The Case of the Linen Pressed Guest (The M.O.D. Files Book 2)

by K. W. Callahan

  “You’d rather just herd the cattle along upstairs where they’re out of sight and out of mind,” the detective cut me to the quick.

  I took a deep breath. “It’s obviously not the type of service or activity we want to encourage at a hotel of our caliber, but it’s a hotel, what do you think goes on here? If guests want to do that sort of thing, it’s kind of hard to stop.”

  “True,” the detective nodded his understanding of the situation. “I’ll stop by the bell stand on the way out and see what I can find out.”

  “One of them might remember assisting Mr. Statler in setting up a…meeting, or if nothing else, at least directing someone up to his room. The tips for such things are often quite good…not that I’d know,” I added, not wanting the detective to get the impression that I encouraged or condoned such practices.

  The detective polished off his burger and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands across his belly and patting it contentedly. “Man, that really hit the spot,” he exhaled heavily.

  “A real gut-washer, huh?” I grinned.

  “You can say that again,” he agreed. “Best meal I’ve had in a loooong time.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it. Compliments of the Lanigan Hotel,” I said, signing the tab our server had brought to the table and billing it to my M.O.D. account.

  Tom allowed me to retain my own “M.O.D.” line on the hotel budget. He knew that I used it wisely and never abused it, and that having a little discretionary cash to throw around each month went a long way in helping me resolve any number of issues that might otherwise make their way to his desk.

  “Makes a meal taste even better when I don’t have to pay,” the detective smiled. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Tell you what, you mind if I escort you down to the bell stand?”

  “Not at all,” the detective said.

  “I’m kind of curious to see what they have to say; plus, I know who to talk to about these things and they might be a little more willing to open up to me rather than a CPD detective about such goings-on.”

  “True,” the detective considered.

  We walked back out to the lobby and downstairs to the bell desk where we found Phil Barlow, our hotel bell captain of over 20 years.

  I made introductions, not getting into exactly why the detective was here, especially since there were a few guests milling about nearby. “So we’re trying to find out who was working last Thursday,” I told Phil.

  “Hold on just a second, let me check the schedule” he said, walking over to the bell desk and coming back moments later carrying a thin green folder. “You want first, second or third shift?” he asked.

  “First,” I said.

  He opened the folder and ran his finger halfway down a page inside. “Hmm, looks like it was a low occupancy day on Thursday. It was only me and Todd Belzer scheduled.

  “Do you happen to remember anyone inquiring about rooms on the fifteenth floor?” the detective asked.

  Phil frowned, thinking, “Hmm…nothing in particular, I mean, nothing really rings a bell as anything out of the ordinary.

  “No special visitors?” I inquired, a knowing eyebrow raised at Phil.

  He eyed me warily, and then took a quick glance at the detective. “Noooo,” he drawled slowly, “no, nothing like that.”

  “When will Todd be on the schedule next?” I asked.

  “He’s here now,” Phil offered eagerly, obviously ready to have someone else under the detective’s steely-eyed gaze. “Todd!” he called behind him to a series of luggage store rooms in back of the bell desk.

  From one room appeared a young, clean-shaven man with short cropped hair. He didn’t look like he could be over 20 years of age.

  “Yeah,” he called back, a goofy ear-to-ear grin on his face. He looked like a happy dog, eager to please, a characteristic that probably garnered him great tips as a bellman.

  “Todd, you remember anything special about any rooms or guests up on the fifteenth floor last Thursday. Any special guests or anything of that sort,” Phil gave the young man a look.

  “Oh,” Todd nodded knowingly, “hmm, now let’s see. The seventeenth floor…”

  “Fifteenth,” the detective correct.

  “Right,” Todd nodded and smiled his goofy grin, “the fifteenth floor, let’s see,” he eyed the ceiling, obviously deep in thought. “On Tuesday, you said?”

  “Thursday,” the detective frowned.

