She flipped through a ledger on the shelf below the counter. “I don’t see any notes about a customer not paying his bill.”
“I’m betting that management isn’t going to insist on getting the money. He didn’t actually leave your fine establishment until this morning, and nobody was too anxious to hand him a bill.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. My coy approach had initially interested her but now she was getting impatient.
“The guest in room 162. I gather he checked out from this world sometime last night and the coroner’s office picked up his remains a few hours ago.”
“Oh, you mean that poor Mr. Odum.” She winced, and I could tell she was the sort of woman who had sympathy for everyone. The warmhearted sort who give quarters to bums hoping that this time they’d buy shoes rather than booze. Not really naïve, just too kind for this world. I softened my tone.
“It’s a tough thing to die away from home,” I commiserated.
“Oh yes. And it couldn’t have been easy for his student.”
“His student?”
“Yes, we’ve learned that Paul Odum was a professor at Berkeley. He was attending a conference on forests, along with one of his students. The poor boy woke up to find his teacher dead.”
“Helluva wakeup call.” I caught myself and added, “Must’ve really rattled the kid. I suppose he headed back to school, eh?
“As a matter of fact, he’s in the lounge. Probably trying to steady his nerves until the cleanup people can give him his belongings from the room.”
“What’s his name?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions. I shouldn’t be giving out details if there’s something suspicious. I thought he’d just died in his sleep. Are you a private investigator?”
“Nothing like that. I’m not looking to make things messy for your hotel.” She scowled, and I immediately regretted my choice of words. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I gather you heard about the room.”
“Yes, it sounds terrible to die that way. He was a sickly man, so I suppose it won’t be too surprising for his family.”
“He had a family?”
“His wife lives in Berkeley. The manager was able to track her down from Mr. Odum’s registration form. Of course, we let the police inform her of the death, but we needed an address to send his personal items.”
“Did she tell you that he’d been ill?”
“No, but he looked frail. You know, too thin. Even a bit gaunt. I think a man should be sturdy.” She looked approvingly at me, or so I imagined. “But the real tip-off was how he dealt with our housekeeping staff.”
“Needed everything spotless, eh?”
“Even more demanding in his own way. Mr. Odum made it clear that he was very sensitive to chemicals. He insisted that there could be absolutely no room deodorizer, that we remove all of our scented soaps, and that the maids could only use a cleaning solution that he brought with him.”
“Sounds like a challenging guest. He provided his own cleanser?”
“In fact, he gave housekeeping a bottle of it, and I know they did their best to comply. I heard that he left a five-dollar tip on the dresser every morning, which ensured that the maid provided custom service.”
“At least he was a generous crackpot.”
“Oh, don’t be cruel,” she said with a tone that reminded me of a Catholic school nun. “I’m sure he wasn’t well, and he was just trying to keep whatever health he had.”
“Sorry. I’m just a bit defensive given my line of work.”
“Well, there’re good reasons that exterminators aren’t the most popular people.”
“Until somebody finds cockroaches in the kitchen or termites in the walls. But how’d you know what I do?”
“Simple, silly. When I looked over the guest registry for the unpaid bill, I saw that you were paying the discounted rate we provided to the pest control convention.” Pretty and smart. I was really starting to enjoy Linda. “So what’s an exterminator care about one of our guests passing away in the night?” she continued.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it. But I’m working until six, and I see that you’re checking out today.”
“I’d love to take you to dinner, but I have to head back to San Francisco.”
“I understand. I’m sure I’d enjoy your company, though I’m certain I wouldn’t get your real story.”
“So, you’re okay with deception?”
“If I restricted my interests to truthful men, I might as well be a nun.” It was like she could read my mind. Interesting but a little unnerving. “Your type I can handle.”
“My type?”
“The mysterious sort. I prefer a man who won’t answer my questions to one who lies. Evasion is fair game.”
“You’d be seen in public with an exterminator with a mug like mine? Hardly a classy date.”
“Give me a real man with a real face, who does actual work, over the fakes in this city. I can’t tell you how many stars of tomorrow with hair plugs from last month there are around here. Their only roles have been pretending to be actors.” Linda was my kind of woman. Not a bimbo you’d display like a Rolex, but one that’d drink a beer with you on the back deck while you flipped burgers. The sort I’d never managed to find.
“I don’t make it down here often, but now I have a reason to come back sooner than usual.”
She smiled and jotted her phone number inside a matchbook from the hotel. Her fingers brushed my palm when she handed it to me.
I was disappointed to be missing dinner with Linda, but there was also a sense of relief. She probably would’ve managed to get my real story between her wistful brown eyes, some tender touches stolen during the meal, and a few drinks. I’d learned that while women don’t find exterminators to be sexy, we’re a notch above ex-cops. And being both was a losing formula.
I felt like I needed to get back to Goat Hill Extermination, although I knew that Carol and the guys could have kept things running for a month without my help. In fact, they were probably more productive without my meddling—except for the new technician, who needed either a kick in the butt or a pat on the back, and I’d not figured out which. But there was one last piece of business in LA. I needed to have a chat with Professor Odum’s student—and perhaps one last visit with the velvety Mr. Jameson.
