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

by K. W. Callahan

  Conversely, 1B was refreshingly quiet. A few guests meandered the halls, exploring. They peeked their heads inside the just-opened Triton Club to check it out and read the menu out front of the Polynesian Restaurant. There, they could note the hours for the Polynesian’s stage show that featured Larry Mozuma, the long-time dinner show host. Larry performed as the bare-chested “King Drinky-Drinky” while pronouncing the crowd his tribe, “You-Drinky-Lotsy”. Meanwhile, scantily-clad native girls wearing hula skirts and coconut brassieres danced, sang, and gyrated. Diners could gorge themselves on delicious island-themed foods. One of my favorite dishes was the poly-poly fried rice that, similar to the ‘Magic’ fried rice from my favorite Chinese restaurant, had beef, pork, chicken, shrimp, lobster, and crab mixed in. They could wash it all down with the nectar of the gods – a Cocaroon-colata. The drink was a strongly-mixed, ambrosia-like, rum-based concoction that was far more dangerous than it tasted. They went down smooth but could really knock your socks off. A few too many could put you down faster than a horse tranquilizer.

  The thought of these sumptuous treats had my mouth watering. I sat down at the Triton Club’s bar, its fresh lacquer still gleaming even in the dimly lit lounge. I ordered a “Bogart” – a grilled chicken sandwich with a thin slice of avocado, melted mozzarella, bacon, lettuce, and a touch of honey mustard dressing – and a Tom Collins to drink. I wasn’t quite sitting in a Casablanca-style gin-joint befitting the sandwich’s name, but I felt it appropriate to at least order a gin-blended cocktail to accompany it.

  As I sat sipping my drink and waiting for my food to arrive, I noted a dark form pass by the club’s entrance. The figure was pushing a cart, and a moment later, I realized that it was Linda Evans, one of the housekeeping public space attendants who had a portion of her cleaning route on 1B.

  I had met Linda a little over a year ago when she was working her route down here one day. We had got to chatting about her history at the Lanigan, a history that I was amazed and frankly excited to discover involved working at the original Triton Club when it was open during the late-60s and early-70s. She had regaled me with tales of her time spent at the club “back in the day,” and had even taken me on a tour of the then defunct club space.

  I stood from my bar stool and walked over to the club entrance. I could see Linda pushing her cart down 1B’s wide thoroughfare. I hurried to catch up with her.

  “Linda!” I called.

  She stopped and turned around from pushing her cart. “Oh, Robert. How are you?”

  “Been busy,” I said, sauntering up beside her as she began pushing her cart toward the service elevators again.

  She leaned over and whispered confidentially, “I heard there was another murder.”

  “Yeah,” I frowned. “So where are you headed?” I asked, looking to change the subject.

  “Back upstairs. My shift is almost over. Got a little overtime today.”

  “Good for you,” I smiled, glad to hear she was getting her hours. “Hey,” I said suddenly. “I have an idea. Why don’t you join me for a bite to eat at the club? I just put in an order,” I explained as we entered the back landing area and she called one of the service elevators.

  “Well that sounds just delightful. Just let me take my cart upstairs, clock out and change, and I’ll be right along.”

  “Perfect,” I said, perking up at having a little company in the momentarily quiet club.

  The service elevator dinged and its shiny steel doors slid open. I helped Linda push her cart inside. As the cart hit the small gap between the landing floor and the edge of the elevator, it was jostled just enough to knock the broom and mop askew from their upright positions, sending them sliding off to one side. I quickly grabbed hold of their handles and righted them, ensuring that they were better positioned for when Linda exited the elevator.

  “Thank you,” she said. “See you in a few.”

  “I’ll be waiting. You want me to order you something?” I asked as the door began to close.

  “That would be perfect. Whatever you want, I trust your judgment!” she called as the door shut.

  I went back to the club and put in an order for a cherry soda, the drink I typically noticed stashed in the bottom of Linda’s cleaning cart whenever I saw her, and the “Mirror Ball” sandwich that had smoked ham, brie, lettuce, tomato, and mayo on sourdough bread.