  “Right, right,” Todd, nodded again, “Thursday…Thursday,” he said, rubbing his chin as he thought. “Seems like there was a lady,” he gave us a smug look, “who stopped by the desk asking for the room of someone up on the fifteenth floor. Can’t remember who. She asked to use the house phone here to call up to the room. It was during lunch, that’s why I remember. She interrupted me trying to eat my sandwich.”

  “You remember what room she called?” the detective inquired. I noted a hint of hope in his voice.

  “Huh uh,” Todd shook his head.

  “What time would you say this was?” the detective asked.

  “Mmm, I’d say around twelve-thirty maybe.”

  The detective looked at me, “Time could be about right. Anything about a description?” he asked Todd.

  Todd thought about it for a few seconds, “Nooo,” he drawled slowly, “don’t think so. Maybe late-fifties…grayish hair. Didn’t look like a working girl though if that’s what you’re after.”

  I could tell the detective was getting impatient with Todd as well as this line of questioning since it didn’t seem to be getting us anywhere.

  “Okay,” he said. “If you think of anything, here’s my card,” he handed one to both Todd and Phil.

  They pocketed the cards and hurried back behind the bell desk, glad to be free of the detective’s inquiring eye.

  “Well that was a bust,” I said.

  “Maybe,” the detective said. “But you never know. Sometimes you hit the jackpot when and where you least expect it.” He paused and turned to shake my hand, “Well, thanks again for lunch. I’ll be in touch. Let me know if anything surfaces around here that might help with the case.”

  “Certainly,” I nodded.

  And with that, he pushed out through one of the entry revolving doors and into the bluster of the wintry Chicago day.

  I decided to head upstairs to the general manager’s office on the sixth floor and give Tom a rundown of the situation.

  * * *

  I knocked on Tom’s closed office door and waited.

  “Come in,” I heard his muffled voice from inside.

  I found our fearless leader in the middle of an oily rubdown being administered by Suri, the hotel’s fitness center manager and massage therapist. He was gnawing on a greasy chicken leg. It was not a sight I needed after a big lunch, and I felt those shrimp I’d consumed start trying to buck their way back up at the sight of my blubbery boss. His oil-laden girth was straddling, and in spots, spilling over not one but two massage tables lined up beside one another, his flabby rear barely covered by a full-sized towel that looked more like a hand towel on his sizeable surface area.

  I tried not to make eye contact with the ghastly sight before me. Looking at the sheen radiating from Tom’s oily back under the glare of his office lights was like trying to stare into the sun anyway.

  “Oh, uh,” I stumbled. “Should I come back later, Tom?” I asked, hoping that he’d say yes.

  “No, no, Bobby my boy. Please, have a seat.”

  I felt like I’d walked into an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard and Boss Hogg was laid out prone before me. I angled my way across the room to a nearby – but not too nearby – leather sofa and sat down. I didn’t want to get splashed with massage oil, sweat, chicken grease, or some horribly grimy combination thereof.

  “You sure? I asked. “I don’t want to interrupt your massage,” I prodded hopefully.

  “Nonsense,” Tom dropped his chicken leg, stripped clean of flesh, into a trash can beside him and roo
ted in a jumbo bucket on a small table nearby, pulling a fresh leg from inside. “So give me the good word, Roberto. What’s new in the hotel today?”

  I’m not sure what was worse, the sloppy slurping sound of Tom’s chewing or the smacking of Suri’s hands as they worked his greased-up body.

  “Well,” I tried to clear my mind of visions of the traumatic scene taking place before me and get back to the business of managing a major hotel, “there hasn’t been much progress on the…” I paused knowing that Suri was listening, “…linen chute issue.”

  “Mmm…” Tom nodded as he laid into his fresh chicken leg, some hot sauce he’d drizzled on dribbling down his chins. He dunked the wing in a container of blue cheese dressing beside his bucket on the table nearby, and after a few seconds of sucking the last bit of meat off the bone, tossed the remnants into the trash can below him. “What about New Year’s Eve?” he asked, preferring to ignore the apparently more minor issue of a murder having been committed in his hotel.

