The Hotel Detective Read online

  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 doesn’t work on them.”

  “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 That invitation is now rescinded.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 overlords 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 qut 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.

  LII

  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 Stoly 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 Stoly.

  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 olive 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 Lew Archer, 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 in Del Mar, 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.”

  The HOTEL DETECTIVE

  BY ALAN RUSSELL

  Acclaimed for his previous tough, hard-boiled whodunits, Alan Russell now introduces a new series in a more lighthearted vein featuring a way and sly hotel detective with a decidedly offbeat approach to his job.

  Boyish, blond-haired ex-surfer Am Caulfield is assistant general manager of the posh Hotel California, on the Golden State’s Riviera. Or rather, he was assistant manager until his boss, Manager Raymond Kendrick, informs him he’s now going, to be acting security director as well. (Am isn’t quite sure the appointment is a vote of confidente’ in his talents. In fact, he strongly suspects it’s more like revenge for his all-too-accurate imitation of Kendrick at a recent staff party.)

  No sooner does Am don his gumshoes than he’s up to his knees in trouble. Someone is stealing personal items from the room of a well-endowed female guest. Two hundred scrumptious entries in a pastry contest have mysteriously disappeared from a locked kitchen. And a man has fallen to his death from a seventh-floor balcony. Is it suicide—or did he have help?

  But these problems are a snap compared to solving the double murder in room 605 when a lawyer and his paramour are stabbed with a hotel carving knife, just to make Am’s investigations more difficult are the one hundred and sixty members of the Bob Johnson Society—all named Bob Johnson—who have just checked in for a Murder Mayhem Weekend.

  An ordinary detective might be fazed. But although Am is new to sleuthing, he knows how to keep tabs on guests. Despite a temperamental chef on a rampage, a permanently lost bellhop, and an attractive intern-assistant with her own hidden agenda, Am, in his own unhurried way, cuts through the chaos to prove himself worthy of his title: the Hotel Detective.

  ALAN RUSSELL was general manager of a luxury hotel in the San Diego area. He is the author of No Sign of Murder and The Forest Prime Evil. He lives with his wife and two children in southern California.

  CAROL SONSTEIN