The Hotel Detective (25 page)

The bickering gradually quieted. In their mind’s eye all of the witnesses had a picture of their man: he was younger, he was
older. He had small lips, he had lips like a clown. But an overall description was hashed out, and expanded upon, and agreed
to, even if the consensus wasn’t quite true to their individual vision. One by one the witnesses came around to the sketch
and offered their suggestions. When Wallace finally knew the direction he wanted to go, he banished everyone to their seats
and worked out his own finishing touches. Between penciling, he talked.

“There have been other deaths here, of course,” he said, shading in a section with a critical eye, “but none like these. I
remember, though, two very troubling suicides.

“Very different deaths,” he added. “The first victim was a girl. Must have happened thirty-five—no, forty years ago. Dick
Murray was the house dick then.

“I’ve told you about Murray, Holden. He was a tough SOB, a little guy with a big chip on his shoulder. He always had his nose
in the
Racing Form.
This was one instance where he took it out long enough to find out about this girl. Real melodrama, that. She was in love
with a naval officer, believed he shared her same feelings, but learned differently. When she took an overdose of pills, she
didn’t only kill herself: apparently she took the life of the young child in her womb.”

Wallace stopped talking, chewed on his lip for a moment, brought out the eraser, and delicately removed some of the lead.
“Murray went and found that officer,” he said. “He called him out. They say he gave up six inches, and sixty pounds, but he
still beat the tar out of him.”

The artist thought for a moment, then nodded, as if agreeing with a long-lost voice. “The other suicide was a drowning. Man
went swimming in the ocean and didn’t come back. Guess that happened thirty years ago. Murray looked into that one, too.

“Everyone just assumed it was a drowning. But Murray didn’t like something. He made a few calls and found out the man’s business
was going under and the creditors were moving in. As it stood, it didn’t look like he was going to be left with a proverbial
pot to pee in. Murray figured he couldn’t stand the thought of poverty. The guest lived like a king his last few days at the
Hotel. His final meal was chateaubriand and a French wine, after which he went out and took that fateful swim. There were
those who believed the rich meal made him cramp up, but after Murray found out what he did, he said it just fueled him on
to the deed.”

Wallace stopped working for a moment, bit softly on the pencil he was holding. “Murray told me he went to the Del Mar track
that day and won a bundle on a horse named Big Splash. Said he never bet hunches, except that one time.”

Wallace eyed his effort critically. “I’m almost there,” he said. “I must say he doesn’t look like one of those faces you see
on ‘America’s Most Wanted,’ though.”

Am and Sharon both stood up to take a look at the sketch, but Wallace held them off with a hand. “Holden, Miss Baker, I will
signal the time for the unveiling.”

Impatiently they both returned to their seats. Wallace asked the witnesses a few more questions, and started a few more arguments.
He wanted to know about moles, wrinkles, birthmarks, clefts, and dimples. Mostly, though, he wanted a “feel” for the face,
an idea of what the man was.

“Don’t think of him as a murderer,” said Wallace. “If you saw him on the street, you’d probably think he was a…”

“Baker,” said Augustin.

“Accountant,” Henry said.

“Store manager,” said Teresa.

“One of those technical kinds of people,” Albert said. “The kind who always bring their little computers.”

“Pedophile,” said T.K., hoping for a laugh but not getting one.

Wallace explored their reasons (except for T.K.’s), and their answers made him alter his drawing slightly. He examined his
work with one long, last look and finally decided that it would have to do. He turned around the sketch and held it aloft
for all to see.

The four witnesses were the first to respond. Although they hadn’t been able to come to verbal terms with the man, they did
agree on the result. What was represented was their collective man; or at least a close facsimile thereof.

But it was T.K., Sharon, and Am who were the most vocal. “I know that dude,” said T.K.

“I’ve seen that man,” Sharon said.

Am, who claimed to never forget a face, said, “I’ve seen that face before.”

“I know,” said T.K., snapping his fingers. “I checked him into the Hotel.”

“Yesterday morning,” said Sharon, her tone one of disbelief, “he took the Hotel tour with me.”

“I saw him,” said Am, straining for the memory. “I saw him…”

Then, triumphantly, “I saw him in the rumba line.”

