“Nope. Somebody was looking for something.”
Weed takes me back to 1507. I take the desk chair, which helps me sit straight.
“I’ve got to talk to those musicians,” Weed says. “What’s the name?”
“Redhorn,” I say. “Three guys, but there was a room visitors, other musicians, couple of suits —full of people from a record company, a big guy named Bubba, road manager for the group, four or five women. I didn’t get the ladies’ names, but three of them were singers on Redhorn’s latest album.”
“CD,” he says, as if he’s up-to-date on things.
“They played a tune from it, and the three women had their harmonies down like they’d done it before.”
“Backup singers?”
“I guess. They could sing.”
Weed checks his notebook and releases a long-suffering sigh. “Geez, look at this. Have I got a list or what? At least twenty people roaming around this floor last night that we know about.”
“It’s a hotel,” I say.
“Yeah, well, get your guys lined up so I don’t have to go looking for anybody. And anybody else from the hotel — room service, cleaning staff, I don’t know what all. You line ’em up and we’ll get around to them after I talk to Horndog.”
“Redhorn.”
“I knew that,” he says, walking off down the hall.
I’m about ready to get off this floor. When I get to the elevator, Connie Gagliardi is emerging. Her eyes are bright and she’s wearing makeup. The woman with the video camera is still following her. I can’t tell if she’s wearing makeup; she never takes the camera off her face.
“Ms. Gagliardi?” I say. “I’m Joe Grundy, hotel security. This floor is closed.”
“I just want a shot of the hall. Who’s in charge?”
“Sergeant Weed. I’m sure he’ll talk to you as soon as he knows anything.”
The camerawoman is taking my picture. I make a move to straighten my tie, but I’m wearing a damp sweatshirt, so I turn the reflex into a hair-straightening gesture and brush the bump on my head, which should make for a nice picture of a man trying not to wince.
“Can you confirm the identity of the deceased? Jake Buznardo?”
“I suppose I can do that.”
“He was shot?”
“Ms. Gagliardi, the police really want to keep this floor clear for a while. If you’ll wait downstairs, I’ll make sure they talk to you first.”
“Mr. Grundy,” she says, giving me a twenty-five-watt smile, “I have maybe a fifteen-minute head start on the other channels and you can’t guarantee me anything.”
Then she spots Weed coming down the hall from the other end, and she and the camera lose interest in me instantly. I figure I’ll let Weed deal with it and grab the elevator to the lobby. According to my old Rolex Skyrocket, it’s 6:16. I presume that’s a.m.
chapter eight
“Joe, I need you,” Margo says when I get down. “There’s a line of people halfway around the block. I think they’re all here for the money. You’re going to have to tell them there isn’t any.”
The uniformed cops at the entrance have been keeping the great unauthorized at bay, but there’s grumbling on both sides of the yellow tape when I get outside.
“We’ll get the horses down here if it gets any worse,” one uniform says. “Some of these guys are starting to get rowdy.”
There are about fifty people, mostly men, a lot of them street people, but I can see a few suits and some kids who should be getting ready for school. The sky is still dark. The streets are wet, but it’s not raining now, just damp and unfriendly on the sidewalk.
“Hundred-dollar bills in there.”
“Shot the fucker.”
“I just heard about it.”
“Everybody settle down,” the uniform in charge says. “There’s no hundred-dollar bills and there’s no free money. You just all head on home or wherever you’re going. There’s nothing to see, nobody’s getting inside. I’m serious. Let’s start breaking it up, people.”
“Not doing nothing, just standing on the sidewalk,” someone mutters. “Law against that now?”
Two camera trucks arrive. Channel 20 and Channel 13, competing local news specialists. A few flashes go off. The city papers are represented. I hear my name called and spot a grey fedora with a red feather in the band. A guy named Larry Gormé from the Emblem is waving his hat. He’s stuck on the edge of the mob. He really wants to talk to me. I give him a shrug and a complicated gesture that I hope conveys regret, a vague promise of personal attention at some unspecified later date, and an urgent need to be elsewhere. More uniforms arrive, and it looks as if things won’t get out of hand. It’s too damp and chilly for a riot. There’s no catalyst, the goose is dead, nothing left but gawking and grumbling. And picture-taking. Won’t be the most flattering images taken of the stately Lord Douglas facade.
Inside the lobby we have guest problems. At least ten people are checking out. The quality of the grumbling is more refined in here. It has a self-righteous tone and an undercurrent of recrimination. Someone in the party is a lawyer.
Margo is handling things pretty well, considering. She has Melanie locating other suites in the hotel, other hotels in the area. Raymond D’Aquino is still on duty, hearing complaints, adjusting bills. Lorraine, the hotel operator, is handling calls with her usual aplomb.
In Lloyd Gruber’s office, Margo takes a moment to look me up and down. “Can you shower? Can you put on a suit?”
“Right away. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“The police won’t let people check out until they’ve been questioned. Not just the people on fifteen, but anybody who’s checking out. And the cleaning staff want to get home, but they’re taking names, asking questions.”
“They have to.”
“Can you just put on a suit and take over some of that.”
“I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Joe?” She looks worried. “Did we do it? Somebody from the hotel? Please God say it wasn’t somebody on staff.”
“I’ll find out, Margo.”
“First put on a suit.” Then she slaps her forehead. “What am I thinking about? Go see a doctor. Immediately. You could have a concussion. You could suddenly fall over.”
I take Margo’s advice about the shower and the suit and I don’t fall over during either procedure. I’m even managing to tie a decent knot in my best tie when Dan comes in looking shaky, not well rested at all. He glances around as if expecting to see a bunch of cops.
“They drag you out of bed?” I ask.
“Seven-thirty. Pounding on the door.” He looks around. “Just you?”
“Gritch is in the hospital. He’s going to be okay. You already talk to Weed?”
“Weed, his partner, big-haired pain in the ass. He thinks I did it.”
“That’s just cops. They think everybody did it until they’re sure who did do it.”
“Yeah, well, they’re pretty sure I did it. Told me to sit tight in here. They’d get back to me. They like me for it.”
“Because