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

by K. W. Callahan

  * * *

  The meatloaf and mashed potatoes managed to put me into a deep enough food coma that I managed a few more hours sleep once I returned to my room.

  By six though, I was wide awake and the idea of more sleep wasn’t even an option. Therefore, I showered, shaving slowly – since I didn’t want to rush right down to a dull front office on a low occupancy day – dressed, and took a slow walk around the hotel’s public spaces starting on the 6th floor and working all the way down to the lobby.

  Things looked good. John Rodgers and his night crew kept the place looking immaculate. I could tell that some light shampoo work had been done on the carpet outside the 4th floor ballrooms by the arcing patterns the cleaning machine had made in the carpet’s fibers. Some dirt spots and stains had probably been left by the previous day’s meeting activity – coffee spills, some crumbs from muffins and pastries being ground in, maybe a gum spot or two.

  Then I headed downstairs to my office where I killed a little time playing on Jason’s video games, checked my mailbox, read some emails, listened to a couple voicemail messages about nothing important, and chatted with Kristen who had been covering the third shift last night.

  “This bouncing back and forth stuff is getting old,” she complained, plopping down in my office’s sofa chair, kicking off her shoes, and wriggling her bare toes. “They say that working third shift decreases your lifespan by three to five years and significantly increases your risk of heart disease.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “Who says that?” I said, swiveling in my office chair to look at the spry young woman so vibrant and full of life.

  “Heard it somewhere,” Kristen shrugged.

  Jason had recently assigned Kristen to a shift that I’d personally despised coming up through the ranks – we termed it the “bounce” shift. It entailed three nights on the second shift, a day off, and then two nights on the third shift, and then another day off. It helped cover the off days of the regular third shift manager.

  It was considered by most of the younger managers to be a “life killer” since it pretty much ruined any hope of doing anything with your evenings or days off since your circadian rhythms were so out of whack, all you really wanted to do was sleep in your spare time.

  “Sucks to be good at your job,” I said, doing my best to help her understand that this wasn’t punishment so much as experience for the next step in her burgeoning hotel management career.

  “They have an interesting way of showing their appreciation around here,” she grimaced.

  “Ah, pretty soon you’ll be bucking for my job, and I’ll find myself out on my rump,” I scoffed.

  “I’ll never know the things you know,” she sighed.

  “You’d be amazed what comes with age,” I said, turning back to my computer and clicking a tiny trash can icon on the screen to send six selected emails to their electronic demise.

  “How old are you?” Kristen pushed. “You always keep it a secret from me.”

  “And I’ll take that secret with me to my grave,” I gave her an evil grin. “Plus, if I told you, I’d lose all hope of you ever yielding to my advances,” I joked in the voice of an octogenarian.

  “Oh, you could have defiled me long ago if you’d really wanted to, you dirty old man,” Kristen returned my mischievousness.

  “Thanks…I think,” not exactly sure whether to take her interesting juxtaposition of phrasing as compliment, insult or some combination thereof.

  Jason peeked his head inside my office. “Morning all!” his smiled cheerily.

  “Morning,” we replied tiredly and in unison.

  “Alright, my relief has arrived. I’m outta here,” Kristen said, as she extracted herself from my cushiony chair and slipping her shoes back on.

  “You still got ten minutes left on your shift,” Jason said, looking at his watch.

  “It’s not how much you work but how well you work when you’re here,” Kristen replied matter-of-factly.

  “Now that is a future front office manager talking,” I grinned at Jason.

  “I already sent the M.O.D. report. No major issues,” Kristen continued.

  “Good,” Jason nodded. “Thanks.”

  “No prob. See you tonight,” she laid a hand lightly upon my shoulder as she passed.

  “Sounds good,” I called after her.

  My meeting with Detective Marino was scheduled for eight o’clock at the Boardwalk Café, so I headed over a little early to get us a table and order coffees.

  The detective arrived at two minutes to eight.

  “Right on time…as usual,” I stood and greeted him with a handshake.

  “Do my best,” the detective said. He didn’t look like his usual clean-cut self. He appeared tired; his sunken cheeks a hair more concave than usual. Maybe it was just the multi-day layer of stubble that made them appear this way, I wasn’t sure. He was carrying a dark leather attaché case with shoulder strap that he let slide to the floor beside the table as he sat.

  “I already ordered us coffee,” I explained as we each took a seat. “I figured we could just pick from the buffet unless you’re in the mood for something off the menu.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the detective said, as though he couldn’t have cared less.

  “Trouble with the case?” I asked.

  “Cas-es,” he clarified.

  “Oh,” I said, doing my best to sympathize with the pressure he was apparently under.

  “Seems like everything is moving in slow motion. The holidays have really set me back. Forensics, fingerprints, lab results, the companies we outsource some of our work to…they’re all behind due to holiday staffing levels. Doesn’t keep the heat off me though. The captain only cares about one thing…progress. And lately, that’s the one thing I haven’t been making. A murder case starts molding fast when left out to sit.” He took a long drink of coffee. “Hope you got something good for me, Haze,” he studied me intently with his piercing brown eyes.

