right, don’t worry. I see that the parking costs for your stay were thirty-eight dollars per day for four days and that totaled a hundred and fifty-two dollars, which was billed to your debit card,” I continued. “I would like to fully refund that amount to make up for the billing error on our part and the time and trouble you’ve taken to resolve this matter.”
“Oh, that would be nice.”
I could tell I was winning her over.
“I also see that it appears you live in Indiana. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is,” she said, sounding confused as to where I was going with the question.
“I would also like to invite you back for a night’s stay with us, compliments of the Lanigan Hotel.”
“Oh my,” she said, sounding surprised. “That would be wonderful.”
I noticed from the corner of my eye, the scowling face of a front desk agent standing in my doorway, impatiently tapping her foot and holding a piece of paper in her hand.
That was never a good sign.
“Ms. Strauss, I want you to be aware that it could take anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours for the adjustments I’ve made to your debit card take effect with your bank, so I advise you not to use the card in the meantime if at all possible. I will notify our accounting department and have them contact your bank, with your permission of course, to request that no further overdraft fees are placed upon your card until the refund can be made. You should receive your complimentary stay certificate in the mail in five to ten business days.”
I quickly took her bank’s contact information and made a note regarding the free night’s stay.
“Thank you, Robert. You’ve been so helpful,” she cooed. “I wish everyone was as helpful as you. I sincerely appreciate it.”
It was incredible how much a person’s demeanor changed after you’d given them everything they wanted and more.
“My pleasure, Ms. Strauss. Have a wonderful evening.”
I hung up the phone and swiveled my desk chair toward the desk agent – Sarah was her name.
“What’s up?”
I could also predict her next words…
“I’ve got this guest…”
Boom! Right on!
“…and he wants to speak to a manager regarding a noise issue.”
“Didn’t you call security?”
“He said he wanted to speak to a manager in person.”
I looked over at Kristen who was still working on her email, coffee in hand, then decided I’d give her a pass on this one.
“What’s the guest’s name?” I asked Sarah.
“Glover…Mr. William Glover.
I stood up and walked out to the front desk where I heard the soft rumble of indiscernible mass conversation that was issuing from our bustling lobby.
I expected to find an elderly businessman needing to get some sleep for a big meeting in the morning. Instead, I was met by one of the gamers who appeared to be wearing a druid king outfit – or at least something comparable. He was decked out in a purple velvet cloak, a woven wreath of vines atop his head, and holding a six-foot wooden staff in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
The Case of the Guest Who Stayed Over (The M.O.D. Files Book 1) Page 11
