The Fat Innkeeper (31 page)

“Tell me what you got.”

“Do we have a deal? Do I get what I asked for?”

Sure, thought McHugh, everything you want. But next week. The detective nodded.

“Today?”

It was almost like the jerk-off had read his mind. Well, he didn’t have to make it easy for him. If he expected everything
brought to him and handed over on a silver platter, he had something else coming. “Downtown,” said McHugh. “Four o’clock.
Don’t be late.”

Don’t be late, the detective thought, because I’m going to be. At least two hours.

“I’ll be there,” said Am. “Where?”

McHugh tossed him a business card. “Now shoot,” he said.

Am didn’t want to identify Marisa as an accomplice, so he made it sound as if he had worked alone. He told McHugh about Skylar
and Brother Howard, and the reasons the men had for wanting to see Kingsbury dead. The detective kept an expressionless face,
but he was surprised. This sounded like good stuff. Maybe he’d only be an hour late for their appointment.

“We’ll check it out,” said McHugh, evincing the faintest of interest.

Am had hoped for a little more enthusiasm and gratitude, but then this was Detective McHugh he was dealing with. They were
almost to the lobby. “I’ll see you at four,” said Am.

Five, five-thirty, thought McHugh. He nodded.

“I demand satisfaction!”

The shout made both men look up. Down the hall they could see a man wearing red pajamas waving his fist under the face of
Felipe the shoe-shine man.

Bradford Beck wasn’t going to take it anymore. He liked the way Toyota was cringing and acting afraid. The little Jap wasn’t
going to get away with a few empty promises this time.

The morning hadn’t started well for Bradford. He had awakened with a terrible hangover, had learned that champagne and tequila
are not a very good mix. And then there was this damnably annoying itch in his groin area. Though he scratched and scratched,
he couldn’t seem to find relief. Bradford kept telling himself the symptoms were psychosomatic. He had worn protection, after
all, but things had gotten a bit racy—very racy, in fact. Out of hand, some might even say. That Missy was some wild woman.
But the morning after he was repenting those few hours of pleasure, and not only because of the itch. If he had given Cleopatra
all of his attention, then maybe her nose wouldn’t have gotten out of joint and maybe things wouldn’t have happened the way
they had. He’d been courting Cleopatra for too long to give her, and all her money, up. The best-laid plans, he thought, then
scratched furiously and gave up on the rest of the saying. Cleopatra, he had thought, suddenly awakening. I’ve got to help
her. Then he noticed something. All of Cleopatra’s luggage was gone.

Bradford tried to call the front desk, but his phone was still broken. He threw on some pajamas and some shoes (he had neglected
to bring his slippers) and stormed over to the elevator to make his call. The front desk didn’t seem to know anything about
Cleopatra’s whereabouts.

“Your bellman made a fucking citizen’s arrest on her!” Bradford screamed to the operator. “Someone there better be able to
goddamn tell me where she is!”

The operator had politely suggested that he “sleep it off,” and then had hung up on him. That’s when Bradford went ballistic.
Toyota was going to make everything right this time.

Wearing only his red silk pajamas and his calf-skin loafers, Bradford stormed down to the lobby. Screaming “Toyota!” and “I
demand satisfaction,” he ran up to the shoe-shine man and pushed him up against the wall.

“Yesterday you made a lot of promises,” Bradford said. “Well, my room still looks like shit. Nothing’s been done, that is
if you don’t count my girlfriend’s being kidnapped. Your bellman did that. I’ve encountered nothing but rudeness and buck-passing.
The buck stops here, Toyota. Got it?”

Felipe was terrified. He started pleading his fear and innocence in Spanish. Bradford wouldn’t hear anything of it. “Talk
in English,” he said. “I don’t speak Japanese. This is still America.”

The shoe-shine man kept babbling. “English, I said,” yelled Bradford, then kicked him hard in his backside. Even though he
had applied a lot of boot, Bradford noticed the shine on his loafers was still untarnished. The Nip should stick to shoe-shining
instead of managing.

The lunatic’s crotch-pulling and shouting were bad enough, McHugh thought, but he could almost overlook them, just as he could
his wild talk about kidnapping, and his interpreting Spanish as Japanese. But the kick couldn’t be ignored. He had Bradford
on the ground and tied up in about four seconds, then stood up to admire his handiwork. As a kid, McHugh had wanted to be
a rodeo performer.

