“King-sized bed, non-smoking.”
“Aren’t all rooms non-smoking now?”
“The system was designed before the law passed and hasn’t been updated.”
The detective nodded. “Where it says, ‘Group’ here,” he pointed, “it lists ‘R & T’. What’s that?”
I pulled open the top drawer of a small metal file cabinet beside my desk and fished out last week’s group resume packet. It was alphabetical, so R & T was one of the last groups listed in the packet.
“I’ll need a copy of that,” Detective Marino said as he peered over my shoulder.
“Sure thing,” I nodded.
“They’re a plumbing supply company we had in house over the last week. They had a block of 67 rooms. Checked in Tuesday the 24th and most were due to checkout Sunday…today. They had a few early checkouts, one of which it appears to be 11-121. But it wasn’t…”
“It wasn’t what?” the detective asked.
That’s when it hit me.
“Ugh,” I groaned, smacking a hand against my forehead, “I can’t believe I didn’t realize. 11-121…that’s the discrep from last night.”
“Discrep?” the detective said, eyebrow raised, water bottle paused halfway to his mouth.
“Room discrepancy,” I shook my head, mad at myself for not making the connection sooner.
“Who called you about the murder?” I asked, swiveling in my chair to look at the detective.
“Your security department. Why?”
“That’s why they were up there so early,” I nodded.
“Said they had a message from a manager last night, whom I’m now assuming was you, to check the room,” the detective said.
I took a deep breath, “Yeah…that was me. The room was due to checkout yesterday, but didn’t. We didn’t catch the discrepancy in status until late last night during night audit, and calling a guest in the middle of the night to confirm that they’re staying over is frowned upon, so I advised security to check the room first thing in the morning to find out what was going on.
“In all the commotion this morning, I didn’t make the connection with this being the same room.”
“Understandable…” the detective said, “…I guess.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s not in your line of work, but…”
“Do you have the main company contacts on there?” he stopped me, pointing at the resume report.
“Well, the group VIPs are listed, as well as the group contact.”
“They had VIPs?”
“Not VIPs in the Hollywood sense. We’re talking hotel VIPs – the big wigs of the company – people who will do a whole lot of griping if their stay isn’t just so.”
“Gotcha,” the detective said. “Who are they?”
“Looks like we’ve got the company president, Alfred Svetski; vice president of operations, Henrick Jaharlsburg; vice president of marketing, John Polaski; vice president of research and development, Paul Gerhardt; and our dearly departed, Allen Doddsman who was the company controller.”
Detective Marino sighed and shook his head, as if he’d seen it all too many times before. “Ah yes, no one ever likes the guy who tells them the coffers have run dry or that their budget is being cut,” he said grimly. “I’ll need their room numbers,” he added. “They’re going to be extending their stays in your fine establishment for at least another day or two.”
“Rounding up the usual suspects, eh?” I turned back to my computer, “I’ll pull them up for you.”
“You don’t think I’d get sick do you?”
“What?” I said, swiveling back around in my chair, confused by the question.
“In the two-seater racecar. I always used to feel terrible after going on the tilt-a-whirl at the fair. All that spinning. I just don’t know how I’d do on the track making all those left hand turns at 200 miles an hour.”
I shrugged and turned back around. “All I know is that it was freakin’ awesome, although I almost had to raise the terror level.”
“Terror level?”
“The terror level in my pants…I almost had to raise it to code brown.”
He laughed and slapped me hard on the shoulder, “You’re all right, Haze. You’re all right.”
I printed off the rest of the information the detective had requested and handed him the copies.
“I’ll email all this stuff to you as well.”
“Great,” he said, handing me his card. “Email’s on there.”
“Let me know if there’s else I can do,” I said.
“Definitely. I’m sure we’ll be in contact. Now where is your housekeeping department?”
“25th floor. Want me to take you up there?”
“That’s okay; I’ll find it.”
I leaned back in my chair and watched him leave as I tried to collect my thoughts. My head was swimming as I sat sorting through the morning’s events.
Was I somehow responsible? Could I have done something differently? If I had called last night to check on him, would Mr. Doddsman still be alive? If housekeeping had cleared the discrep, would someone have made it to him in time?
They were tough questions; ones that I didn’t have answers to. I had followed procedure, but housekeeping hadn’t. There’d be hell to pay for that.
Suddenly I wondered if Doddsman might have a family.
Jesus, I hadn’t even thought to ask. I felt momentarily heartless, but then realized that in some ways it really wasn’t any of my business. That was Detective Marino’s job.
Not having close family of my own, it wasn’t something that immediately came to mind in such situations.
I turned back to my computer, opened my email, and began working on my incident report for Tom.
***
Nearly an hour later, I hit the “send” button on my email to shoot my completed report off to Tom, copying Steve in security on it. I sent another quick email to Detective Marino with all the attached documents I had promised and then printed hard copies for myself, Tom, and Steve.
I hadn’t heard anything back from poor old Tom since I’d sent him away from the crime scene. I figured he was probably hiding somewhere with his head in the sand. Steve was likely doing the same.