  Linda joined me about ten minutes later in regular attire. “My goodness,” she gazed around her as she sat down on a bar stool beside me. “I haven’t been in here since I took you on that tour of the place last year, before it was all fixed up. My, how time flies,” she shook her head. “The place looks beautiful…better than when I worked here. I’m glad so see they kept old Bushy over there,” she nodded and smiled toward the wooden fisherman. “Place just wouldn’t be the same without him.”

  Our food was served a few minutes later and we chatted, ate, and discussed 1B and its history. Then we talked about what was going on in our lives and Linda’s plan for retirement, a goal she hoped to achieve in the next year or two.

  “Nothing’s set in stone yet, but it’s something to shoot for. My body’s tired; but I’m afraid that if I leave the hotel, I just won’t find the sense of purpose that I have here.”

  “I can see that,” I agreed.

  “It’s hard to make time for yourself when the Lanigan is such a big part of your life. Haven’t had much time to develop hobbies and the likes over the past couple decades,” Linda went on. “I need more than dragging a broom or a mop around my home to keep me occupied.”

  “Mmm,” I agreed, taking a bite of my sandwich.

  Something was suddenly bothering me – something about the case. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it was as though while Linda was talking to me, 1B was whispering in my ear. I just couldn’t make out what it was saying. I’d seen, heard or experienced something down here that related to the Statler murder. I could feel it. What that “something” was though, I just couldn’t say.

  CHAPTER 15

  It was almost two in the morning when my eyes flickered open in my darkened bedroom. I shifted under the covers, adjusting the sheet that had tangled itself under my shoulder. Then I pounded my pillow with a fist to fluff and reform it.

  I lay for a moment, and then turned over, hoping the adjustment might help me get back to sleep. My stomach gurgled, and I realized that the sandwich I’d eaten at the Triton Club hadn’t gone far enough to fill my belly. I wasn’t sure if heading downstairs to grab a bite to eat in the cafeteria, only to fall into the clutches of Habeebee, was worth it or not.

  As I lay pondering my dilemma, I suddenly had the craziest itch. It was right in the center of my back about halfway between the middle of my back and my shoulder blades. I sat up in bed and tried reaching it but quickly realized it was located either just above or just below the spots that I could reach. It was one of those itches that wouldn’t go away. In fact, it grew exponentially worse over the next few seconds. I threw myself onto my back, wriggling in an attempt to relieve myself of the aggravation. In itch-induced agony, I tore away the covers and jumped out of bed. I hustled over to my armoire, reaching up to its top, fishing in the darkness for an item I kept for just such occasions. My hand bumped against what I was looking for, and I grabbed it, my wooden backscratcher – the single man’s best friend.

  I rammed it down the back of my t-shirt, raking it up and down again my skin. After finding that a few light passes weren’t enough to satisfy the irritable tickling, I pressed harder for the next few passes, and then even harder. I could feel the thin wood of the backscratcher bend under the pressure, and finally, as the itch subsided, it snapped in two.

  “Darn!” I hissed, pulling the top of the stick out while the other half fell out of the bottom of my t-shirt onto the floor.

  I walked over to the window and yanked one of the curtains aside. The city lights outside provided a soft glow of illumination. I could feel the cold outside trying to push its way th
rough the window glass. I looked down at the half broken backscratcher I still held in my hand. The piece was about eight inches long and had broken so that one end was sheered off in a jagged point. The sight of it made me glad I hadn’t gouged my back with it, but more than that, it made me think of something else – it was that something I hadn’t been able to put my finger on earlier in the evening.

  I dropped the piece of wood backscratcher, threw on a pair of pants, the nearest shirt available – a dress shirt – and a pair of shoes. Then I dashed out of my room and down the hallway to the back landing where I rode a service elevator downstairs.

  “Please don’t be empty! Please don’t be empty! Please don’t be empty!” I chanted while I bounced nervously in anticipation of finding what I hoped would still be where I’d left it in the linen sorting room.

  Frank had said they only changed the big barrel trash can once or twice a month. I just prayed I wasn’t too late.

