Cash Out

by Marshall Thornton

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Teo looked at us suspiciously a moment and then said, very flatly, “Well, enjoy the rest of your stay.”

  18

  It had been difficult getting to sleep after looking at the hotel surveillance and talking with Teo. Especially after I had this bizarre thought: If the maids and the waiter were hired killers, were they hired to kill Sonny? Or were they possibly hired to kill my mother? Or Aunt Katie? Had they killed Sonny just because he showed up at the door?

  And if that was so, were they still around waiting for an opportunity to kill their real target? God, that was an awful thought. I tried to remember if I’d noticed two women and a man lurking around. I didn’t, but that didn’t mean they weren’t. The whole idea was terrifying.

  I tried breathing very slowly but almost immediately switched to affirmations: Hired killers were not waiting around to kill my mother, hired killers were not lying in wait. Then I had to wonder if affirmations worked when the important word was not.

  I finally drifted off around five and dreamed of people walking in and out of doors—which was hardly surprising. Then, in my dream, I heard a knocking followed by a woman’s voice, saying, “Maid service.”

  My eyes opened. That was real. The maid was really there. Coughing just a little bit, I padded out to the suite’s living room—passing the Continental breakfast cart that had magically arrived—and opened the door. I had a panicky moment when I wondered if I was doing the right thing. This was, after all, a hotel where killers posed as maids and waiters. Opening the door could be the end of me.

  “Oh. I’m sorry to wake you,” the girl said. “I can come back later if you’d like.”

  She was young, probably nineteen or twenty. Dark hair and eyes, light brown skin. She spoke English well and was likely second generation Mexican or Central American. I was fairly certain she wasn’t a killer—since a killer wouldn’t apologize for waking me—so I stepped out of her way. Taking a couple of thick towels off the cart, she came into the room, leaving the cart in the hallway.

  “Do you know the time?” I croaked.

  “It’s almost nine.”

  Glancing at Leon’s bedroom through the open door, she said, “Oh, it looks like your friend is an early bird.”

  I peeked into the bedroom, too. There was no sign of him. “He’s been bitten by the gambling bug.”

  Now that I was fully awake, I realized there was something I should ask. “Did you work on this floor yesterday? In the morning, sometime around ten, I think.”

  Her face froze. “Are you missing something?”

  “No, no. I mean, I don’t think so. It’s just… suite 20102. You had an argument with another maid in there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve seen the security footage.”

  She looked surprised, then said, “Huh, and I thought the cameras were just for show.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  “Um, how did you see the security footage?”

  “A friend got us into the surveillance room.” She looked at me suspiciously, so I said, “That was my mother’s suite. She wasn’t in the room when her fiancé’s son-in-law—”

  “Oh yes. There’s crime scene tape on the door. We can’t clean in there today. I’m sorry—I’m not supposed to be in here if I’m not cleaning,” she said. And went into my room. She began making the bed.

  I followed her and asked, “Can you tell me what you were fighting about?”

  “I really shouldn’t talk about things like that.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I said. That was probably a lie. If it pertained to Sonny’s death at all I would tell someone.

  Staring at me, I could tell she trying to decide whether or not she could trust me. “We’re assigned to particular rooms at the beginning of our shift. She said that was her room.”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “The tips are better on this floor.”

  “We’re VIPs. We don’t have to tip.”

  “Don’t have to. But many people do. Plus, they pay more for these rooms.”

  “Okay. You gave up, though. You stopped fighting.”

  She shrugged and then fluffed the pillows. “She was one of the white girls. There’s not too many of them, but they get all the best work. I was assigned to the room, she just wanted to take it away from me.” She shrugged a second time and added, “I’m used to it. It’s just a stupid maid’s job anyway.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No, I think she’s new.”

  “If I wanted to get into the suite next door without going into the hallway or crawling over the balcony, is there a way to do it?”

  She looked at me like I was nuts. “No. No, there isn’t.” Then she took a chocolate out of her pocket and placed it on my pillow. “Not really.”

  “What do you mean not really?”

  “There are ghost stories and rumors. But none of them are true.”

  I wondered about that.

  “Excuse me. I have to clean the living room now.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. You don’t have to do that. We’re not really spending any time there.”

  She looked unhappy.

  “I mean, if you need to that’s okay.”

  With a smile she went into the other room.

  I walked over to the telephone and called the LVPD. I asked for Detective Brace Hyland. I figured it was time to let him know what we’d learned.

  “Detective Hyland, this is Noah Valentine,” I said when he came to the telephone. The clock on the nightstand read 9:05. I wondered if everyone else was already awake. Were they all at breakfast? Why didn’t they leave me a message?

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Oh, yes. We, um, we have proof that my mother had nothing to do with Sonny’s death.”

  “What kind of proof?” I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was prepared not to believe me.

  “We were able to look at the hotel security tapes. It shows her leaving—”

  “Don’t tell me anything else,” he said.

  “What do you mean, don’t tell you? My mother is innocent, and we can prove it.”

