An Unconventional Murder (12 page)

Behind all of his anger, Brady felt a twinge of guilt. He had to admit, his dad really had
tried.
He
had been the one who messed up. But he forced it out of his mind and glanced
impatiently at his wristwatch.

Seven minutes to go.

His blood pulsed through his veins. He glanced again at the file folder clutched under his
arm. Inside were the first three chapters of his manuscript. In seven minutes he would be meeting
with a New York literary agent. They were like gods, with the power of life of death over a
writer's career. Second only to the editors themselves, they were the ones who rendered judgment
on your creations. If you caught their eye, if one of them loved your manuscript, you were
in.

If not...

He refused to think about that possibility. He glanced down at the card in his left hand.
Zachary Tuck
. He had repeated the name a dozen times, but he was still afraid he might
forget when he actually got inside.

Zachary Tuck.

This could be the beginning of a new future.

He looked again at his wristwatch.

Six minutes.

* * * *

Cameron knocked firmly on the door of room 415. Hearing nothing, he knocked again,
this time louder. He listened intently for any sign of activity, but there was none. He inserted the
plastic card into the slot and the green light flashed three times. Twisting the handle, he pushed
the door open.

"Is there anyone here?"

There was no answer.

Although he wasn't expecting any surprises, he entered the room cautiously, just the
same. No one was in the main bedroom area. He crossed over to the bathroom and peered inside.
Nobody there, either. He moved to the closet.

Completely empty.

Satisfied, Cameron set about his work.

There was an open suitcase on the stand in the corner. The bed was unmade. From the
way the covers were thrown aside, Cameron decided that only one person had been sleeping
there. A pair of pajamas was tossed carelessly on top of the suitcase. A woman would have
folded her things and put them away.

Were these the clothes of the man who lay strangled on the floor of the Aspen
Room?

Cameron studied the sparse collection of items on the dresser. There was no wallet. No
loose change. No room key. He made an inventory of the personal items, taking care not to touch
anything if he could avoid it. The only notable item was a hairbrush, which he slid into a plastic
baggie. With a little luck, the hair strands clinging to the brush would yield DNA to match the
dead man.

There was no sign of any struggle, and no indication that anyone but Johnson had
occupied the room. On a nightstand next to the bed was a three-ring binder, apparently some sort
of advertising packet. The cover page was emblazoned, "Proposal for Colorado Application
Technologies, Lakewood, Colorado" and, beneath that, "Johnson Network Consultants" and a
Walnut Creek address matching the one Cameron had seen on the hotel registration card.

He thumbed through the binder. The multicolored dividers behind the title sheet were
marked "Who We Are"; "Proposal"; "Specifications"; and "Pricing." He made a note on his legal
pad to contact Colorado Application Technologies. Possibly they could provide more
information about the unfortunate Robert Johnson. It occurred to Cameron that, for all he knew,
someone who worked for that company might be involved in Johnson's strange death.

Cameron carefully searched the rest of the room. No black wig or fake moustache. And
no sign of the other item he desperately hoped to find.

Wherever the missing stiletto was, it wasn't in room 415.

As he replaced the binder, he noticed a paperback book that Robert Johnson had
evidently been reading. The front cover portrayed a shirtless, muscular man with long flowing
hair, arms encircling a blond-haired beauty in a low-cut dress.

Cameron smiled.

It seemed odd that Robert Johnson, unexpectedly stranded at a hotel in a strange city,
would have selected a romance paperback.

Then he noticed the author's name.

Suzanne Gibbons-Powers.

Flipping open the front cover, he found an inscription, in a bold, feminine hand: "To my
dear Bob Johnson." He slipped the paperback into one of the Crime Lab baggies. He definitely
needed to have a talk with Ms. Gibbons-Powers.

Hadn't she insisted she didn't know the dead man?

* * * *

Cameron found John Forrest in his office, speaking into the telephone. "I know, do the
best you can. I've got a hotel full of guests and I need all the help I can get." He wearily cradled
the phone. Noticing Cameron, he explained, "My assistant manager. He was supposed to be here
at noon. He tells me that even the plows are getting stuck."

