Weed shakes his head and pulls out a pen and a folded piece of paper. He starts scribbling little notes to himself. “Okay, so who do I have to talk to from this outfit?”
I’m finding it difficult to make my brain work, but Weed is a patient guy. “Dan and Arnie, that’s Dan Howard and Arnold McKellar. And Gritch when he wakes up, and the people who were at the party down the hall. I can remember some of them. Washburn is the name of one of the musicians. The sister, Molly MacKay. Let’s see, Phil Marsden from room service was in once at least. Maurice the bell captain carried Buznardo’s bags. Oh, yeah, his lawyer, Neagle…”
“Alvin Neagle, the legal beagle? My, my.”
“Won the case.”
“Anybody else?”
“There was a man named Axelrode around for a while. He ran out on his bar tab.”
“That’s a different squad.”
“No, he was up here. He was all over, giving Margo a hard time about security arrangements, nosing around my guys. He was up to something.”
“Big guy? Almost as tall as you? Cop moustache, big chest, big gut?”
“He was carrying a gun.”
“Was he now? That definitely puts a star next to his name.”
“I want to talk to him. Personally.”
“If he’s involved in this thing, you steer clear,” Weed says.
“This is an unrelated matter. He assaulted one of the bar staff.”
“File a complaint.”
“I’d rather complain in person,” I say.
“Anybody else?”
“There’s a TV reporter in the hotel. Connie Gagliardi.”
“The cute one from Channel 20 with the curly black hair?”
“That’s her. She was trying to get an interview. I don’t know if she got lucky.” All this thinking is making my head hurt. I allow myself a restrained moan. “I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“Hey,” Weed says, “you’re lucky one of you guys didn’t get killed. This was one determined shooter. Drugged your partner, sandbagged you, put five shots into somebody staring straight at him, and got out of the place with a quarter of a million in cash.”
“Could have been a team maybe.”
“Maybe.”
“Seems dumb to me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I mean, two hundred and fifty thousand is a lot of cash, but this man was worth more than half a billion. And they wouldn’t have had to kill him for the suitcase, anyway. He said if somebody wanted it bad enough to steal it, they were welcome to it. I’m serious. He was planning on giving it all away. The whole six hundred million and change.”
“And he said that out loud?”
“He made no secret of it.”
“I bet some people wouldn’t want that to happen.”
“I should call Margo, see how she wants to handle things for the hotel. Check on Gritch.”
“Listen, don’t be an idiot. You’ve got a concussion. You look like shit. Go see a doctor pretty quick.”
“I’m okay,” I say. But I’m lying. I feel like he said.
Weed leaves to check on his investigators, and I call down to the front desk. Margo has arrived. I can hear a woman crying in the background.
“Joe? He’s really dead?”
“Yes, yes, he’s dead, Margo. I’m sorry.”
“And Mr. Gritchfield?”
“I think he’s fine. It looks like somebody drugged his coffee.”
“Or he was drinking.”
“No, he wasn’t drinking.”
“And the money?”
“It’s all gone.”
“What a mess. Lloyd’s going to be so pleased with me. He won’t take another vacation for ten more years.”
“Margo, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I don’t know about fault, but I sure as hell know it was my responsibility.”
“Is there anyone with Molly MacKay?”
“Yes, there’s a policewoman sitting with her. What’s happening up there?”
“Investigation. They’ll take their time. It could be a while before they move the body.”
“I’ve got to go and find rooms for all the guests at that end of fifteen. Some of them want a different hotel, some of them want to be comped for tonight. Call me with any news.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, Lord, Joe, I completely forgot about you, Raymond says you were knocked out.”
“I’m okay.”
“You have to see a doctor.”
“Soon as they finish with me.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, you bet. I’ll get checked out when I go down to Vancouver General to see about Gritch. I’m fine. Really.”
All that lying. What a tough guy. I don’t feel fine. I have a monster headache. I keep shuffling around 1507, shrugging my shoulders as if I’m throwing shadow punches, scuffing the carpet, building up enough static to give myself a shock when I open the bathroom door. The face in the mirror is looking old this morning. I splash cold water on it and hold a wet washcloth to the back of my head. The lump has topped out at walnut size.
Weed comes back into the room as I’m coming out of the bathroom. “You still look like shit, only now you’re wet.”
“You move him out yet?”
“Nope. Still taking pictures.”
“Want me to have a look? I was in there earlier. I might see something.”
“Can you walk?”
“Better than I can lie down.”
Weed escorts me down the hall to 1502–1504 and announces our entrance.
“Coming through. Give us a little room. Wounded man here.”
Buzz has been covered up.
“There was a Samsonite attaché case behind the couch,” I say.
“Nope,” Weed says.
“Maybe he moved it into the bedroom.”
“Nope.”
“It had two hundred and forty thousand dollars in it. And maybe another nine thousand on the desk, give or take. He was handing out hundred-dollar tips. Don’t know how many, but they all came from a new stack. They were fanned out right here.”
“Also gone,” Weed says. “Who knew he had that much cash?”
“Practically