  I hesitated, less sure of myself now that I understood the frustration the detective was feeling and the pressure he was under. I didn’t want to be a burden on him. The assurance I had been feeling in my ability to be of assistance had suddenly drained at the realization of the detective’s dissatisfaction with his progress in the case.

  “I’ve had a few thoughts,” I told him.

  “I’ll take anything at this point, Haze” the detective pounced readily at my offering, his eagerness helping to reinvigorate my confidence in the theories I had.

  “First, I think you’ll find these interesting,” I handed over the copies of the room history reports that I’d run on Mr. Statler. I’d highlighted the comments in the “notes” section.

  The detective scanned the sheets, flipping through them. “Two hundred side of the fifteenth floor. Hmm,” he pondered.

  “I was thinking about the location of Mr. Statler’s room,” I said.

  “Go on,” the detective nodded, looking interested.

  “From his room, you can see across the street to several office buildings. I was thinking that in Statler’s line of employment as a consultant, he might have been doing work for a client located across the street. Maybe he stumbled across something interesting…maybe some information he was accumulating to blackmail the client or conduct insider trading or even turn over to the authorities.”

  The detective was giving me a stale looking stare as the gears in his mind spun.

  “I was wondering, did you find viewing equipment…telescopes, high-powered cameras, binoculars, anything like that when you inventoried his room?” I pressed.

  The detective let out a notable sigh, “No…nothing like that. Still, it’s an idea. Maybe he was simply watching the movements of particular employees, gauging their work hours from the lights of their office or the glare of computer screens…something that would have been noticeable with the naked eye from his room. But why the fifteenth floor? I could see requesting the two hundred side, but what would b
e visible from the fifteenth floor that couldn’t be seen from the fourteenth or sixteenth or twentieth?”

  I shrugged, “Maybe nothing, or maybe he just found that it gave him the best line of sight from that particular angle.”

  “These reports go back three months,” the detective noted. “A long time to be on a stake out. And most of Statler’s room charges were going to his employer. They probably would have raised some concerns if he was spending this kind of dough for some sort of personal gain or to reign in the bad guys.”

  “I don’t know,” I took a deep breath, feeling somewhat dejected that the detective had poked some notable holes in my theory.

  “Like I said, I’ll look into it. I’ll see if any of the tenants in the building across the street match up with clients that Statler’s firm was working with. That ought to help clear things up pretty quick.”

  “Let’s grab something to eat before I give you my other thought,” I said.

  We took a couple minutes to load up plates of goodies. I returned with some fresh fruit and a lightly buttered croissant to help counteract some of the unhealthy effects of last night’s binge. The detective had loaded up on bacon, scrambled eggs, and of course, a couple chocolate cake donuts.

  “Okay, so let’s hear the rest of it, Haze,” he bit into a piece of bacon.

  I could tell he was itching to hear more, probably praying I had something better for him than what I’d already divulged.

  “Okay, so most of the evidence you’ve collected has come from the fifteenth floor, correct?”

  The detective nodded his silent confirmation of this fact.

  “But what if the murder didn’t occur on the fifteenth floor?” I eyed him.

  “We’ll that’d kind of put a kink in the works,” he said. “Where do you think Mr. Statler was killed if not on the fifteenth floor?”

  “We’ll, I’m not totally positive. I mean really, he could have been killed just about anywhere. We just kind of assumed that he was dumped in the fifteenth floor linen closet chute because he was staying on that floor, right?”

  The detective nodded silently again. I could tell his wheels were spinning.

  “But remember the whole reason I was down in the linen sorting room to begin with?”

  “The child’s lost blanket.”

  “Right. Well, that blanket came from a room on the thirteenth floor. And it exited the linen chute right ahead of Mr. Statler.”

  “So you think he was killed on the thirteenth floor?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t really know for sure. It could just be a coincidence, the timing of his body being dumped in the chute correlating with the time the load of linen containing the blanket was dumped. But if the blanket was in with a thirteenth floor linen cart, it’s a possibility that such a cart…possibly a thirteenth floor cart…was used to transport Mr. Statler. A linen cart is open on the top and has deep enough sides to easily conceal a body.”

  “Hmm…” the detective thought, and chewed, and then finished his piece of bacon.

  “Interesting, Haze. I like it…but it means I’m going to have a whole new series of interviews to conduct.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Well, I tried to make your job a little easier. Here,” I said, handing him another stack of paperwork.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A list of assignments for the people working the thirteenth floor the day of the murder…housepersons, room attendants, security guard, floor manager…it’s all there. There’s also this week’s schedule and contact information for those people so that you can schedule your interviews.”

  “Darn,” the detective shook his head. “I wish we could have gotten in that closet right after the murder. By now, any evidence that remained will either have been destroyed or compromised.” He shook his head, frowning and seeming to sag dejectedly in his seat. “I guess I’ll have my work cut out for the day.” Then he recovered, taking a deep breath. “Thanks for this,” he held up the handful of paperwork that I’d presented him. “You’ve definitely made my job easier. You’re alright, Haze,” he nodded.