Am was attending to Felipe. The shoe-shine man was shaken up, but not hurt. Bradford had done a lot more bullying than pummeling.
“Are you okay?” Am asked him.

“Okay,” said Felipe, using one of the few English words he knew.

“I’m arresting you for assault,” McHugh said to Bradford. He didn’t bother to Mirandize the kook. This one was probably just
going to get kicked over to county mental health.

“Are you a police officer?” asked Bradford.

“Yes.”

“I mean a real San Diego police officer?”

McHugh flashed his badge and nodded.

“Good. Maybe you can tell me where Cleopatra is.”

“I can do even better than that,” said McHugh. “I can take you to her barge.”

Before the press conference, Am didn’t know much about potassium cyanide. Now he was only too familiar with the chemical compound.
As far as Am was concerned, the medical examiner was entirely too enthusiastic on the subject.

“Quite, quite fatal,” Dr. Simpson had told the assembled press. “Two tenths of a gram will kill you within fifteen minutes.
We estimate Dr. Kingsbury had about twice that in his system.”

The press asked their questions and the ME answered. It was a primer on poisoning. Potassium cyanide was “very, very (Dr.
Simpson invariably emphasized his statements with two adverbs) easy either to obtain or to make.” There was “simply, simply
nothing” complicated about making such a poison. The component parts didn’t have to be purchased at a chemical lab. They could
be obtained at a photography lab, or a craft shop, or even a neighborhood store (“though it would be necessary for anyone
trying to create a proper poison to carefully read the labels,” the doctor admonished, “to make absolutely, absolutely sure
that a fatal toxin was manufactured.”)

Someone had read their labels well. The potassium cyanide, Dr. Simpson said, could have been administered in either liquid
or powder form, but it appeared the murderer had opted for liquid. It was the better choice, in his opinion.

The ME’s demonstration included a chalk talk on the chemicals of death (KCN was the chemical abbreviation of potassium cyanide),
and how different proportions of other products could have approximated that lethal combination.

Why, said Dr. Simpson, any layman could make a very effective poison from any number of over-the-counter supermarket offerings.
And when you considered what anyone could buy in a hardware store…

Detective McHugh chose that moment to thank the medical examiner and direct him to his seat. There was a reason, he thought,
that the man just worked with corpses. But most of the media weren’t paying any attention to Dr. Simpson’s closing remarks.
Being enterprising journalists, they had assiduously avoided organic- and physical-chemistry courses in college. They were
humanities majors, for God’s sake, and hadn’t been much interested in his hieroglyphics (who cared that potassium carbonate—K
₂
CO
₃
—was used in making glass, pigments, ceramics, and soaps?). Besides, there were other matters more pressing, like food.

Am had worked out a set of signals with Cathy Cleary, the banquet manager. Cathy was waiting on his calls like an anxious
pitcher. Whenever Am thought there was something being said that was particularly damaging to the Hotel, he signaled the banquet
manager to send in food. Though poison recipes didn’t affect the Hotel per se, Am still wasn’t keen on seeing them printed
up in the local newspapers. They might give some ideas to San Diego’s no-growth advocates. He motioned to Cathy, who sent
in a waiter with a tray of shrimp. The quantity had been agreed upon ahead of time, a full platter, but not nearly enough
to feed a roomful of hungry journalists. This was the third tray to be sent out at an opportune time (miniquiche had been
the first course, and scallops wrapped in bacon the second). Pavlov’s dogs never responded so well as the press. The appearance
of the shrimp causea an immediate queuing up. Am hoped that the continued interruptions of “alternate feeding frenzies” would
keep the media from getting too worked up over the poisoning.

McHugh tried to vie with jumbo shrimp, but learned that on the media food chain, detectives apparently rank below such crustaceans.
Most of the haphazard questioning was done by those who already had shrimp on their plates. They called out with full mouths
over the din of those still jostling in line. Marisa was one of the few journalists who hadn’t been seduced by the fare. She
stayed seated, taking notes and asking questions. Am sidled up next to her, wrote on a piece of paper: “Dinner Tonight?” She
saw his message and nodded. “What Time?” he wrote. Marisa held up seven fingers and Am nodded.

