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Authors: Kenneth L. Levinson

Tags: #Mystery, #Murder - Investigation, #writing, #Colorado

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BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
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"I see," Upton said. "Thank you for your time."

"Well, that was a dead end," Rena commented as they retreated.

"Maybe so, but there's still another possibility. Cameron probably thought of it, too, but
let's check it out, just in case." He permitted himself a smile. "I'd love to beat him to the
punch."

He led her toward the hotel restaurant. A sign said, "Closed. Will re-open at 5:00."
Upton ignored it and stepped past. Together, they weaved their way through the unoccupied
dining room, headed toward the kitchen.

"I don't get it," Rena said.

He pushed the door open on what appeared to be organized chaos as the chefs scurried
around, in the early stages of preparing for the CFWA awards banquet.

"You will." Upton caught the first person he spotted. "Excuse me. I'm trying to find one
of the waitresses who served breakfast this morning."

The man shrugged helplessly, to indicate that he didn't understand what Upton was
asking.

Rena stepped forward. "
�Habla usted Espanol?
"

The man's face brightened. "

."

She smiled and translated Upton's question. "
Buscamos una persona quien servio el
desayuno hoy dia.
"

The cook pointed toward a counter at the rear of the kitchen, where two women were
busy refilling ketchup bottles and salt-and-pepper shakers, and said something Upton didn't
understand.

"
Gracias.
" Rena said. She turned to Upton. "Those two in back. He says they're
the only ones who made it in today."

"Nice work. I didn't know you spoke Spanish."

"I had six years of it. All though middle school and high school. At the time, I thought it
was useless. Later it helped me when I was working as an RN."

"No knowledge is ever useless." Upton said. "Do you want to do the honors?"

"Thanks." She called out across the room, "Excuse me, can I talk to you for a
minute?"

The two women turned to see who was beckoning them. The larger one looked
Hispanic.

Rena said, "Do you speak English?"

"Of course I do," the big-boned woman answered indignantly. "This is America. And I'm
an American."

Upton held up a photograph. "Do you know this man? We're trying to--"

She turned to her companion. "See, I told you!"

"Told her what?" Upton asked.

"He had breakfast in the dining room this morning. I told her something was not
right."

"I take it, there was something strange about him?"

The other woman had dark smooth skin. "Not him. The person he was with. It was so
strange!"

"Strange in what way?"

"This other person, I say it was a woman. Delores says--" She gestured to indicate the
other waitress. "--she says it was not a woman."

"What did this person look like?"

"Black hair. Like something for Halloween."

Dolores added, "And a big black moustache." She stretched her fingers under her nose.
"Like Pancho Villa."

"Doesn't that mean a man?"

The dark-skinned woman insisted, "The moustache didn't look real."

"Did you notice anything unusual other than the black hair and moustache?"

"Nothing," said Dolores. Her companion nodded in agreement.

"What was this person wearing?"

"An overcoat," Delores answered.

The other woman said, "She kept it closed tight around her, so her body was all covered
up. And the wig was so big, you could only see part of the face. That's why I say it was a woman.
She was trying to hide her face."

"It was a man," Delores insisted.

Upton decided to play a hunch. "Was this coat, by any chance, light brown, with a stain
on the right shoulder?"

"That sounds right," Delores said. "Although I can't say about a stain. I didn't notice one
way or another."

"You think it was Randy's Callahan's overcoat? The one that was found..." Rena
said.

"That would be my guess."

"Of course, that doesn't mean Randy was wearing it at breakfast."

"No," Upton agreed. "But I'd sure love to know if my hat was stuffed in one of the
pockets. Tell me," he asked the two waitresses, "How did the two men pay for their
breakfast?"

Delores answered, "Not cash. I think the man in the picture charged it to his room."

"How could we find out?"

"You'd have to ask the cashier. Her name is Julie."

"Where do we find her?"

"Who knows? On Saturday, she goes home at one. And I have no idea where she
lives."

Upton said, "Yeah, but with this storm, she might be stranded here at the hotel. Do you
have any idea where she'd hang out if she was still here?"

