Free The Hotel Detective by Alan Russell Page A

police force for petty
     theft or brutality. Houses of sin were just the place for them, sordid operations where they could supplement their income
     by running call girls or blackmailing the unwary.
    Kendrick had made him the Hotel detective. So be it. There was one place Tim Kelly was still alive. Am turned on his computer
     and pulled up Kelly's account. At first glance, the display didn't tell him much. Kelly had checked in two days ago as part
     of the Contractors Association group. His convention had been given a special rate, if you could call $172 a night a special
     rate. Am scanned the charges. There was nothing unusual about Kelly's bill, except that booze accounted for about half of
     it, and that certainly wasn't uncommon. The Hotel California wasn't as generous in camouflaging charges as were other inns.
     Boozing businessmen on company expense accounts usually frequent those hotels that magically convert their bar bills into
     restaurant charges. “And how was your olive, sir?”
    Kelly had closed out his ample bar tab at 1:50 A.M. the night before, had beaten his hangover in the only way possible. His
     server had been Katherine “Cat” Ross. Kelly had signed a twenty-dollar tip to her. She'd remember him.
    A groundswell of noise at the front desk interrupted Am's study. The chaos in progress sounded even louder than usual. Sneaking
     a peek out at the check-out line, Am saw what looked like rush-hour traffic. He wanted to ignore the pileup but immediately
     threw himself into the fray. Guests didn't take kindly to having to wait for the privilege of paying over two hundred a night
     for their rooms.
    “Where's Casper?” he whispered, referring to the front desk manager. “Where the hell is Casper?”
    Am had Roger paged, but once again Casper's timing was perfect. He appeared just when the last guest had been helped.
    “Roger,” Am said in a voice only he could hear, “I don't have time to run your desk this morning.”
    Casper was all innocence. “What? Were there check-outs?”
    Am tried to match his Academy Award–winning performance. “Yes.”
    “Well,” Roger said indignantly, “all they had to do was beep me.”
    Casper’s famous retort. The clerks heard his remark, not for the first time, and rolled their eyes, also not for the first
     time. Whenever Casper was beeped it took him five minutes to respond to the page, and by then most situations had resolved
     themselves.
    “No doubt you were doing something important,” Am said.
    “There was a complaint about pigeon dirt on one of the balconies,” Roger said. “I was checking out the situation.”
    Am gave him a look that said he thought Roger’s explanation was full of—pigeon dirt. “Look,” he said. “I want you to stay
     at the desk and shield traffic. Okay?”
    “Of course, Am.”
    Casper much preferred disappearing to arguing. If guests were disappointed with their room assignment, he always sent out
     the reservations manager. If anyone wanted an adjustment on their rate, he invariably deferred to another manager. Staff meetings
     for Casper were Quaker meetings. Kendrick never got anything more out of him than everything was going “fine, just fine.”
     Maybe that’s why Kendrick liked him.
    If anything, Casper was predictable. At least he was, up until last night. He had surprised Am by showing up at the party.
     Casper lived with an invalid aunt and rarely associated with any other employees outside of work. Now who had Roger come as?
     Am thought for a moment but couldn’t remember. He turned to ask him, but Casper was already gone.
    Tim Kelly’s bill was still flashing on the computer screen when Am returned to his office. He did a printout, then methodically
     went through all the charges. There didn’t seem to be anything extraordinary about Kelly’s account. Maybe that’s what didn’t
     feel right to Am. It all seemed too normal—the long-distance calls, the greens fees, the restaurant tabs, even the