  “Thanks,” I smiled. “I’d have to agree with that assessment. I just hope that some of what I’ve said helps. I’d hate to think that I’m just sending you on a wild goose chase.”

  “You and me both,” he said, rescanning the paperwork. “Looks like a good number of these people are working today. I think I’ll go ahead and get started.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll give Marian in housekeeping a call and let her know that you’re on your way up and that you’ll need to steal a few of her people for a bit.”

  “Thanks,” he nodded and stood.

  “I’d be happy to conduct the lock read on the thirteenth floor linen closet to help save you some time,” I offered.

  The detective considered. “Sure,” he agreed. “I don’t see any harm in that.”

  “You want to meet back for lunch and exchange data.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Navigator’s Club…noon?”

  “I should be done by then,” he agreed.

  * * *

  It was a good thing that the detective and I met up again so soon because I had some interesting news to relay to him.

  “You get anything good?” I asked.

  “Interviews were largely a bust,” the detective shook his head. “Nobody seems to remember much of anything about that day.”

  “Well, here,” I said, sliding the printout of the key reads of the 13th floor linen closet for the past two weeks onto the table. “This might perk you up.” I’d highlighted a portion of the printout that read: 13 L.C. – 15:52 – Hsp 15-2.

  “Care to translate?” the detective said, looking at the jumble of numbers and letters on the paper.

  I pointed, “Okay, 13 LC stands for the thirteenth floor linen closet, then the military time that translates to 3:52 p.m., and then Hsp fifteen dash two…that’s the key…figuratively and literally,” I said. “That, my good detective, is the mysterious missing key that the houseperson, Rodrigo Torez, from the fifteenth floor reported lost that day.”

  * * *

  Unfortunately, we never got to enjoy our lunch at the Navigator’s Club.

  As soon as we’d compared our notes and realized that things were looking increasingly bad for Rodrigo Torez, Detective Marino decided it was time to take Mr. Torez on a little field trip down to the station for further questioning.

  “Is that absolutely necessary?” I asked, not wanting to protect a potential killer but at the same time finding myself with a sense of duty to protect the best interests of the hotel and its employees.

  “I’m afraid so,” the detective replied. “I’ve learned over the years that a suspect’s attitude changes dramatically when you get them out of their comfort zone and down to the station. Things suddenly seem a lot more serious. They start thinking about prison terms, missing their family, and fellow inmates getting a little too friendly. More to the point, they realize that it’s no joke when they get hauled in. While it’s still just routine questioning, it takes on a different feel, a more grim tone so to speak.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I considered the psychology behind the strategy.

  “It doesn’t always work,” the detective continued. “Sometimes a suspect just clams up or immediately requests legal counsel. Other times, they’ve gone though it before, so it’s nothing new. But I’ve run a background check on Mr. Torez, and other than a couple minor traffic violations and a few outstanding parking tickets, there’s nothing on him. So if this is our guy, it might rattle him enough to shake something loose.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, you know where to find him upstairs. I’m going to break the news to Tom.”

  And with that, we headed off on our separate missions.

  I found Tom in his office, sitting behind his desk, a spread laid out before him on his desktop. But rather than paperwork, this spread consisted of a huge hoagie sandwich sitting on wax paper
, its top bun off. Tom appeared to be conducting some investigatory work of his own, a lineup of various bottles and jars before him. He was inspecting them closely – mayo, ketchup, mustard, sweet pickles, jardinière, hot sauce, Worcestershire, tartar sauce, horseradish, green olives, black olives, and several different salad dressings. With speed I’d never seen from Tom, he suddenly grabbed a bottle, dug in it with a knife, and started smearing a layer of horseradish atop the empty bun.

  “Flobert!” he glanced up from the project at hand. “Arcade floor looks great! Good job steel-poling that project through to fruition!” he smiled jovially while he began a new layer of spread, switching from horseradish to mustard.

  “Thanks,” I nodded. “Tom, I have some bad news.”

  “Oh yeah?” his eyes lifted from his smearing, but only for an instant.

  As I explained the situation regarding the possible involvement of Rodrigo Torez in the murder of Mr. Statler, I watched in horror as Tom continued to slather layer upon layer of condiment atop his hoagie bun. The pace of his daubing and quantity of application increased as I laid on the bad news that one of our own might have killed a hotel guest.

  Guest-on-guest murder was one thing, but the last thing a top-tier property like the Lanigan needed was the publicity regarding a hotel employee murdering a guest. We didn’t want “luxury execution” listed as one of our opulent guest amenities. While the saying goes, “There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” in this type of situation, I had to disagree.

  “Not good, not good at all,” Tom worked frantically on his sandwich, picking up a bottle of 1000 Island dressing and giving it a good squeeze as he ran it back and forth over the bun-top’s length.

  “There’s no reason to panic at this point, since we don’t know anything for certain. I’m sure that Detective Marino will do his best to keep things on the down low if it turns out Torez was involved in some way. And I’ll make sure that Ken Prouce is aware of the situation and is ready to jump on things if they start going bad.”