The women answered in one voice. "The bar."

"Thank you. We'll go see if we can find her. One more thing, Has anyone else asked
about this man?"

"Not to me," Delores said.

"Or to me."

"Ha!" he told Rena, "This time, it looks like we're one step ahead of Cameron. Tell me,
ladies, what does this Julie look like?"

* * * *

Upton spotted Randy Callahan and Ashley Wade as he entered the bar. They were at a
table at the far end of the room, staring at the television suspended from a corner of the ceiling.
Each had a drink in front of him. He decided that the lone woman seated at the bar must be his
quarry. She looked to be in her fifties, with bleached blonde hair.

"Excuse me, is your name Julie?"

She took a sip from the salt-rimmed glass in her hand. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Arthur Upton. This is Rena Oberhaus. We're here with the fiction writers
convention."

"How nice," she said without bothering to look up. "How do you know my name?"

"You were the cashier on duty in the restaurant this morning."

She stiffened and faced him. "Is there a problem?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. We're trying to find out about a man who had breakfast there
this morning."

"Why?"

"Something has happened to him, Julie. Something serious. We're trying to help him.
But we don't know who he is."

"So what do you want from me? I'm off duty."

"We want you to look through your records from this morning's breakfast. One of the
waitresses told us he was seated at table seventeen. He would have been in the restaurant some
time before 9:30."

She took a healthy gulp of her drink. "I'll have to ask my boss if it's okay."

"Mr. Forrest?"

"No way. He's two levels above my boss. I keep away from the high mucky-mucks." She
stared at Upton. "This sounds serious."

"It is," he assured her, "Mr. Forrest knows what this is all about. Why don't we go talk to
your supervisor?"

She glanced meaningfully down toward her half-empty glass. "Not till I finish my drink.
Like I said, I'm off duty."

"Later. Julie, if you can help us identify this man, I'll buy you all the drinks you can
hold."

"I can hold a lot of margaritas," she cautioned him, looking him up and down with an
appraising eye. "And I don't like drinking alone."

* * * *

It took Julie less than fifteen minutes to identify the man.

She stood at the cashier's desk, squinting at the signature line of the receipt she had
pulled from the stack in front of her. "It looks like Johnson. Robert Johnson."

Upton was looking over her shoulder. She was right. The name was unmistakable.

The dead man was named Robert Johnson.

And he had paid for his breakfast at 7:38.

"Do you remember anything about him?" Upton said.

"Sorry. I don't."

"What about the person who was with him? The two waitresses seem to disagree
whether it was a man or a woman."

She made a face. "What?"

Upton explained, "Evidently, he--or she--was wearing a Halloween wig and a thick
moustache."

"I don't remember anything like that. Is this some kind of joke?"

"Maybe," Upton answered, "But if so, it's a damned sick one. This man, Robert Johnson,
was murdered in the Aspen Room this morning."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Upton and Rena found Cameron in the hallway around the corner from the registration
table. The Detective was just finishing a conversation on his cell phone.

When he was done, Upton approached with a victorious smile. "I've got something for
you."

"I've been looking for you. We need to talk."

"We've commandeered the honeymoon suite. That's a good place for a private
conversation."

"That works. Ms. Oberhaus, I'm afraid I need to speak with Mr. Upton alone. Do you
mind?"

"That's fine,'" she said, her tone indicating it wasn't. "I need to check on some things,
anyway." She opened her mouth as though intending to tell Upton something, but said
nothing.

Upton patted her on the arm. "Let me know what the Ridgeway woman has to say. The
more I think about this, I think I'd prefer to have her meet with the entire board and not just me.
As soon as possible." He smiled. "Please?"

She returned the smile and left them.

Upton pressed the UP elevator button. He and Cameron waited in silence. He didn't
bother guessing what the detective wanted to talk about; he figured he'd find out soon
enough.

Once in the suite he took his place in the familiar captain's chair.