  “We’re filling up nicely. Last I checked we were close to ninety percent.”

  “Good, good,” he nodded, fishing for another piece of chicken.

  “We have enough staff scheduled?” he muffled over a bite.

  “Yes,” I nodded, looking anywhere but at Tom. “All the night cleaners are onboard, we’ve bulked up the front desk staff, and the banquet, catering, and restaurant managers have all been through New Year’s Eve here before, so they know the drill.”

  “What about you?” Tom inquired, chomping noisily.

  “I’ll be working a late second shift with Kristen. She’ll act as my assistant that night.”

  “Good,” Tom nodded. “Sounds like you have everything covered then.”

  “I think so,” I agreed as I stood from my seat on the sofa, in a hurry to be on my way. I took a quick glance at Tom. Suri was working on pulling at his pudgy little toes. I gave an inadvertent shudder. “Guess I’d better get back to it,” I said.

  “Good job, Robbie-Bob,” Tom lifted his head to give me a big grin. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, Billy-Bobbie my boy. You’re one in a million!”

  “Thanks, Tom,” I said as I made my way out of his office, closing the door behind me to help protect any innocent passers-by.

  I walked down the forest-green carpeted hallway, through the parquet-floored foyer, and back to the service elevators where I headed down to my office to do a little work and double check our numbers for what I knew would be a boisterous and lively New Year’s Eve.

  CHAPTER 6

  To: allstaff.lanigan@sharedresorts.com

  Subject: 12/31 MOD Report

  THE LANIGAN HOTEL

  CHICAGO, IL

  MANAGER ON DUTY REPORT

  Saturday, December 31st

  Weather: 31/20 Snow

  Occupancy: 94%

  Arrivals: 1123

  Departures: 89

  Event Resume:

  Grand/Sky Ballrooms (9 p.m. – 1 a.m.) – Lanigan New Year’s Eve Party feat. DJ Fat Noose.

  Blue Velvet Room (9 p.m. – 1:30 a.m.) – New Year’s Bash feat. DJ Balldrop

  Lake Ballroom (6 p.m. – 9 p.m.) – Live Broadcast of 90.8’s Chicago Ballroom radio program – dinner and dancing

  Carlisle’s Whiskey Lounge (Open 6 p.m. – 2 a.m.) – Live Music by Sizemore

  Triton Club – Grand Opening Event! (8 p.m. – ?)

  * * *

  New Year’s Eve started about like I expected. Every station at the front desk was jammed with arriving guests. We’d been slammed with partiers arriving to the hotel since about 11 a.m., and I knew the flurry of activity would continue non-stop until around 3 a.m. when the alcohol-soaked and exhausted party-goers finally passed out in their rooms or scattered haphazardly about the hotel. Each year, it never ceased to amaze me at the spots guests managed to find their ways into in their drunken stupors.

  It was now 4 p.m. and we still had about 350 arrivals left. I looked out across the sea of faces staring back at me, my row of desk agents standing their ground like steadfast sentries attempting to hold back the Mongol hoards.

  The lines were about five people deep, and I stood watching agents’ fingers fly on computer keyboards. Plastic key cards were being swiped in key machines and then placed in guest packets that were printed with informational tidbits and marketing information about the hotel, its restaurants, and available amenities. Guests signed registration cards, handed over credit cards, and asked questions about checkout times, restaurant locations, and room details. Guest service agents pointed out elevator banks, scribbled notes regarding times and locations of events on key packets so that new arrivals wouldn’t forget, and handed back credit cards as they worked to process the incoming guests with equal amounts of the efficiency, polite eye-contact, smiles, and friendly banter expected from those employed by the world-renowned Lanigan Hotel.

  I was stunned – but pleased – to see that even Jay was manning a station, leading his troops from the front line.

  Many waiting guests stood with coolers or cases of beer in hand, anxious to get their drinking under way. Some had ditched the patience act and were drinking mysterious concoctions from red party cups or slurping from cans in foam beer holders.