  I waited impatiently. It seemed like the service elevator was crawling tonight, but finally the floor indicator for “2B” illuminated.

  I hurried out of the elevator and hooked a left down the dimly lit sub-basement corridor. As I walked, I realized that it was silly to be in such a hurry. With the linen sorting room still closed after the murder, there was no way the trash would have been emptied since the discovery of the body. Still, something told me to move faster than my logic dictated.

  It was eerily quiet on 2B at this time of night, even more so than usual. It kind of gave me the creeps. I slowed my hurried pace as I approached the linen sorting room door. The crime scene tape was still affixed, though in a different way from what I remembered the last time I was here. I figured the investigatory crew Detective Marino had sent over a few days ago had probably disturbed the tape that was now hanging loosely from one side of the door.

  I don’t know why, maybe it was the crime scene tape, but I looked nervously from side to side, ensuring that I was indeed alone before pushing my way through the door.

  The lights were on inside. I walked into the room and stopped in its center. I did another quick double check, scanning my surroundings to ensure the room was empty.

  It was. No…wait, it wasn’t!

  A figure was crouched over by the big barrel trash can. A pile of trash had been pulled from within the barrel and was sprinkled around the floor beside it.

  “Hey!” I said, starting toward the figure.

  The person stood, and I could now see that it was a man – mid-sized in stature, probably about six feet tall, maybe 180 pounds, with a regular build. It took me a moment, since he wasn’t in uniform, but I recognized the man as security guard Elon Hernandez.

  As soon as we made eye contact, he bolted from where he’d apparently hoped to remain hidden and shot across the room past me and out the entry doors.

  “Elon!” I cried as I gave chase. “Wait!” But he was already gone.

  I sprinted out of the sorting room and down the corridor after him. I rounded the corner into the service elevator landing just as Elon bolted through a stairway door leading upstairs. I followed him, wondering what in the hell I’d do if I caught up to him.

  I was probably 20 steps behind Elon when I heard the door to the street level open above me. The door was just closing when I reached it. I shoved it back open and darted out into the currently deserted arcade. I glanced left and right toward the side entrances, both of which were closed and locked at this time of night. Knowing this, Elon had headed straight for the hotel’s main entrance. I could see him about 40 yards ahead of me running down the arcade’s wide, shop-lined thoroughfare. Half of me hoped he’d escape. Then I could just report the incident to Detective Marino and let him deal with it. But the M.O.D. half of me said that it was my duty to give chase – and so I did, realizing that my attempt was likely in vain since Elon had such a head start.

  Just as I reached the mid-point of the arcade, I could see Elon hit the hotel’s front entrance, but at that exact moment, who should come in through the revolving main entry doors but Sergeants Grakowski and Mitts.

  “Lunch time!” I breathed to myself as I slowed my pace. “GRAB HIM!” I shouted, my voice reverberating through the travertine and marble halls.

  The two sergeants sprung into action. Well, maybe “sprung” is a strong word. More like lumbered. A few too many Habeebee meals at 2 a.m. had packed the pounds onto them, especially during the long Chicago winter.

  Like two bears awakening from hibernation, it took the men a while to get moving, but they took off after Elon nonetheless, halting the fleeing security guard’s progress and re-routing him.

  “Lock down the hotel!” I yelled to Doug, our night security sergeant who was manning the main entrance. “Don’t let Elon out!”

  Doug immediately radioed other members of security to position themselves at the hotel’s rear dock and the front entrance, the only two ways out of the hotel at this time of night.

  Stuck between me and the two pursuing officers, Elon chose to head back toward the less intimidating of the two options (me). But right before he reached where I stood bracing myself for his impact, he ducked into a nearby stairwell entrance.

  My confidence bolstered by the arrival of Grakowski and Mitts, I took off up the stairs behind him in hot pursuit, hoping as I did so that Elon wasn’t armed.