I knew Steve could handle this sort of situation, but he’d rather let me do it. Tom was another story altogether. I decided I’d better check on him, so I called him on my M.O.D. phone.
There was no answer.
He probably figured I needed something regarding the murder and wanted no part of it. I knew all old Tom’s hiding spots though.
I closed out my email and exited the front desk system to go search for him. On my way out, I stopped by Jason Altman’s office. Jason had been our front office director for several years now, and when I came on board at the hotel, he and I had quickly bonded.
Technically, Jason was my boss, and although several years my junior and far less experienced in the hotel setting, he had been wise enough to recognize that I had the upper hand when it came to hotel authority. In the hotel business, it wasn’t always about the position but about the experience and ability. And while Jason was in charge of the front office and had a personality few could deny was irresistibly charming, he wasn’t one that had a way with multitasking and putting out all the figurative hotel fires that continuously cropped up in a property this size. Jason worked his guest service magic with a smile so bright it’d knock the socks off a blind man, and he was able to talk his way out of just about any sort of responsibility-binding situation one could think of.
I have a feeling that something along the lines of “If someone else will deal with it, then let them,” may have been Jay’s personal motto.
I’d have to say though, he was probably my best friend…inside the hotel or out.
He was hard at work on a game of computer solitaire when I walked into his office.
“Hey Jay-man. What are you doing here on a Sunday?”
He obviously wasn’t working since he had selected
jeans and a sweater in place of his typical suit and tie.
“Heard something big happened this morning,” he said dragging the jack of clubs onto the queen of hearts. “Albert called and told me there were cops and paramedics all over the place so I wanted to get the dirt.”
He glanced up at me, “So what’s up? You’re always on top of this kind of stuff before I am.”
“Yeah, wonder why that is?” I said, walking over and taking his computer’s mouse away from him to put a three of spades onto a four of diamonds.
“I hear some guy bit it up on eleven this morning,” he pressed me.
“Looks like he was murdered,” I said, dragging an upturned ace of hearts out onto the board of play.
“Great, just what I need,” Jason huffed, his shoulders sagging. “Guests will be asking about it all day long when they come to check out. I’ll have to tell the staff to keep their yaps shut.”
“Red eight will play on your black seven, and your two of heart will play on the ace,” I said, relinquishing control of the mouse.
He made the moves.
I decided to have a little fun with him.
“Room was a discrep from yesterday.”
“What!” he cried, almost knocking the mouse off his desk.
“Yep,” I nodded solemnly.
“Not on our end I hope,” he said.
The worry that he might actually have to carry through with some sort of disciplinary action was now evident.
Jason was not a confrontational person. What was the phrase? “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” Well that was Jason.
“Yeah,” I shook my head. “One of the morning desk agents forgot to extend the stay after housekeeping called it down.”
“Ugh,” he moaned as he sank down in his chair. “Who was it?” Then he saw it on my face. “You’re screwin’ with me?” he gave me an Elvis-lipped sneer.
“Yeah, I’m screwin’ with you. It was a discrep, but it looks like it was on the housekeeping side.”
He popped up in his chair and went back to his game. “Thank god!” he breathed, sounding relieved.
“Well, I can tell you’re real broken up about this bad news and all, so I’ll let you get back to your grieving process for our dearly departed guest.”
“Uh huh,” he mumbled. Then he looked up suddenly. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the big news.”
“What’s the big news?” I asked, shaking my head at his youthful disregard for human life.
“You’ll never believe it,” he beamed. “I convinced Tom that the desk agents were too stressed out by all the groups that we’ve had in house lately. He agreed to let me turn Haskin’s old office into an employee lounge.”
“That’s cool, I guess. Seven of hearts will play,” I said, tapping his computer’s screen with a finger.
I really didn’t see what the big deal was. We’d kind of made the space into a makeshift lounge already, but if he was happy, then that was good.
“No,” he said, “that’s not the big news. The BIG news is that he let me buy some arcade games and a soda machine to furnish it with.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, tilting my head back in stunned disbelief.
“No, I’m not. I’ve got some awesome old-school 80s-era vintage games that I haven’t played in years being delivered tomorrow.”
“Great,” I huffed. “I hope you realize that you just made our job of motivating the staff to get some work done around here five times harder.”
“No way, dude! They’re gonna be so jacked up on video game adrenaline and caffeine that they’ll be churning and burning check-ins and checkouts like crazy. It’ll be awesome!”
“If you say so,” I sighed.
“Aw, come on. Get excited! This is gonna be great. Just wait. You’ll see. Front desk morale and productivity will shoot through the roof. I mean, what better way for the agents to spend their fifteen minute breaks than by relieving some stress shooting alien invaders and blasting some asteroids on a sugar high?”
“We’ll see,” I said shaking my head. “I hope you’re right, but I see some potentially huge distraction issues in the making.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep them on task.”
“I’m not worried about them,” I laughed, “I’m worried about you!”
He gave me a “Who me?” look and waved me aside with a hand.