  “I’m waiting on a warrant for that video. If you tell me too much, I’ll have to rewrite the warrant.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But if I know too much a defense attorney will try to quash the warrant by saying I withheld information.”

  “So, you want me to withhold information?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “My mother didn’t do it. Based on the—”

  “I said don’t tell me.”

  “When do you think you’ll have your warrant?”

  “Monday or Tuesday.”

  “But we’ll all be gone by then,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, well, that’s how this works. It’s not like TV where important things happen every ten minutes.”

  Well, that was true.

  Once I was off the phone, I popped out into the living room but the maid was already gone. I kicked myself for not getting her name. I went back into my room and took a shower. Afterward, I dressed in a pair of acid-washed cut-offs that were definitely out of style, but I didn’t care. I wore them with a pair of Vans and a white polo shirt. Then I stopped and stared at the custom-made wardrobe that lined one wall of my room.

  I opened the closet; it was empty except for an ironing board and iron. Yes, I should have stopped and ironed my shirt. It was kind of wrinkled. Well, very wrinkled. Instead, I took the board and the iron out of the closet and stepped in. The door fell closed behind me, but that was okay, I didn’t need to see well to do this.

  Running my fingers up and down the corners, I hoped to find some kind of secret latch or pressure point that would let me into the room next door. I mean, it’s not that I believed in ghost stories and rumors, it’s just, well, there was no reason not to check.

  I began kno
cking on the wall to see if it was solid. Not that I was sure what solid sounded like. As I knocked, I listened carefully trying to decide what a hollow sound actually sounded like. Suddenly, there was a voice outside saying, “It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve gone back into the closet.”

  I pushed the door open behind me to see Leon standing in my doorway.

  “That’s not funny,” I said, my face burning. I’m sure I looked like a stop sign.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “If you must know, I’m checking for a secret passage. It’s the only explanation I can think of for how the killers got into my mother’s suite.”

  “What do you think this is… oh God, what’s the name of that movie? It’s based on a kid’s game.”

  “Clue?”

  “Oh, yes. What do you think this is, Clue?”

  Of course, we had Clue at the store. It was one of those terrible movies that everyone just loved. I climbed out of the closet.

  “Well, do you have any bright ideas?”

  He frowned at me. “I’ve been sent here for a reason. Your mother is having a little get together in her suite.”

  “Her suite? You mean the bridal suite?”

  “No, the hotel gave her a different suite. 20104.”

  “You mean the room the killers kept going into?”

  “Yes, there. We’re having mimosas.”

  “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

  “We did call you. You probably didn’t hear. Being in the closet and all.”

  “Shut up.”

  I climbed out of the closet and shut the door. I glanced at the phone and saw that the red message light was on. He was right. They did call me. Probably while I was speaking with Detective Hyland.

  Then I told Leon I’d meet him in my mother’s room in just a few minutes. I had to take my morning meds—there was still fruit, so I could take them with a banana, or a croissant from the breakfast cart that had once again appeared—and I needed at least ten minutes with my hair. Well, maybe fifteen.

  Leon left. I took my meds, ate half a croissant, and worked on my hair. Well, I tried.

  Did I really think I was going to find a secret passage between suites? No, I didn’t. Bugsy Siegel might have found it necessary, but today’s mobsters were less prone to violence, believe it or not. There might be a well-planned execution here or there, but the days of splashy killings like Siegel’s or the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, those days were long gone. You almost never read anything about the mob—it was all gangs now. In fact, the last good Mafia movie was Goodfellas and that was mostly about the sixties.

  Of course, this hotel was from the sixties.

  No, it was all silliness. Why was I worrying about how the murder was committed? Wasn’t it better to worry about who did it? Figure that out and then—actually, no. If I knew, if I could figure out how the murder was committed, it would lead to who did it. Even though they used professional killers, the person behind it had to have given them information. Had to have known things about our party and the hotel.

  Giving up on my hair, I started to leave the suite. As I was pulling the front door open, I realized I was looking up at a map of the penthouse floor. Each room had one, having been put there in case of emergency. The exits were clearly marked, as were the locations of three fire extinguishers on the floor. I hadn’t thought about the maps before, but now I stopped and stared at it for a moment. A long moment.

  There was the suite I shared with Leon. Nothing odd about it. Carefully, I studied the rest of the floor. I looked closely at suite 20104, the suite my mother was now in. Then 20102, the suite she’d been in. There was something odd about them. Between them was an odd space. Or rather a wall. A thick wall. Why would there be a thick wall between the suites?

  Unless, it wasn’t a wall.

  19

  “Our flight is at noon. We’ll be leaving for the airport soon,” my mother said when I got to suite 20104. Louis, Marc, Leon and Tina were already there.

  Marc began handing out cups of fruit salad. They’d obviously been waiting for me.

  “Champagne and vodka, and fruit, of course.” Marc added, “We call it Shit-Faced Fruit Salad.”

  “That’s catchy,” Tina said, dryly. “Julia Child will be jealous.”

  When the fruit salads were all handed out, my mother continued, “I appreciate you coming. I’m so sorry things didn’t turn out as we planned.”