Cameron clucked sympathetically. He certainly understood how daunting it could be for
one man to tackle the job of a small army. "I'll take as little of your time as possible."

"I'm not going anywhere." Forrest gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. "Would
you like some coffee?"

"Thanks, but no. I've got work to do. I'm going to have to ask you to keep everyone out
of room 415."

"I guess that makes sense. I'll pass the word to the staff."

"Thanks. I'm also going to have to declare the Aspen Room off limits."

"The Aspen Room? For how long?"

"I can't tell you. Normally, we could get the techs in and out in a matter of hours, a day
or two at most. With all the snow, it's an entirely different situation. I can't even guess when
Dispatch will be able to get anyone over here." He added with genuine regret, "Sorry."

"I can work around 415," the manager said. "I'll make sure the cleaning staff stays clear
of the room. But the Aspen Room is something else. It's booked for a meeting at two o'clock
Monday afternoon."

"I can't make any promises. That room is a crime scene. It needs to be locked up." To
emphasize his point, he added, "Anyone who goes in there can be prosecuted."

"I wouldn't want that. I'll find a way to work it out. With all the snow, the group may
cancel, anyway. You know, in seven years as the manager of this hotel, I've never been through
anything like this. This whole thing is very upsetting."

"Tell me about it," Cameron muttered. "This is the first time I've ever been on a murder
scene before the crime took place."

"There's no question about it being a crime?"

"None. The man was strangled. He didn't do it himself. Let me ask you a question. Who
has keys to the Aspen Room?"

Forrest's eyes widened. "You think one of my people may be responsible?"

"I'm not thinking anything yet. I'm just gathering as much information as I can. About
everybody and everything. Your facilities manager, for example. A smart-assed punk named
Jimmy."

"What kind of mischief has he been causing?" Forrest sighed as though he'd had similar
conversations before.

"He claims he unlocked both sets of doors to the Aspen Room at seven o'clock this
morning. Another man swears the same doors were locked at approximately 8:15. And it's an
established fact that they were unlocked by 9:30."

"The only people on duty today who have keys to the conference rooms are Jimmy and
myself. I didn't arrive here until after eight. Jimmy starts at seven, but I understand he was
late."

"He was?" Cameron said with sudden interest. "How late?"

"I don't know. I just know he wasn't here by seven. The desk clerk doesn't like Jimmy,
and she made sure I knew he was late to work. Again."

Cameron headed toward the door.

Someone was lying to him.

And he was going to find out who it was.

He found Jimmy in a small office two doors from the manager's office. The young man
sat with his feet up on the desk, reading a copy of
Sports Illustrated
.

"I'm Detective Cameron, Lakewood Police Department. I need to talk to you."

Jimmy peered over the top of the magazine without bothering to change his position.
"About what?"

"I don't know," Cameron said with deliberate vagueness. "You tell me."

Jimmy shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Cameron noticed a nervousness in his eyes. He suspected he knew what it was.
"Keys."

"Keys? What are you talking about?"

"You were the only person in the hotel this morning who had a key to the Aspen
Room."

"Not true. Mr. Forrest has keys, too."

Cameron moved closer to the desk, deliberately invading Jimmy's space. "He didn't
arrive until after eight. That leaves you as the only one who had a key when it mattered."

"So? Is that a crime?"

"It depends on what you did with the keys," Cameron said, using an ominous tone.

Jimmy slid his legs off the desk. "Did with the keys? What are you talking about? I
didn't do anything with the keys. Except unlock the doors to the meeting rooms."

"Including the Aspen Room?"

"Yeah, including the Aspen Room."

"At what time?"

"Seven o'clock this morning. I clocked in and--"

"Don't give me that line, Jimmy. You weren't here at seven o'clock this morning."

There was a long silence.

"I didn't mean exactly seven," Jimmy finally admitted. "It might have been--"

"What time was it?"

