Steamed (A Maid in LA Mystery) (14 page)

 
Maybe Mr. Banning’s laptop was there and if it was there, maybe I could get my hands on it.  I could tell Cal and trust that he could get it, but I didn’t want him to get it while there was a good chance that’s where Tiny’s pictures were.

 
I doubted very much that the slimy bartender would give it to me just because I asked, but I could offer to buy it.

 
I thought about grabbing a checkbook, but in the end, went out and got a thousand dollars cash from the bank next door.

 
If Mr. Banning had left his laptop at the bar, odds are the slimy bartender planned on keeping it since Mr. Banning was dead.

 
I’d offer to pay him cash.

 
There was a very good chance that the laptop wasn’t at the bar.  And that led me back to my brick wall.

 
But I had a new lead.  Louis Michaels.

 
The cops always looked at family members and lovers first as suspects in a murder.

 
I would think that a writing partner was as close as a relative.

 
What would
The Closer
do?

 
She’d ask one of her men to do some kind of background search on Louis Michaels in her very polite Southern way and they’d find some tiny, almost random sounding fact that would break the whole case open.  Then they’d arrest him and Brenda would do her
Closer
kind of stuff and get him to confess and win the day.

 
Maybe there was something on the computer that could prove that Louis was the murderer and if not him, maybe it would point to who was.

 
Once I had the computer, I could delete Tiny’s pictures, look for more clues, and after that, I’d turn it over to Cal.

 
Yeah, that’s right.  I’d turn it over.  I want to find out who murdered Mr. Banning so I didn’t end up on death row—if California had one.  And while I felt I was pretty good at this whole investigating thing, Cal was probably better at it than I was.  He did it professionally.

 
I cleaned houses professionally.

 
Yeah, I’d put my money on Cal having a better chance at figuring it out than me.

 
But that being said, I wasn’t willing to trust him so much that I would stay out of things.

 
Uncle Bill had believed that because he was innocent things would work out.

 
And I guess they did…eventually.

 
I didn’t want to hang out in prison waiting for that eventuality.

 
I did a websearch on Louis Michaels.

 
Hollywood Action gave me a start and a few phone calls to friends in the business, gave me the rest of the information I needed.  I’d been so close to him and I hadn’t even known it.

 
I called Honey Martin at Le Celebre.

 
I had an idea.

 
I’d just hung up from talking to Honey when the phone rang and I picked it up.  “Mac’Cleaners.  We do it all and we’re glad you made the call.  This is Quincy.  How may I help you?”

 
“Quincy, it’s Cal.”

 
“Why are you calling me at work?”

 
“I thought I could see you tonight.”

 
“I don’t think that would be wise, especially after that uh, chaste kiss.  I’m a suspect, remember?”

 
“You’re not a suspect, you’re a witness.  But yeah, we can’t be kissing again, until after I close this case.  But there’s nothing wrong with my quizzing you again about the murder scene…over dinner.”

 
“No.  And even if I wanted to, I can’t.  I have plans.”

 
“What plans?”  He sounded suspicious.

 
“Is that Cal the cop asking, or Cal the man who kissed my socks off?”

 
“First, that kiss was chaste.  As soon as I’ve solved this case, I’ll show you a real kiss.  Secondly, Cal the cop and Cal the kisser are the same man.  I’m asking.”

 
“Well, I find both Cal’s intrusive.  I don’t owe you an explanation.  It’s Monday, and you’re killing my Monday glee.”

 
“Monday glee?”

 
“I like Mondays.”

 
He snorted.

 
“I do.  They’re an underappreciated day.  I have a writer friend who’s convinced me that Mondays should get some love.  So, I try to.  But you’re making it tough.  I’ve got to go.”

 
I hung up.

 
I had a plan, I had a suspect in my sites, and I had at least a potential place Mr. Banning might have left his computer.

 
Not a bad day in the amateur detective world.

 
Tiny called in when she’d finished the last house.  I did some more online surfing and then headed over to Le Celebre.

 
Honey left a supply closet on the fourteenth floor open and in it was a smock that the hotel cleaning service people wore.

 
I put on the smock, took a cart and went to room 1488.  Now, here’s the thing, despite what the room numbers said, this wasn’t really the fourteenth floor.  It was the thirteenth. A lot of hotels eliminated a thirteenth floor because so many guests balked at staying on them.  I’ve always felt a fake fourteen was even more suspect than a thirteenth one that owned its thirteenth, at least luck-wise.  I was hoping that it wouldn’t be my luck that was comprised.

 
I hoped that any unluckiness was for Louis Michaels.

 
I tried to channel everything Mr. Magee had taught me in acting school.  Then I gave myself a little mental pep talk.  How hard could acting like a hotel maid be?  I was a maid by trade.

 
Still going into a strange man’s room, a man I thought had some motive for murder, was a bit more daunting than I’d thought. 

 
I thought of Uncle Bill, of my boys and of wrinkled unicorns.  I knocked on the door.  “Maid service,” I announced.

 
“Come in.”

 
Shoot.

 
I was hoping against hope that he wasn’t in.  I wanted a chance to ransack the room in peace.