  “No, we’re sorry,” Louis said. “You have to be so disappointed.”

  I took a bite of my Shit-Faced Fruit Salad. It was actually very good. Potent, but good.

  “Tell the truth,” Tina asked. “Are you terribly upset about cancelling the wedding?”

  “Actually, no. I always wanted to get married in Grand Rapids. In a real church with a reception in my own backyard. I never had any interest in a drive-through chapel and an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

  “Then how did we end up in Las Vegas?’ I asked, my mouth full of fruit salad.

  “I’m not entirely sure. I think it was Sonny. I think he suggested it and the girls all loved the idea, given they’d spent so much time here. And, I did want to see Wilma Wanderly.”

  “You didn’t miss much, Angie,” Leon said. “I’ve seen drag queens put on a better Wilma Wanderly show.”

  “Don’t let him fool you,” Marc said. “She was wonderful.”

  “That’s not helping, Marc. She missed the show,” Louis said. Then diplomatically he added, “I’m sure you would have loved it, despite its shortcomings.”

  “Are you sure leaving is the best idea?” Leon asked. “I checked the weather in Chicago. You could end up diverted to God knows where.”

  “Cotton is desperate to get out of here. And given the circumstances I can’t blame him.”

  Something was wrong, I could tell by my mother’s demeanor. She wasn’t exactly herself.

  “And the girls?” Tina asked.

  “Reggie shouldn’t have any trouble getting a flight,” Leon said. “She’s in L.A.”

  “No. She’s going to Chicago. Apparently, she wants to visit with her sisters,” my mother explained. “Cotton managed to find three seats on a flight for them. First class.”

  Maybe that was what was wrong. She felt the girls were taking advantage again. First class tickets at the last minute had to cost a fortune. I wondered again how Cotton could afford that.

  “Where is Cotton?” I asked.

  “He’s downstairs seeing the girls off. Their flight is forty minutes earlier than ours.”

  “Do you know about the surveillance video?” I asked.

  “We told her,” Louis said.

  “What do you think?” I asked my mother.

  “I have to be honest and say I’m relieved there’s confirmation that Cotton is not involved.”

  “But—”

  “But what dear?”

  “We don’t know that. He could still be involved. Presumably, those were professionals. Cotton would certainly—”

  “Cotton has no reason to do that,” she said. She was calm, her answer confident and direct. She knew something we didn’t. I was ready to ask about it, when Aunt Katie came out of a bedroom.

  She took one look at me and said, “Yes, I told Angie everything.”

  “And I forgave her,” my mother said.

  “You really shouldn’t have,” I said.

  “She’s having financial troubles. You don’t know what that’s like at our age.”

  “Can’t she just get married again?” I suggested.

  “Noah, that’s unkind,” my mother said. I refrained from asking whether she meant I was being unkind to Aunt Katie or whomever she might marry. Even if she wasn’t directly responsible for all those deaths, she was, at the very least, unlucky.

  “Angie, you really shouldn’t go before we’ve figured this all out,” Marc said.

  “He’s right. Darling, we need you,” Leon said. “We might have to do a little B&E.”
/>   Which reminded me of something. Something other than the time my mother and Leon broke into a Hollywood insurance office. This was the room the maids and waiter had come into. The room through which they’d somehow accessed my mother’s original suite.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to use the restroom.”

  Walking out of the living room, I entered my mother’s room, the room next to suite 20102, and shut the door behind me. The bathroom was to my left. I ignored it. Instead, I went to the mahogany wardrobe. I opened the closet. Like mine, it was empty holding only the ironing board and iron the hotel provided. I’m sure my mother would have hung up her clothes, but they were likely locked in her previous suite—the suite next door. It hadn’t occurred to me when I walked in, but I suspected the black blouse and slacks my mother wore had been purchased sometime yesterday at Lady Luck.

  I stepped into the closet, just as I had earlier in my own bedroom. I looked over the back panel, checking to see if there were any differences. There weren’t any latches or buttons or candlesticks to pull on. There were, however, smudges. Or rather, wiped smudges. It looked as though someone had smudged the back panel of the closet and then attempted to clean it up. They hadn’t done a very good job.

  I pressed my hand against the back panel and pushed. Nothing happened. The panel felt loose, though, and different than the panel in my closet. Knocking a few times, I noted that it also sounded different. There was noticeably more of an echo. It sounded hollow.

  Pressing on the panel again, I pushed and then slid it to the left. It moved about an inch. The dusty, stale smell of dirt and concrete drifted into the closet. I couldn’t see anything through the gap—though I now had a good idea that something was there.

  And, based on the emergency exit map on the door of my room, I expected to encounter an empty hiding place the length of the room. I pushed on the panel again and struggled to slide it to the left. It didn’t want to go, but then it did. Now there was an eighteen-inch opening that I could slip through. Once I was out of the closet, I could just barely see that the dark space between the rooms was about three feet wide. At the far end, which would have led to the balcony, there was a drape over a floor to ceiling window. It was there so that no one would notice this sliver of a room from outside.