"I --I don't know. A few minutes after seven."

"What time was it, Jimmy?"

"A few minutes after."

Cameron stirred impatiently. "How many minutes?"

Jimmy lowered his eyes. "Okay, it was 7:30. That's the honest truth."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Why did you lie about it?"

"Because I signed myself in at seven. What's the big deal? I'm paid peanuts for this job.
They can afford to pay me for an extra half hour."

"So it was 7:30?"

"That's when I signed in. When I unlocked the doors it was probably 7:35." For the first
time, Jimmy looked worried. "Are you going to tell my boss?"

"We'll see. It depends on how cooperative you are. And how truthful."

"I am cooperating. And I'm telling you the truth."

Cameron had his doubts but decided not to press the issue, at least for the time being.
"Did you lock the doors again?"

The wiry little man suddenly grinned. "Oh, so that's what this is all about. Those two old
geezers!"

"What about them?"

"They button-holed me in front of the Aspen Room, claiming the doors were locked."
He laughed triumphantly. "I walked over to one of the doors and pulled it wide open. Just like I
told them."

"What time was that?"

"Let me think. Probably 9:15. Maybe 9:30. Just after that, the woman running the
convention, Rena something, came up and asked me the same question about the doors."

"Did you look inside the Aspen Room when you opened the door for those two
men?"

"No. Why?"

"Because there was a dead body in that room."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Cameron said. "And unless you're lying about opening those doors, the
murder happened between 7:35 and 9:15. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to arrange the body
in a particular position and dress it a certain way. That took time. To do that, the killer had to
make sure he would have privacy. So I'll ask you again, Jimmy: did you really unlock those doors
at 7:35?"

Jimmy looked Cameron straight in the eyes. "Yes."

"And did you lock them again before 9:15?"

"No." He raised his hand as though taking an oath. "I swear it."

Another possibility had occurred to Cameron. "Did you loan your keys to
someone?"

He tapped a leather case fastened to his belt. "This key ring hasn't left my side all
day."

"Yeah?" Cameron said in a skeptical voice. "What about yesterday? Or the day
before?"

"No. I don't wear it in the shower, if that's what you mean. But I live alone. No
roommates, no wife, no kids. Not even a dog. Total freedom, man. No one could have touched
that key."

Cameron studied him intently. "This is important, Jimmy. Sometimes people offer
money to hotel employees to--"

"Not me. Nobody made a copy of that key. Whatever happened with those doors, it had
nothing to do with me. I swear it."

"I'm going to take you at your word, Jimmy. At least for the time being. But if I find out
your word isn't good, I'll be back." Cameron felt his frustration boiling to the surface. "And I
won't be happy."

* * * *

"Now, where would I stash a fright wig and a fake moustache?" Upton asked himself as
he loitered in the registration area. It occurred to him that it depended on how much time you
had, and whether you thought you might need to use them again. If not, the ideal way to dispose
of them was, literally, to dispose of them. But how? Some if it depended on whether you were a
hotel guest or not. If you were, you could hide them in your room until you could find something
more permanent. If not, then...where? Somewhere in the hotel? Somewhere outside the
hotel?

Upton snapped his fingers, remembering the huge dumpster he had barely missed hitting
when he was frantically searching for a space that morning. That would be a logical place to put
something you wanted to get rid of.

Three minutes later, he was standing in the parking garage, between a pair of big metal
bins. He hadn't remembered that there were two of them. He could see his breath, and he
suddenly wished he had grabbed his coat before coming downstairs. He lifted the lid of the first
container.

The bin was completely empty.

And it smelled awful.

"Evidently, yesterday was trash day." Just for the sake of being thorough, he lifted the lid
of the second dumpster and peered inside. Like its companion, it smelled foul. All it contained
were a crumpled Fritos bag and a Coke can. He couldn't reach the reach the bag; but from its size
and shape, it obviously didn't contain anything as large as a wig. There was no point soiling his
clothes by climbing inside.