The actors were hung over, and most of the Bob Johnsons were hung over. No one had gotten enough sleep, and tempers were short.

Carlton hadn’t slept much, either, but he wasn’t suffering in the same way as those around him. The night before, he had walked
Bobbi to her door. There, they had kissed for the first time. It was the purest moment of ecstasy Carlton could ever remember.

So much had happened in the last few days. He had experienced betrayal, murder, discovery, and passion. It felt as though
he had died and been born again. He had stayed up most of the night trying to sort things in his mind. He had never given
much credence to those multiple personality types, but at the moment he figured Sybil had nothing on him. Everything was churning
inside. He had performed the most heinous crime imaginable. To take those moments back, he would do almost anything. What
he had done had destroyed a part of himself. But since meeting Bobbi, he felt like that bird that was consumed by fire, then
raised itself from its own ashes. That Tucson. Or was it toucan? No, it was a phoenix. Maybe that’s what love was. You burn
up inside to nothing. You erase all the sins that were there and become a better person, another person. With Bobbi, it felt
as if he had been offered a chance for a new life. There were so many things about her that he liked, from her generous lips
to the way she dotted the
i
in her name with a little heart.

She sat next to him, and with her there, all was right. Bobbi felt his eyes on her. She looked up, smiled at him, then returned
her attention to what was going on. Damn, now what was happening? Turn your head, and you miss everything. Not like soap operas.
She could tune in once a week and still know what was going on. But this here was sure confusing. The actors kept jumping
around, and things kept popping up—like bodies. There was a lot of flapping of hands. What she would have preferred was the
flapping of more flapjacks. ‘Course that didn’t make things any easier to follow, what with the waiters serving brunch between
all the folderol.

“Herring and sour cream,” the server advised, dropping off yet another serving dish for the table.

The herring had been dyed red. Bobbi covered her eyes with a napkin. Fish in the morning. How disgusting. Didn’t these people
know what real food was? And it was red, mashed fish. Ugh.

Carlton noticed Bobbi’s discomfiture. It matched his own. He was tired of the actors serving up murder. It was enough that
he had to live with what he had done without their bombastic reminders.

“Are you all right?” he asked Bobbi.

Bob was such a dear, always so considerate. “Fine,” she said, but she did wrinkle up her nose at the fish.

“Would you like to leave?” he asked hopefully. “We could go to the…”

He almost said zoo. But Carlton didn't want to see caged animals. “Around San Diego. See the sights.”

Bobbi thought about it. It seemed a little unfair to be skipping out on her kindred Johnsons, but most of them were acting
a bit, well, grumpy. And she did want to be with Bob. Why, last night that kiss of his had made her knees go weak. She had
almost invited him into her room.

“Uncle Charles!” screeched one of the actresses.

“Yes, Charlie,” said the other actor. “Known as Good Time Charlie!”

She, aggrieved: “But you don't really mean Uncle Charles?”

He, triumphant, raising his eyebrows high for the audience: “Yes, I do.”

“Let's get out of here,” said Bobbi.

Before everyone dispersed from Wallace's room, Am reminded them of the need for secrecy. All took a vow of silence, promising
to say nothing about the sketch or the possible murderer. The cabal went their separate ways, except for Am and Sharon, who
walked together. When they couldn't be overheard, he ventured, “I suppose that gives us an hour before everyone knows.”

Sharon had more faith in humanity. She thought it would be two hours.

“We're looking for a man who has murdered,” said Am, his tone suddenly very serious. “In the security hut there's a stun gun.
I'm going to get it, then I'll meet you in the lobby.”

He started off at a trot, remembered something, and ran back, handing her Wallace's rolled sketch as if it were a relay baton.
“Better make some copies of this. Who knows, we might need help finding him. Use the copy machine in reservations to shrink
it down to a less conspicuous size—say, five inches by five.

“And,” he added, “find out where the Bob Johnsons are meeting.”