CHAPTER 6
I headed across the sunlit lobby and into the lounge. After the plunge into relative darkness, it took me a minute to make out the people in the room well enough to search for my mark. I quickly dismissed the customers at the tables, as they were all in some greater or lesser stage of graying. There were a couple of younger men at the near end of the bar, but they were dressed too snappily to be university students. As my eyes continued to adjust, down the way I could see a buxom blonde in a tight skirt being pawed by a middle-aged fellow with a bad comb-over. I could tell she had what he wanted, and I presumed he had something she desired. Most likely money or an audition. I took a few steps into the room and saw a fellow hunched over his beer at the far end of the bar. He had unruly, curly hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his prominent nose. Skinny arms that had never lifted much more than a college textbook poked out from a polyester shirt that looked like a collision between a truckload of bamboo and a busload of pandas. He didn’t look to be much older than a good whiskey. This had to be my boy.
I took the barstool next to him and caught the barkeep’s eye. He reached under the bar and gestured toward me with the bottle of Jameson. Carol was going to give me hell when she saw the bar tab on my travel account, but I nodded and said, “Pour me a short one, and pull another pint for my pal here.” The kid looked sideways like he’d just woken up, confused and suspicious. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m just buying a beer for somebody who looks like he’s hit bottom.”
“Uh, thanks,” he muttered and drained the beer he’d been working on. The bartender brought our fresh drinks, and I raise
d my glass.
“As we Irish say, ‘To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.’” He started to raise his glass and then stopped as if suddenly realizing where he was.
“How do you know about Professor Odum?”
“First, we honor your friend.” I lifted my glass to eye level and he followed suit. When we’d both had a good drink, I set mine on the bar and turned to look at him. He looked scared and lost, and I felt sorry for him. I knew his kind, the sort who got beaten up in school for being smart. He sure didn’t look like anyone who’d had much experience with death. “Kid,” I explained, “in a hotel, two things are sure to spread: cockroaches and rumors. Now being an exterminator, I’m something of an expert when it comes to roaches. As for rumors, I suppose that’s more your department at the moment.”
“Christ, I didn’t think everyone would find out,” he sighed. “But I suppose with so many people, it’s hard to keep things private.”
“That it is,” I commiserated and took another sip. “Maybe it’s true what they say: God made whiskey to keep the Irish from conquering the world. If you ask me, we got the better end of that deal. The world’s a mess.”
“So, what’s your interest in Professor Odum? Just morbid curiosity?” The kid wasn’t softening up much, but at least he was talking.
“Worse than that.”
“How so? You some sort of investigator? I already told the cops all I know.”
“Relax, kid. We’re sort of in the same line of work.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, I’m an exterminator from San Francisco and I hear you’re a student here for that conference on forests. So we’re both into the whole nature thing, eh?”
“I’m working on a master’s in ecology. You make a living poisoning the world.” He’d gone from impassive to testy, which at least meant he was coming out of his funk. “My research involves protecting species, not killing them. We’re hardly in the same field.” He took a long pull on his beer and stared at the rows of bottles behind the bar.
“Fair enough. But a good killer knows his mark. The Orkin boys are nozzle heads, but we small operators have to know what’s going on with the insects. We can’t afford to spray and pray. Gotta be a smart ecologist to stay in business.”
He was quiet for a few seconds and then half-turned back toward me. “What’s any of this have to do with Professor Odum?”
“Let’s start over, and then I’ll explain. I’m Riley,” I said, extending my hand.
“Howard,” he replied. “Howard Clements.” We shook hands. His grip was strong for a kid with such skinny arms, but the softness of his skin suggested he’d spent most of his life working with his head rather than his hands. “Is Riley your first or last name?”
“Long story. It’s the only name I use, except on legal papers.”
“The cleanup crew isn’t supposed to bring my things to the front desk until three o’clock. I could use a good story to distract me.”
“Can’t say it’s a good story. It’s just mine. My parents emigrated from Ireland. County Sligo, if that means anything.” It didn’t. “My father had been a peat cutter back home, and there wasn’t much demand for that skill in America. So he joined the army. Before I was born, he and my mother moved all the time. Fort Hood, Fort Dix, and even Fort Riley in Kansas, where he met Joe Louis.” The kid looked perplexed. “The boxer,” I explained.
“Ah, right.” Howard nodded as if he understood. Anything earlier than 1960 was ancient history these days.
“They settled in San Francisco when I was born. The Potrero neighborhood had lots of immigrant families, although my folks didn’t know a soul when they arrived. But when you’re in the military, your fellow soldiers are like family. One of my father’s closest friends was a Russian immigrant named Vladimir. Turns out the Russians and Irish have one thing in common.”
“And that would be?” Howard asked. I lifted my glass in a mock toast, drained it, set it on the bar, and gestured for a refill. Howard nodded again. This time he understood.
“Both people are fighters—more with fists than guns, but the two of them fought on Guadalcanal. Vlad took a bullet to the throat and drowned in his own blood while my father held him. So to honor his friend, he gave me the middle name of Vladimir.”
“What about your first name?”