  Kristen rolled in at just after six o’clock. She peeked her blonde head of hair – made to look even brighter by the black suit she was wearing – inside my office door upon her arrival.

  “You ready to rumble?” she asked, her blue eyes sparkling and full of life, ready for any challenge that awaited us.

  “Ah to be young, fresh-faced, and feeling alive again,” I muttered.

  “Oh come on,” she grinned. “You’re not old.”

  “I’m not young either,” I snorted.

  “You’re only as old as you feel!” she shot back, her positivity trying hard to break through the barrier of skepticism I was feeling about the long night ahead.

  “Huh, don’t put it that way,” my shoulders sagged. “That’d put me somewhere around a hundred and two.”

  “Does Jason know I’ll be with you tonight?” Kristen ignored my self-loathing.

  “I told him,” I nodded. “He wasn’t happy about having to give you up for the evening, but he knows it’s better to have us putting out the fires before they spread down here where he’ll have to deal with them, so he didn’t put up much of a fight.”

  “Good,” she gave her head a vigorous nod so that her ponytailed bounty of bound blonde hair bounced buoyantly behind her.

  “We should probably grab something to eat before we start getting inundated with calls.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I’d like to hit the Polynesian, but all the hotel eateries are going to be slammed, and I don’t want to add to the pressure they’ll be dealing with tonight, so I’m afraid it’s the cafeteria for us.”

  “Uh…” Kristen’s shoulder’s sagged as the energy suddenly left her body like the air escaping a balloon, “…not the cafeteria.”

  “Sorry,” I said, getting up from my desk and shrugging into my suit jacket. “Sometimes we have to suffer for the benefit of the hotel.”

  “I’d rather be waterboarded at Guantanamo,” she wriggled her freckle-smattered little nose sweetly at me.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Hmph,” was her only response.

  On the way out from the front office, we maneuvered our way through the throngs of waiting guests and across the lobby. Along the way, we quickly loaded ourselves with armfuls of beer bottles, glasses, and other party leftovers from lobby tables. We made a beeline for Carlisle’s where we dropped off our gatherings and quickly found the lounge’s manager, Aesop Raskin helping clear a table. The lounge was already packed with patrons and all hands were on deck.

  “Aesop!” I called to him over the din of noisy chatter the dark and heavily-leathered space had become. “Can you have a busser sweep through the lobby occasionally? A lot of your glasses are ending up out there.”


  “Sure,” he nodded, grabbing a passing employee and directing him in his new duty.

  “Thanks!” I called back, leaving him to his work.

  As we exited the lounge and made our way upstairs to the cafeteria, I called Sherry Simpson, the housekeeping’s second shift public space manager, on my M.O.D. phone.

  “This is Sherry,” she answered.

  “Hi, Sherry, it’s Robert. I just wanted to give you a heads-up on the lobby. We’re getting slammed down here. A lot of people are waiting to check in and milling around drinking, and your lobby attendant is getting overwhelmed. I just stopped in at Carlisle’s and asked them to put a busser out to help clear glasses and trash, but you might want to pull an extra body or two to put down here until we get everyone checked in and the party moves upstairs.”

  “Copy that,” Sherry said. “I’ll pull a couple of the room attendants since there isn’t much for them to do right now.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  Housekeeping was my trump card when it came to nights like tonight. The public space cleaners of second and third shift were integral components to keeping our hotel looking pristine, but if a few of the lesser used spaces didn’t get vacuumed for a night, the service elevators didn’t get cleaned, or the marble floors weren’t polished to eye-bedazzling brightness, the place wasn’t going to collapse. Therefore, on nights when things were really hopping – Fridays and Saturdays, during big conventions, and on New Years Eve especially – I often relied upon these employees, using them as a general might use his cavalry or mechanized forces, moving them from spot to spot to counter enemy (or in our case, guest) thrusts when and where necessary.