She nodded, and he was off. The idea of Am getting a gun, any kind of gun, was sobering. Sharon wondered, not for the first
time, whether she should call the police. Instead she went and made copies. Or at least tried. The copy machine wouldn’t have
looked out of place in a video arcade. It had lights, flashing arrows, and multicolored trays. There were buttons to designate
paper size, the darkness desired, the number of copies needed, and whether collating was in order. Let’s see, she thought,
trying to determine whether she was in a shrinking or enlarging mode. Wasn’t that Alice’s dilemma? But this wasn’t Wonderland.
And Alice would never have gotten there if she’d had to make copies all day.

Typical male, she thought. Given any excuse, they revert to the primordial. Me hunter, you gatherer. I’ll get the gun and
you make the copies. Or coffee.

Her first effort at shrinking the sketch failed, which didn’t make her any happier. She moved her face closer to the keypad
and was trying to make out some impossibly small print when a voice behind her asked: “May I help you?”

Sharon turned around and eyeballed the name, rank, and serial number of the man doing the offering: Roger, Front Office Manager,
Racine, Wisconsin. The one Am called Casper.

“Why, yes, thank you. I’m trying to shrink this to a smaller size. About so big.”

She motioned, and Roger did his gauging. “About eight inches?”

Sharon had been told that the reason women had difficulty estimating sizes was that they were always being told by men that
six inches was a foot. “A little smaller,” she said.

Roger confronted the machinery with a knowing air, pressed two buttons (damn, that was my next guess, she thought), and a
moment later the miniaturized copy popped out. “Do you only need one?”

“Several, please,” she said.

He punched a button. “You’re the intern?”

“Yes.”

“How do you like it here?”

“Never a dull moment.”

The copies were already finished. Belatedly Roger began to think he should have made the process appear much more involved
than it was. He was usually expert at doing such.

He handed Sharon back her original and all but one of the copies. Because he had helped, he assumed that gave him the right
to analyze the work “they” had done.

“So, what is this?”

Sharon wanted to say, “None of your business,” but instead replied with the obvious: “A sketch.”

“Do you draw?” he asked.

“I dabble.”

“It’s good,” said Roger. “Who’s the guy?”

“Just a fellow.”

“Your boyfriend?”

Her first impulse was to laugh. Yes, she always hung around with murderers. Bank robbers, too. Where did this weenie come
off asking personal questions?

“I suppose it shows,” she said, attempting dewy eyes.

Roger tried to hide his disappointment. He started to pass her the copy, but stopped the hand-off just short of her hand,
examining it once more.

“I think I’ve seen him before,” said Roger.

God, she thought. Was there an employee in the Hotel whom this murderer hadn’t run into?

“He’s not a guest, is he?” asked Roger.

Sharon shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Because,” Roger said piously, “fraternization with guests is forbidden.”

“I would hope so,” said Sharon. “And with managers, too?”

Starchly: “Why, yes.”

He handed her the copy. With it came another quotation of company policy: “The copy machine is to be used for business purposes
only.”

Sharon could almost understand why women were known to bare their ass on a copier and anonymously mail (male) the sentiments
to their supervisor of choice. She thanked Roger for all of his help and advice, then walked out of the office, doing her
best to jiggle her buns like an advertising streetwalker. It wasn’t something that she could ever remember doing before, but
in this instance it felt damn satisfying.

Roger’s attention was held for the length of her passage, then, sighing, he decided it was time to be off. The front desk
promised to be busy soon, and he didn’t want to be around. But before leaving, he reached down into the recycling bin. Sharon
had left her aborted copy attempt, an oversize reproduction of her beau. It was as big as the sketch she had taken with her,
eleven inches by seventeen, not the shrunken visage she had wanted. The larger portrait looked even more familiar to Roger.
He had seen that face, but where?

While waiting for Am, Sharon had consulted a reader board to learn that the Bob Johnsons were meeting in the Neptune Room
for a brunch and “entertainment.” The concierge confirmed the reader board listing and was also able to give Sharon a detail
sheet of group activities for the day. The Bob Johnsons had a full agenda. Their brunch wasn’t supposed to adjourn for another
half hour, but Sharon hoped Am would hurry, because after their meal the Bob Johnsons would be dividing up, some going to
the golf course, others to the tennis courts, and the rest sailing. And maybe one murdering.