“Anyway,” I said, “you want to meet up this afternoon to watch the game?”
“Hell yeah! Where at?”
“I was thinking the Navigator Club.”
He sighed. “Dude, do you ever leave the hotel?”
“No, why would I? Are my food and drinks comped anywhere else in downtown Chicago?”
He considered; then shrugged, “Good point. So I guess you’re buying?” he perked up.
“Sure. I’ll put it on my tab. They know where I live. Three-thirty sound good? Game starts at four and I want to get a good seat close to one of the big flat-screens.”
“See you then,” he said, as he refocused his attention on more important matters, like the cascading playing cards bouncing across his computer screen, indicating that he was indeed victor of his solitaire game.
***
After checking a few other food-oriented locations, I finally found Tom sulking in his office.
I was surprised since this wasn’t one of his usual hideouts during a crisis. Typically, I’d find him “inspecting” one of the pastry kitchens or lurking near one of the hotel’s many walk-in refrigerators or pantries.
He was sitting slumped at his huge, heavily-varnished oak desk. His elbows helped prop his sloppy jowls over one of the Boardwalk Cafe’s cinnamon rolls in which he appeared to be smothering his sorrows.
“Hey there, Tom!” I said as cheerily as I could.
He looked up, a sticky glob of white icing from the roll clung to his chin like a tiny alpine climber.
“Oh…Robert. Sorry I haven’t answered my phone…I…I…I just don’t like things like this.”
He crammed a huge chunk of cinnamon roll into his mouth, dislodging the alpine climber and sending him plummeting to his demise somewhere far below within the crevices of Tom’s pants.
Tom’s entire office was a veritable hidey-hole of sweet treats. He stashed them like a squirrel around the sprawling layout, often hunting for them throughout the course of his daily activities. It was a continuous Easter egg hunt for stashed edibles.
“This kind of thing just does something to my stomach,” he grumbled. “It used to not be so bad, but as I get older, it affects me more and more.”
He leaned his bulk over in his chair, and for a moment, I though he was going to capsize. Instead, he reached down to pull out a bottom desk drawer and began rummaging inside. Finally he found what he was looking for – a candy bar – righted himself, and began unfurling it from its crumpled wrapper. God only new how long it’d been down there.
Out of the blue, I said, “How did you get this position, Tom?”
I don’t know what prompted me to say it; and I didn’t mean any disrespect by it, but I just didn’t understand how or why Tom had ever landed in this role, and I was curious as to the story behind it.
He didn’t seem to take any offense to the question.
Already halfway through his candy bar before I finished the question, he paused, looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling, and then went back to his chomping.
He nodded. “Good question,” he said. “Very good question my boy.”
He crammed the rest of the candy bar into his craw.
“Well,” he gawed around his mouthful of chocolate and caramel, “I was working at the corporate office about twenty years ago. I was doing quality inspections for mid-sized and large hotels, so I got around quite a bit. Before then of course, I had managed a few hotels…nothing big mind you…all around the Midwest, so I had quite a few connections in this part of the country.”
He’d finally finished chewing his candy
bar and swiveled his chair around to dig a soda from the mini-fridge behind his desk.
“As you well know, Bobby my boy,” – he must have been feeling better since he’d started up with the nicknames again – “the hotel business is less about what you know and more about who you know. That’s how I fell into this job. I was up here in Chicago on a quality inspection of three major downtown properties. It just so happened that the general manager of the Lanigan at that time, Frank Gesparo, you might have heard of him, he was quite a character…”
I nodded. Tom had mentioned him many times before. The stories always seemed to end with him and Frank drunk and in some wildly untrue situation involving beautiful woman and high times.
“…well, old Frank had just passed away, and the corporate office asked me to stop in and hold down the fort here at the Lanigan until they could find a suitable replacement.”
Tom took a big swig of his soda and leaned back precariously in his oversized leather desk chair.
“Guess they either never found him or just plain forgot about me being here, because here I sit,” he slapped one arm of the chair heartily and laughed. “But that’s the way of the world isn’t it, Robbie? Just plain luck of the draw sometimes. That’s how old Tom here ended up as general manager of the world famous Lanigan Hotel,” he chortled, his massive form jiggling with delight.
“You just never know, do you?”
I shook my head. “Guess not, Tom.”
I tended to wonder how much of the story was true, but I didn’t really care. I just liked the fact that Tom could laugh at himself a little bit. It was a trait that I had found lacking in other GMs with whom I’d worked. Plus, I was really just looking for anything to take the old man’s mind off the events of the morning.
Tom took a deep breath and looked me dead in the eye. “How are we looking on everything from this morning?”
“Just fine, Tom. Don’t worry about it. I spoke with the detective, gave him all the information he needed, sent a full report to Steve, and I’ll be following up with the detective as soon as he’s got anything.”
“Good, good.” He seemed relieved. “You’re a good boy, Robert. You take good care of me.”
The Case of the Guest Who Stayed Over (The M.O.D. Files Book 1) Page 7