The Hotel Detective (3 page)

The summons came from Kendrick’s inner sanctum. Kendrick was originally from Georgia. In front of guests he played the southern
gent to perfection and came off even sweeter than pecan pie. But at the moment he sounded as though he were a long way from
whistling “Dixie.”

Kendrick had an enormous desk. He had brought it with him, must have had it custom-made somewhere. He looked down on all visitors
to his office, which was the point of his desk. You could fit three Kendricks there. He was about five feet seven and slight
but had a talent for making people feel about sixty-five inches shorter. Since he had taken over the GM’s job a year ago,
browbeating his assistant had proved one of his favorite pastimes. Am took a chair but didn’t even attempt to get comfortable.
The staff was convinced that Kendrick had selected reconditioned electric chairs for office seating.

The two men looked at each other, and neither appeared happy by what they saw. Both were about forty, but any similarity between
them ended there. Kendrick came across like titled southern gentry, looked as if he had been born with a riding crop in his
hand. He was sharp of features, sharp of dress, and sharp of tongue. He had light blue eyes that were closer to permafrost
than sky blue. He parted his short salt-and-pepper hair in the middle, and there was never a hair out of place.

Am was a native Californian. His hair was on the shaggy side, lightened from the sun but dark at the roots. He was about six
feet tall and permanently tanned, had grown up before the words
skin cancer
sent people running from the sun. He had never lived more than half a mile from the Pacific and had been raised under its
influence. Am had yet to meet the tie that didn’t look more like a noose on him than a neckpiece, and none had ever lasted
around his neck more then six seconds away from the workplace.

Kendrick cleared his throat. “Mis-tah Caw-field,” he said, “Mis-tah Horton has decided to end his employment at this company.”

Gary Horton was a former cop and the director of security and safety at the Hotel. Over Horton’s objections, Kendrick had
fired his entire security force and contracted with Brown’s Guards, a rent-a-cop outfit. The staff called them Brownshirts.
Kendrick had justified his decision by saying that although security was a necessary evil, he didn’t think it had to be a
necessary and
expensive
evil. The Hotel now had minimum wage mercenaries. The Chief’s leaving didn’t surprise Am.

“Effective when?” asked Am.

“Five minutes ago.”

Kendrick picked up his Montblanc Meisterstiick fountain pen and started to write on a piece of paper. While he was scratching
away, the implications of his statement belatedly struck Am.

“I don’t know anything about security….”

Kendrick stopped writing, but just for a moment. “This is the Hotel California. This is not Al-cah-traz.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do…”

This time Kendrick continued to write while he spoke. “I don’t imagine the post will be yours for long,” he said. “Just until
we find a suit-ah-ble replacement.”

“I am not qualified.”

“I certainly won’t argue that point,” said Kendrick, “nor will I argue any further. This is not a matter open to discussion.
You will assume the security director’s position along with your other duties. As there ahl-ready is a security force in place,
you will merely have to review their reports and be someone they can intah-act with.”

For a moment Am considered following Chief Horton’s lead and quitting. The vision was more than satisfactory in his mind but
didn’t play so well with his wallet.

“And to make things easier for you,” Kendrick added, his tone and manner regal, as if dispensing a boon, “I have someone whom
you may call upon to assist you with your new duties. An intern.”

That generosity delivered, the GM returned to his scribbling.

“An intern,” said Am, not trying to hide the anger in his voice. Bill’s words came to him—Bill, the night auditor, who had
been resentful of always having new employees foisted on him; Bill, who haunted him still in his dreams: “An intern doesn’t
know his ass from a hole in the ground.”

Kendrick didn’t bother to look up. “Then I’m sure, Mr. Caw-field, that the two of you will get along famously.

“Mrs. Ortiz,” he said into the intercom, “send Miss Baker in.”

One of his mother’s favorite proverbs had been “Act in haste, repent in leisure.” She had frequently used the words to hector
his father, whose forays into business always showed little in the way of forethought. Carlton Smoltz was glad his mother
hadn’t lived to see his disgrace but wished he could rid his thoughts of her proverb. The words had never sounded so ominous.
Repent in leisure? If he didn’t get the death penalty, he supposed he would have a very, very long time behind bars to do
just that.

He wondered at how his life could have changed so quickly. The night before he had come home, expecting the usual. Deidre
was in the habit of leaving a TV dinner out for him. She liked the ones with French titles and low calories. But instead of
chicken divan, there was a note. Deidre wrote that she had begun divorce proceedings, and that any communication should be
made through her lawyer, David Stern.

Admittedly, they did not have a marriage for the poets, but Carlton was still shocked. They had been married for almost eight
years, and during that time Deidre had never complained about their relationship. He worked long hours and rarely took a day
off, a situation she accepted all too readily. In his heart of hearts, Carlton knew that Deidre wanted the leisure and luxuries
his job afforded her more than she wanted his companionship. He had bartered for a pretty woman, she for a meal ticket. Apparently
her appetite had changed.

Carlton vaguely knew her lawyer from several of the fundraisers Deidre had dragged him along to, the see-and-be-seen social
events that benefited good causes almost as much as they did egos. Divorce lawyers rarely get mistaken for marriage counselors,
but Carlton figured David would at least do him the consideration of passing on his fervent desire for reconciliation. By
his heart's accounting, the call had a 911 priority. David Stern's secretary said she could take a message, as the lawyer
would be away taking depositions for several days, and no, he couldn't be reached.

Carlton thought it bad enough that he had to go through a middleman to speak his piece, but to be denied that one outlet for
a period of days was unacceptable. What if he wrote a letter? Carlton asked. Couldn't they fax that to him? He pushed Stern's
secretary all the way into a maybe, then wrote that letter and hand-delivered it to the firm. Face to face with the lawyer's
secretary, Carlton tried to secure a commitment but instead received ill-suppressed ennui. Incensed spouses weren't anything
new to her. An attempt would be made to fax Mr. Stern, she said, but that was all she could do.

It wasn't enough.

He wasn't comfortable with making a scene. That wasn't his way. Carlton had an analytical mind. He had created his own successful
software company, not because he was a brilliant programmer, but because he was willing to work harder than anyone else and
attend to all the details. The lawyer was supposed to have been his pipeline to Deidre. That her counsel was derelict in his
duties forced Carlton to act in a manner quite unusual for him.

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 twenty-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.

Forty dollars. Much better than he had hoped for. Mr. Stern might not talk much, and he might look a mess, but he sure knew
how to tip. And few things in life were 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.