“Not much better. My grandfather’s name was Cedric. A fine name in the old country, but not much of a name to avoid fights at school. Can you imagine telling kids that your name is Cedric Vladimir Riley?”
Howard laughed softly and shook his head. “Just like the Johnny Cash song.”
“How’s that?” Now it was my turn to be confused, being studiously uninterested in pop music.
“You know, ‘A Boy Named Sue.’ The song about the boy whose father gave him a girl’s name to make sure he grew up tough.”
“Yeah, well I got into plenty of fights without being named Cedric or Sue. For a while I went by C. V., but people kept asking what the letters stood for. So I started going with just plain ‘Riley.’ Keeps things simple.”
“How’d you end up as an exterminator in San Francisco?”
I wasn’t about to tell him about my days on the force. So I gave my father’s side of the story. After catching some shrapnel in his knee on Guadalcanal, he was transferred from fighting the Japs to battling mosquitoes. He loved to tell the story about Douglas MacArthur declaring that for every division fighting the enemy, there were two divisions in the hospital with malaria. So the guys who sprayed DDT across the tropical islands probably saved as many soldiers as the enemy killed.
After the war, he’d been stationed at the Presidio for advanced training. The Army’s 406th Medical Unit was responsible for sanitation and hygiene in the Korean War. He learned everything there was to know about getting rid of vermin—rats, mice, flies, fleas, mosquitoes. The whole lot.
I finished my autobiography by telling Howard, “With all that training, when my father decided not to re-enlist it just seemed natural to start an extermination business. He always said that you had to go with your strengths, and he knew how to kill pests. And when he died, I took over the company.” The kid was now looking comfortable, so it was time to change settings and topics.
CHAPTER 7
The sun was painfully bright, with the haze turning the afternoon into glaring whiteness. Howard and I took our drinks to the patio that extended out from the lobby into the manicured lawn. The air was hot, with a sticky wetness lingering from yesterday’s rain. The lounge had been getting too crowded for the conversation I was hoping to have with the kid. We’d almost had the place to ourselves when the retirees headed off for their naps, and after the comb-over stud put a twenty on the bar with one hand while caressing the dame’s curvaceous rear with the other, heading off to their tryst. But within minutes, they’d been replaced by a group of conventioneers wearing “Hi, I’m _____” name tags, so I suggested we catch some of LA’s acclaimed sunshine.
I’m not one for slow roasting, so we sat in the shade provided by a hedge running along one side of the patio. The other chairs and tables were in the sun, and apparently none of the hotel guests were willing to risk second-degree burns from the scalding wrought iron. With some space around us, Howard seemed to relax. It probably didn’t hurt that I’d ordered him another beer. I could’ve solved cases a lot easier if there’d been beer on tap in the interrogation room.
Howard was evidently no longer worried that I was a private eye, but not only that, I got the sense that the trauma had him looking for some sort of parental figure. I’m thirty-three, but most people add some years to account for the cocked nose I’d gotten from a rookie mistake on the streets, the crow’s feet I’d inherited from my mother, and the premature gray around my temples that I’d received from my father. I had to be careful not to move too fast with our little chat, but I didn’t have all day.
“So kid, that’s the life and times of C. V. Riley, but it doesn’t explai
n why I’m interested in what happened to your professor.”
“Yeah, I was wondering when we’d get back to that.” He sounded resigned but not terribly suspicious.
“Turns out I’m thinking about expanding my business. Extermination is profitable, but there’s good money in cleaning up after a death. Sounds pretty awful, but it’s a real public service.”
“So the hotel has you cleaning up the room where Professor Odum and I were staying?”
“Not quite. I was here for a convention of pest control operators.” As much as I hated that euphemism, I thought the term might be more acceptable to Howard. “But I have a pal who provides cleanup services in LA. I was just checking out the scene to get a sense of the challenges, if you know what I mean.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“Death isn’t a pretty thing.” We both took a long drink. When the silence became a strain I figured it was time to press. As a detective, I’d learned when to push and when to back off with a witness. In retrospect, the whole “cleanup services” gimmick wasn’t a great lie, but Howard had that sort of look about him that suggested he’d really like to tell his story to a pal—or at least somebody other than an authority figure. There’s a good reason we say a guy “spills his guts” during an interrogation. It’s just like puking—unpleasant if you focus on the moment, but deeply relieving once it’s over.
“So Howard,” I began, “I can see that you’d rather not recount the last few hours. But I need to know what’s in store if I get into this side of the business. You know, the big picture. And maybe it’d do you some good to lay it all out there for a fellow biologist.” I winked, letting him know that I didn’t really think we were both scientists.
“Okay,” he said, taking a long pull on his beer. “What the hell. The whole thing might as well help somebody.” He explained that he was one of the professor’s graduate students. They were working on some project involving regrowing forests after they’d been chopped down. It was all much more complicated, but that seemed to be the upshot. The two of them were attending an international conference of scientists who studied agricultural and forestry practices of indigenous people. He was hoping to gain some ideas that he might apply to his own project, which involved restoring native forests in northern California. I managed to nod at appropriate times throughout his rambling story while gently moving things along to the professor’s death.
Poisoned Justice Page 4