  As I clambered up the stairs, the two police sergeants behind me, I quickly realized that Elon was gaining distance on us. Being in better shape from so much walking of the hotel on his security rounds, I could hear the sound of his footsteps fading above us and eventually disappear altogether right around the time I reached the seventh floor. I’d estimated that he had ducked into a guest hallway somewhere around the ninth or tenth floor. I could hear the sergeants huffing and puffing several floors below me, and as I continued up the stairs, taking two at a time, I heard the stairwell door close one floor above me just as I reached the ninth floor landing.

  Once I made it to the tenth floor a few seconds later, I paused, waiting for Grakowski and Mitts to arrive on the scene. Knowing that we’d have the hotel buttoned up tight in a matter of minutes, it wouldn’t take long for Elon to realize that his goose was cooked. He might be able to hide out for an hour or two, but eventually, he’d turn up. More than anything, I was worried about him taking a hostage. If he felt trapped, and he had enough time to roam the hotel, he might become desperate enough to try something stupid. Having him endanger an employee or another of our guests was the last thing I wanted.

  The two sergeants finally made it up to the tenth floor a few moments later, red-faced, wheezing, and sucking wind. We all exited into the hallway together.

  “Haze…” Grakowski gasp, “…you stay here…and watch the elevators. Make sure…he doesn’t double back.” He took another huge breath, “You take left…” he said to Mitts, “…I’ll take right.”

  And with that, off they charged, leaving me standing there on guard duty, never having asked why I wanted this person detained but acting upon my request nonetheless. Guess they felt they owed me after all those free meals.

  I could hear their footsteps fade as they pounded off down the hallways in either direction. As soon as they were gone, I saw Elon dart from a nearby vending machine nook and run in the opposite direction of where I stood.

  “Elon…wait!” I called after him, but he was around the corner and gone before I’d finished my words. “GROKOWSKI! MITTS!” I yelled, but I didn’t wait for them to return, taking off again after Elon.

  It took me just seconds to round the corner where Elon had vanished. I scanned the corridors around me but saw nothing. If he’d stayed in the hallway, I’d have seen him. I looked around me and saw the linen closet.

  “Bingo!” I breathed softly to myself.

  I unlocked the linen closet door with my M.O.D. floor master key. I assumed that Elon, as a member of security and having access to a key making machine, had likely manufactured or stolen a similar key for himself.

>   “Elon?” I said as I pushed the door open hesitantly with a foot.

  There was no response.

  Ready for anything, I flipped the closet light on.

  “Elon!” I called again. “The gig’s up!” I immediately felt like an idiot for spouting such a foolishly old-time phrase. To much listening to old radio shows I guess. “Come on out. The police will be here any second.”

  I looked around the room but saw no one. I figured he was probably hiding behind one of the shelving units or around, or even in, one of the carts.

  Keeping a wary eye out for any signs of movement, I began to walk slowly around the room. I could see that Elon wasn’t behind any of the shelves to my right, so I moved cautiously to where the room attendant and houseperson carts were lined up. First, I checked around the carts. Finding no one, I began going through the houseperson carts one by one, peeking inside and peering beneath any soiled linens to ensure that he wasn’t hiding beneath them. But there was no Elon.

  “Damn!” I hissed, confused as to where he could have gone.

  I turned around, heading back to the door. As I turned the handle to push my way out to the hallway and reached over to the wall on my right to flip off the light switch, I noticed that the linen chute door was opened about an inch. At the top of the door protruded a curled row of four fingers, gripping the edge of the steel door tightly.

  “Elon!” I cried, letting go of the door handle. “I see your hand! Come on out!”

  “I can’t!” he cried, his voice muffled inside the steel chute. “I’m loosing my grip. Please…help me!”

  He sounded scared, and I couldn’t say I blamed him.

  I couldn’t believe he’d be so stupid as to hide inside the chute, and even though I knew what he’d done to Derrick Statler, I didn’t hesitate to try to assist him. With lightening quick speed, I moved over to the linen chute door, but just as I grabbed hold of the handle and prepared to carefully pull the door open, the fingertips slid silently away and disappeared from view. A fraction of a second later, I heard fingernails scrabbling against metal, then silence, and the then the thumping bumping sound of arms, elbows and knees banging against the interior sides of the chute, the sounds rapidly descending away from me.