In for the Kill

68

In the lobby, Gerald Goodnight, the aptly named night desk clerk, noticed the switchboard blinking. Not a regular, steady blink, but intermittent and frantic.

Probably nothing to get excited about. The switchboard had the high-tech heebie-jeebies and was always sending crazy signals. The blinking would probably stop soon.

It wasn't a real switchboard, but a simulated one on the computer screen. Goodnight, a tall, gray-haired man with a receding chin and a drinker's bulbous red nose, had been at the Meredith for more than ten years. He didn't drink, and for that matter didn't sleep well, so his looks and his name were both deceptive.

Goodnight was, however, good at his job. He was diligent and provided the deft touch of inoffensive snobbery the management desired.

His diligence was the reason why he was about to walk over to the computer and check to make sure all the wake-up calls for the coming morning had been entered correctly. Even though it was years ago, he remembered well the apoplectic anger of a wealthy corporate type who'd left a wake-up call for his room at 8:00 A.M., and received it just before he'd checked out in a rage in the P.M. He'd later tried to sue the hotel because he'd missed a crucial business meeting across town. The Meredith had settled with him and avoided litigation. Goodnight thought the man should have backed up his wake-up call with his own travel alarm clock or even wristwatch alarm. That was what Goodnight always did. He knew about hotel staffs.

It wasn't the first time he'd worked at a hotel in cooperation with the police, either. The last time, the undercover cops had been easy to spot, like actors in a bad gangster movie. But he had to admit these people were good. The phony doorman looked genuine, and the cop pretending to be a bellhop had even managed a few tips. Goodnight had told the guy if he ever needed a different job to drop by. The guy had given him a cop look, and Goodnight knew the man was already in the right business.

The switchboard light was still flickering.

Goodnight thought it would be a neat idea to send the bellhop cop upstairs to see about the blinking phone connection. He could scare some rowdy kids or an unruly guest. But he knew that was only whimsy. Riley the genuine bell captain was the one to handle it.

The phone was in a room on the floor above where the woman the cops were guarding was staying; and this kind of thing happened all the time at most hotels. It would be kids, probably, playing with the phone. Or a drunk. Maybe a violent one. If that was the case, Riley could call down and the cops would be there in seconds. If they'd bother with such a thing in the middle of their important assignment.

As if sensing something was wrong, Riley looked over at him from the bell captain's station. Goodnight gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and Riley ambled across the thick carpet and over to the desk.

Riley was a big man with a bear walk, in his sixties but still strong and fit. He was of good humor but had a combative disposition if necessary. While in the Navy he'd been third ranked in the fleet heavyweight boxing division. He was confident he could handle anything that came up in the hotel, and the hotel had confidence in him. This was why he'd held the difficult position of bell captain for more than seven years.

Riley's only flaw as bell captain, as far as Goodnight could discern, was that he thought he had a sense of humor. He was the only one who thought that. He could be trying.

"We've got a blinker on the seventh floor," Goodnight said, motioning with his head toward the computer monitor, visible in the alcove behind the desk.

"Want me to send my new bellhop?" Riley asked, throwing a glance in the direction of the undercover cop in his bellhop uniform. He knew the cop bellhop-Neeson-also thought he was a funny guy, and saw him as competition. Maybe someday they could have a laugh-off.

"Don't try to be funny," Goodnight said. "Just go upstairs and see what the problem is."

"Probably the phone," Riley said. "They act up when the moon's full. Something to do with the tide. I mean, the same gravitational force only on electronic stuff."

"Are you serious?"

"No," Riley said. "It's probably kids. That's what it usually is. What's the room number?"

"Seven-twenty-four. Guest's name is John Brown. It's a single."

"Or was when he checked in," Riley said. "Did you know there are more Browns than Joneses?"

"Yes," Goodnight said, though he neither knew nor cared. Nor was it any of the hotel's business if the man had checked in under a phony name, as long as the guest paid cash or had secured credit.

"We'll charge him for a double only if she's ugly," Riley said.

Goodnight ignored that one. "I don't have to tell you not to tromp around up there and make a lot of noise that might disturb the other guests."

"You did tell me," Riley said. "And just in time. I have my harmonica with me."

"Harmonica?"

Riley grinned. "A joke, George."

Goodnight shook his head. "Harmonica. The moon."

"I was trying to be funny," Riley said, accepting the passcard master key Goodnight handed him.

"Stop trying," Goodnight told him. "Really. It's sound advice. Stop trying."

He could see Riley's shoulders quaking with laughter as the uniformed bell captain strolled toward the elevators. The dancing fringed epaulets made it quite apparent.

Over by the potted palms, Detective Jack Neeson, in his jerk-off bellhop uniform, saw the prissy desk clerk who was probably a secret drinker talking with Riley the bell captain. Riley might erroneously see himself as a comedian, but he was no priss, Neeson could tell. He could probably handle whatever was wrong-if there even was a problem.

Riley took something from the clerk then turned away from the desk and swaggered toward the elevators. He had his back muscles bunched in an odd way. Neeson knew that kind of walk-man on a mission.

Maybe I oughta go over and see.

He walked toward the guy behind the desk, Goodnight, who saw him coming and stood in a waiting attitude. Over by the elevators, Riley was pressing the Up button.

Neeson figured it would take a while for an elevator to arrive. If something was wrong, they might as well go up together, a couple of guys in funny-looking uniforms. Neeson thought they'd look like characters in a costume movie or one of the operas his wife dragged him to, the general and his adjutant. Riley, with the fancier uniform, was obviously the general. Neeson didn't like that. He was no second banana.

"Trouble with one of the phones," Goodnight said, not even waiting for Neeson to ask. He wasn't sure if he wanted the cop and Riley in the same elevator at the same time. Two giants of comedy in such close quarters. "The receiver's off the hook and somebody's playing with it. Probably some kids or a drunk."

Or a killer, the adjutant thought, and veered and walked faster toward the elevators and the general.

This was nothing to get excited about yet, but certainly it was something to look into.

He saw that he'd figured wrong. This late, the elevator traffic was sparse and there must have been one waiting at lobby level.

The general was gone.