A Day’s Work
The cops arrived twenty minutes after the body was found.
The doors opened and a couple with balcony tickets to the New York Philharmonic froze, stunned at the crumpled brunette slumped against the wall of the elevator. They stood there, motionless, their mouths agape as the doors closed again and the elevator shot up five floors, where a balding man on his way to a lecture on the entomology of southeastern Australia dropped his briefcase at the sight of the dead woman on the elevator floor.
Cell phone reception being spotty at best inside the Hilton, nobody dialed 911. This being the middle of New York City, nobody thought to take the stairs. Too flustered to return to their rooms, witnesses stood dumbly in the vestibules as the dead woman was buoyed up and down the elevator shaft for a full fifteen minutes and seen by a dozen pairs of eyes before she reached the lobby, where somebody collected themselves just enough to hold the doors and shout for the concierge.
Hank Hart arrived on the scene another twenty minutes after that.
“Ah, Detective Michaels,” he said, squeezing through the murmuring crowd and ducking under the web of yellow police tape that surrounded the elevator.
“You know, you’re really not supposed to do that unless you’re a cop.” The tall policeman grimaced.
“Yeah, well,” Hank shrugged. “So, what do we got here?”
“ ‘We’ haven’t got anything.” Detective Michaels shifted his weight to block Hank’s view of the woman in the elevator. “Who called you, anyway?”
“Hotel manager. Some people don’t like the muss and fuss of having cops poking around their establishment for long. It’s bad for business.”
“Having three women killed in three elevators of your hotel is bad for business.”
“That too,” Hank said, lifting his head to look over the detective’s massive left shoulder. Mark Michaels had about five inches on the sly P.I.’s compact frame, and the taller man despised the jutting nose and sharp green eyes that were forever attempting to dodge the physical barrier he was all too happy to pose between Hank Hart and any investigation.
“So do we really have to play this game, or will you just let me by, already?”
“It’s not a game.” Detective Michaels stepped to his left. “You need to leave. You know how this works. We got here first; this is the NYPD’s turf, now.” Michaels looked at Hank. Hank looked at Michaels.
They looked at each other.
“Fine, then,” Hank relented. “But let me ask you this — where were you on the evening of December 14, 2006?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Where were you?”
“First of all, that’s this evening, you idiot. Second, I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“And what exactly do you think I’m implying?”
“Get outta here, Hart.”
* * *
“Like I said on the phone, I’m usually hesitant to take a case this big on such short notice. Plus, you let the cops beat me to it and now I’m left without any crime scene evidence to boot. Why don’t you just leave it to them? Looks like there’re enough here to close fifty homicides.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” The leggy blonde sitting across from Hank laced her fingers together. “But it’s been weeks since either of the last two murders, and the police have gotten exactly nowhere on those.”
“So you think I’ll be able to pick up the NYPD’s slack?”
“You came highly recommended.” A black stiletto grazed Hank’s pant cuff.
“By…?”
The hotel manager looked up at Hank through two sets of long eyelashes. “Friend of a friend.”
“Of course.”
“The fact is, we can’t afford to let a third murder hang in the air like this. Who wants to stay in a 30-story hotel where you can’t take an elevator? Business is declining — there could be huge layoffs. We could be closed down, even. The entire Hilton family is suffering.”
“You think this has something to do with the Hilton family?” Hank raised his eyebrows.
“What? Oh, no, no — that’s just what we call the hotel employees. It builds morale.”
“Oh.” Hank paused. “Listen, Lisa — is it alright if I call you Lisa?”
“Um, I’d prefer if you didn’t. That isn’t my name.”
Hank frowned a little and waved his hand dismissively. He had long ago found that it saved some effort to call every leggy blonde who asked for his help Lisa, every exotic brunette Lyla, and every fiery redhead Lola. Those were also the names of his last three golden retrievers.
“Listen. The point is, I’m going to be severely handicapped in figuring out who did this without having had access to the body or the elevator it was found in, so I’m going to need the full cooperation of the entire, ahem, ‘Hilton family.’ That means total access to security tapes, files, recent guest records, and personnel.”
“Does this mean you’ll take the case?” Lisa pressed her red lips together. Hank nodded. “Wonderful. Wait just a minute, will you? Let me get our floor supervisor. He’ll be able to answer all your questions.”
“What? But I thought—”
“I’m a busy woman, Mr. Hart. Surely you understand that I won’t be able to work with you every step of the way. I have a hotel to run. Jack!”
A stout man came in and extended a hairy hand out to Hank. His enormous leather belt strained to support a massive gut. “Jack Johanssen, at your service.”
Hank strained his neck to see Lisa close the door behind her, leaving him alone with the floor supervisor. “Hank — Hank Hart,” he stammered, struggling to collect his bearings.
“So, I hear you can beat the cops and find our guy.”
“How did you know it was a guy?” Hank shot back. “Where were you on the evening of December 14, 2006?”
“You mean…this evening?”
“Yeah, this evening. Where were you?”
“Well, first I went out for a smoke, and then my daughter called me — she had a gymnastics meet today. She was doing the bars and a floor routine, but I had to miss it for work. She’s seven, it’s a great age. So she told me she got the bronze —”
“No, no, I mean when the murder was taking place,” Hank snapped.
“Right, well, I was at my desk, filing some papers.”
“Sure you were.” There was an awkward silence.
“So,” Jack cleared his throat. “Sounds like you’re off to quite a start. Care for a cigarette?”
“No thanks.”
“How about a drink?” Jack asked, opening a liquor cabinet behind the desk. “You look like a Scotch man.”
“Lemonade’ll do me just fine, if you don’t mind.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You’re not
exactly Humphrey Bogart, are you, pal?”
“Well, sir, you’re not exactly Lauren Bacall.”