“Could the poisoning have somehow been inadvertent?” asked one reporter. “Could Dr. Kingsbury have somehow taken it accidentally?”

“No,” said McHugh. “I’m told that’s highly unlikely. The scientific consensus is that it was introduced in his food or drink.”

That announcement didn’t stop the media from eating as many shrimp as possible.

“Where did Dr. Kingsbury dine—”

Before the reporter could finish asking where Kingsbury’s last meal had taken place, Am signaled for the next tray to be brought
out. Why did everyone have to know that Kingsbury’s final repast had been at one of the Hotel’s restaurants? Next they’d want
to know how much he tipped (16 percent, if Am remembered correctly).

It was a small side of roast this time, served on the opposite side of the room as the shrimp. Some of the media started running,
beating the server to the carving table. Detective McHugh found that he was talking to himself.

“Clever,” said Marisa, the word less than sincere.

Am tried to look innocent. “What do you want to eat tonight?” he asked.

“Lobster,” she said, “unless you’re planning on bringing some out on the next tray.”

Am didn’t comment. “Got a restaurant in mind?”

“We’ll decide later,” she said. “Let’s meet in the lobby at seven. I have a six o’clock follow-up interview with Lady Death.
She’s promised a whopping thirty minutes this time.”

“Why a second interview?”

“Believe me, I tried to beg off, but this country’s decided Angela Holliday is big news. Her book has only been out three
days and already it’s a best-seller. My editor wanted a follow-up piece, something more in-depth than my last
Architectural Digest
copy. Or did he say in-death? I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to her hourglass again.”

“You make her sound like a black widow.” That wasn’t how Am thought of her, not at all. Like all men, he thought that any
woman who was receptive to him showed remarkably good taste. “Off the record, you should know that she’s been having some
death threats. I was called up to her room last night, just after you left, to investigate one.”

“Oh?”

Was that suspiciousness Am heard, or only his guilty conscience? Not that he should feel guilty, he told himself. Hadn’t he
been virtuous? Rather than fully answer that question in his mind, Am told Marisa about how McHugh had agreed to let him look
over the questionnaires and Kingsbury’s notes, and what he had traded to get that concession. She should have been consulted,
he told her, but opportunity seemed to be knocking. Then, uncertainly, he told her why he wanted to look at the questionnaires.
In the telling, he became that much more convinced it was a tenuous and silly thread to be following. But Marisa didn’t see
it that way. She agreed with him that it was a lead, however unlikely, that needed looking into.

They didn’t get a chance to talk any further, as the mostly disappointed media were taking their seats. The shrimp and the
roast beef hadn’t lasted very long.

“See you later,” said Am.

Marisa nodded, and he returned to the back of the room. McHugh’s questioning started anew. Am listened carefully. In his bullpen
he still had baked ham, two desserts, as well as chilled beer and wine. Was the Hotel safe? one questioner wanted to know.
Was the poisoning random, or had Dr. Kingsbury been singled out for death?

Am signaled Cathy for the ham.

Annette’s gears ground again. Am could feel the grating in his fillings.

“So sorry,” said the Fat Innkeeper.

Am faked yet another smile and waved his hand. He should have just called off their little drive, and not only because of
the damage done to Annette. Am had thought he could kill two birds with one stone, both give Hiroshi his driving lesson and
make a necessary stop, but he hadn’t counted on the killing including his car. The gears ground again.

“So sorry,” said the Fat Innkeeper.

Annette’s bucking shook both of the passengers. So this is what epilepsy is like, thought Am. “W-why d-don’t y-you p-p-p-pull
o-over there?” he said, pointing.

Hiroshi complied, but not smoothly. Learning how to handle the three-speed manual transmission wasn’t proving an easy task
for the Fat Innkeeper, but even after a shaky and abrupt stop he looked anything but defeated. The man was beaming. He had
managed to get half the car in a parking space; the other half had jumped onto a concrete island. Their testing ground was
a parking lot near the University of California at San Diego’s BioMed Library. It was a pleasant enough place to learn how
to crash a car, with stands of eucalyptus surrounding the lot and only students to run into.