"I've been checking you out," Cameron said, taking another chair. "It took a while, but I
managed to get in touch with the Nineteenth Precinct. I had to wait while they pulled their
personnel records, to see if anyone named Arthur Upton had ever been a cop in mid-town
Manhattan."

"And?"

Cameron smiled wryly. "Someone named Mad Dog said to tell you hello. Actually, he
said something I refuse to repeat."

Upton laughed, as the image of his muscle-bound ex-partner came to mind. "I can
understand why. Mad Dog. Man, I had no idea he was still around. I haven't thought about him in
years."

"So you really were a cop." Cameron leaned back and stretched his legs out. "Apparently
a pretty good one."

"I was, if I can say so myself. I quit a little while after the Supreme Court handed down
the
Miranda
case. I got tired of watching punks get away with murder. Sometimes
literally. My wife and I decided to come out to Colorado." His eyes became misty. "She died
nearly a year ago."

"I'm sorry," Cameron said. "That's tough."

"It's been a struggle. I figured out early on that life has to go on. I just can't get used to
the fact that I have to do it alone. But that's not what we're here to talk about." He grinned. "I
think I've identified the victim."

"You have? Let's hear it."

" I figured he was staying at the hotel, but I struck out with the desk clerk. Apparently
you'd already had the same notion. But then it occurred to me that maybe he had breakfast here at
the hotel."

"I was going to check into that after I got off the phone," Cameron said, "but I decided to
check you out first. I could use some extra manpower. So he ate here?"

"He did. And he didn't eat alone. He was accompanied by someone wearing a black
fright wig and a fake moustache."

Cameron narrowed his eyes. "You're kidding, right?"

"This is on the level, Cameron. Two waitresses both saw the same thing. They disagree
as to whether it was a man or woman, but they both verify the wig and phony moustache. I've got
their names for you."

"This just keeps getting stranger and stranger, doesn't it?" Cameron sighed. "Go
on."

"The victim paid the check and charged it to his room. The cashier didn't notice the
person in the wig and moustache. It sounds like he or she had already left, or else left while the
victim was paying for breakfast. I have no idea where they went after that, except that he ended
up on the floor of the Aspen Room. But I got the cashier to pull her morning receipts. The man's
name was Robert Johnson."

Cameron made a sour face. "Robert Johnson?"

"I'm afraid so. Needle in a haystack. Too bad his name wasn't Rumpelstiltskin or
something."

"Robert Johnson," Cameron muttered in disgust. "Have you done anything else?"

"I thought I ought to pass it on to you and let you do the follow-up. I assume you'll want
to look at his room."

"I appreciate that, and yes, I will. I'll also have the desk clerk pull Johnson's registration
card. It ought to provide more information about him."

"Meanwhile, I'll start poking around the hotel," Upton said. "Assuming the killer is the
one who was wearing the wig and moustache, he--or she--must have stashed them somewhere. If
I were the perp, I wouldn't have left them in my room. "

Cameron thought it over. "Makes sense. Let's meet downstairs in half an hour."

"Will do," Upton said, rising to his feet. "By the way there's something else you need to
know about."

"What's that?"

"I started asking everybody if they knew the victim and whether they noticed anything in
the Aspen Room this morning."

"Somebody saw something?"

"No. At least, not that they're admitting. But one of the names stuck out like a sore
thumb. It seemed like an odd coincidence, so I followed up with him. His name is Brady
Cameron."

Cameron swallowed hard. "Brady? He's here?"

"It's none of my business, but I gathered from talking to him that the two of you aren't
close."

"He lives with his mother. My first wife. We've been divorced for six years. The kid's
been in and out of trouble ever since."

"I'm sorry," Upton said.

"Thanks. As a cop, I can't condone the things he's done. He refuses to understand
that."

"Tough situation."

"Yeah," Cameron replied. "And it's not going to get any better."

Upton said, "It sure seems like an odd coincidence, his being here at the same
convention where his father is a speaker. And where someone gets murdered."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. But I know for a fact that the names of all the presenters were listed in the
convention brochure. If Brady read that brochure, then he knew you were going to be here."

BOOK: An Unconventional Murder
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