 
Still, in for a penny, in for a pound.

 
I opened the door and propped my cart against it, holding it open.

 
I didn’t see Louis Michaels in the murky room.  The curtains were drawn.

 
“Hi,” I said to the room in general.  “Just came in to change your towels and see if you needed anything.”

 
A bedside lamp turned on.

 
Propped against a pile of pillows on the bed was a small man.

 
I wasn’t sure about his height.  Wasn’t there a saying that all men are the same height when they’re lying down.

 
Or is it laying down?

 
I can never keep that lay/lie thing straight.

 
Thinking about grammar was easier than thinking about the fact I was in a room with a potential killer.

 
“You’re new,” he said, his words slurred.

 
“I’m just a temp.” 

 
I got a stack of towels from the cart and went into his bathroom.  The towels there were clean, but I replaced them anyway.

 
“Is there anything else you need, sir?” I asked.

 
“I need some more whiskey.  Any chance you’d get me some?  Room service will bring me a glass, but I want a bottle.  A bottle of the good stuff.”
 “That would be against the hotel’s policy, sir.”  That was a guess, but I’m pretty sure if not breaking the hotel’s monopoly on room service wasn’t a policy, it should be.  “But I’m off work in a few minutes, sir.   If I were to go out and buy a bottle, then bring it up to a friend’s room, well, that’s just one friend hanging out with another.”

 
“Would you do that?” he asked with a drunken hitch in his voice.

 
“Sure.  I’ll be back in less than half an hour.”

 
I hurried out of the room, returned the cart and uniform to the closet, went down the street and picked up a bottle, and was back at Mr. Michael’s door in twenty minutes.

 
I knocked.  He hollered to come in.  “I don’t have a key anymore, sir.  I’m just a friend visiting a friend.”

 
I heard a lot of stumbling, then he opened the door.  “You came back.”

 
“I did.  And I brought—”  I held the bag aloft.

 
“Come in and have a drink with me.”

 
That same trepidation was there.  I was going, willingly, into the room of someone I thought could have committed murder.

 
I went anyway.

 
A mother can find all kinds of bravery when it comes to her kids, and my kids needed me free, not in jail.

 
A friend could find all kinds of bravery when it came to her friends.  Tiny deserved to be happy and that meant finding those pictures.

 
I went in.

 
Mr. Michaels shut the door.

 
“I’ll get the glasses.”

 
He pulled two plastic wrapped glasses from the hotel tray on the desk.

 
While he unwrapped them and set them up, I got out the bottle of Jameson.

 
“An Irish girl?” he asked.

 
I handed him a glass. “Yes.”

 
“My friend who died, he was Irish.  To Steve.”

 
I raised my glass.  “To Steve,” I echoed.  I sipped my whiskey.  “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

 
“Someone murdered him.  He was a bastard sometimes, but we came up through the ranks together.  We were partners for years.  And now he’s gone.  It just goes to show how precarious life is.  One minute you’re here, working, loving, just living life, and the next…whack.  Someone bludgeons you to death.”

 
“They bludgeoned him?”  I didn’t have to pretend to be horrified at the thought—the image of him was burned in my brain and every time I thought of it, there was plenty of real horror on my part.

 
“With his own Mortie.  He was so damned proud of that award.  He said this new project he was working on was going to get him another.”  He laughed bitterly, raised his glass, then downed the rest of the contents without saying a word.

 
He extended the glass to me.  “Sir, I think you’ve had enough,” I said.

 
“Call me Louis.  Or Lou.  You should know the name of the man you’re drinking with.  And you are?”

 
I thought about lying, but I was pretty sure this man wasn’t my murderer, so I said, Quincy.”

 
“Quincy, nice to meet you.  Now, pour me another glass.  And if you go into the desk drawer, there’s a stack of money.  Take enough to pay for the bottle.”

 
“That’s fine, sir.  I’m sure Mr. Banning would like that we were drinking to him.”

 
He set the glass down.  “How did you know his last name was Banning?  I’m pretty sure I just called him Steve.”

 
I am not the most brilliant member of the Mac family, but I’ve always been a bit of a black sheep, which means that on more than one occasion in my misbegotten youth, I had to think fast in order to stay out of trouble.

 
“You said your friend was Steve and he was bludgeoned with a Mortie.  I read about Mr. Banning in the paper.  And frankly, I’ve seen coverage on the news.  It’s a big story.”  There.  That was the truth, but of course, not all of it.

 
“Oh.  Yes.  Of course.”  He took the bottle and poured his own glass.  “To Steve.”

 
I raised my glass and toasted.

 It was after nine when I left the rather inebriated Mr. Michaels in bed.  I’d hidden the bottle in his desk drawer, next to his pile of untouched money.  The alcohol was my treat.

 
I went back to the kitchen and found Honey.  “Just wanted to say thanks for the help.”

 
She gave me a accessing look.  “How much did you drink?”

 
“Just a few glasses of whiskey.”

 
“Did you find out what you needed to find out?”

 
I nodded, which made the room shift slightly on its axis.  I grabbed the counter to steady myself.