* * *
Hank Hart’s Personal Log
12.14.06
2:07 A.M.
Subway
Spoke to hotel manager, floor supervisor, on-duty employees. Preliminary look through personnel files & security tapes.
* * *
“Where were you on the evening of December 14, 2006?” Hank barked as he spun to face the older man who had just walked through the door. There was a pause. “What, got nothing to say? You were nowhere? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
There was another pause.
“Excuse me?” the other man said, frowning.
Hank sighed. “Ugh, never mind. Can’t blame me for trying. Sometimes it works. Catches ‘em off guard and they crack like eggs.”
The other man didn’t move. “What?”
“Really, never mind. Frank Fineman? Hank Hart. Please, step into my office.” He patted the red vinyl stool beside him at the empty bar. Hank stirred his Shirley Temple and contemplated the dapper man on his left, who was wearing one of the nicest Armani suits he had ever seen, third only to the Armani suits on the two other men he had met in Jake’s Tavern over the past couple hours. Hank himself was wearing worn, murky brown corduroys and a charcoal trench coat from 1987.
“I just got done speaking to the husbands of the other two victims. I asked you to meet me here so that I could gather some background info. If it isn’t too painful, may I ask what were you doing in the hours that led up to the crime?”
Fineman took a deep breath. “We had been to see ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ – Cynthia loved musicals – and I was meeting some business associates afterward for drinks. That’s why we came to the city. I just closed a major merger with Time Warner…Anyway, I was at the bar in the St. James Hotel from 10:30 until – well, until I got – the call…” Fineman’s face grew pale and drawn.
“So she went back to the hotel alone?” Hank pressed.
“Yes…we had arranged beforehand for a cab to pick her up from the theater and take her back…she always hated waiting outside in the cold…”
“Who else knew about your plans?”
“Well, my business partners knew that I was going to be late because I was going to see the play with my wife, but they didn’t know where she would be afterwards. She may have told her mother or sister, but they live in California and would never – hurt her.”
“Would it interest you to know that your wife was cheating on you?”
“What?” Fineman’s eyes grew wide. Hank studied the shock that had registered in the man’s face.
“Oh, never mind again. Don’t worry about it. If she was cheating on you, I have no knowledge of it. It was a shot in the dark. But she could’ve been. She was 35 and you’re – what – 60? And you must admit, if she was cheating and you’d known about it, that would’ve been a prime motive.”
“What the fuck?” Fineman stood and slammed fist down on the bar. “My wife was just murdered and you’re sitting here making up ridiculous accusations that are completely full of shit? You can’t really think that I had anything to do with this! There were three murders, and I didn’t even know those other women.”
“I know, I know. I apologize. You’re not really a suspect – not a good one, anyway. But I’ll let you in on a little something — I’ve got nothing, here. Whoever did this cleaned up real nicely after himself. I’m sinking in quicksand, just grasping for anything I can find. Adultery is the cause of nine murders out of ten in detective fiction, and I’ve gotta tell you, real life isn’t so different. So, statistically, it would have been irresponsible for me to have altogether ignored the possibility of adultery having something to do with this mess.”
“I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m calling a cab.” Fineman straightened his suit and turned to leave.
“Wait!” Hank leapt to his feet. “Wait just a minute! You said you arranged for a taxi to pick up your wife beforehand…did you call the cab company yourself or did you call –”
“The concierge. We had the hotel do it.”
* * *
“Where were you — on the evening — of — of December 14 — 2006?” Hank panted at the concierge. The sprint from Jack’s Tavern to the Hilton had been at least ten blocks.
“Meester Hart, deedn’t we do this durink our eenterview last week? I was at thee desk when a man came runnink een screamink about the woman een thee elevator.”
“Yeah, Mister Nondescript Eastern European Accent, you say you were at the desk…or were you?”
“Yes,” the concierge’s greasy black hair bobbed up and down insistently. “Yes, I was.”
“Well, fine, then, but where was —”
“Hart! What the hell are you doing?” Hank rolled his eyes at the sound of Detective Michael’s voice coming from behind him.
“I’m interrogating the perp, if you don’t mind.”
“But—“
“Damn, you cops really need to have everything spelled out for you, don’t you? No finesse, no finesse at all.” Hank turned and frowned at the stubby man Michaels had gripped by the arm. “Hey, what’re you doing with him?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Looks like Mr. Johanssen here is our guy. I’m taking him in for questioning right now, but I’ve got a pretty good case against him as it is.” Michaels yanked Jack’s arm farther behind his back as he tried to protest.
“That’s all well and good, Michaels, but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong perp. All Mr. Johanssen here is guilty of is talking too much about his kid.”
“What?”
Suddenly, Hank threw a wild
punch at the concierge. “Where’s your buddy, the doorman?” he shouted.
“What’s going on out here?” Lisa came running out of her office.
“I’ll explain in a minute. Where’s the doorman this guy is always so chatty with? Paolo or Pablo or Peter or something…he has the tattoo of the bloody knife on his arm…”
“George? He got off about two minutes ago.”
“Everybody follow me!” Hank grabbed the concierge, who was nursing his bloody nose, and made for the door. Lisa, Detective Michaels, Jack, and ten or fifteen onlookers in the lobby followed on his heels.
They spotted the doorman across the street ducking into a subway station. The parade of pursuers ran across traffic and piled onto the escalator, brushing old women and well-dressed businessmen aside as they dodged closing umbrellas held their noses against the looming scent of damp garbage and piss. They reached the bottom and slipped off the escalator onto the wet concrete.
“You there!” Hank’s voice echoed through the station as he pushed the concierge hard into the doorman. They fell like a pair of dominos.
“What’s going on here?” the man in the ticket booth yelled into his microphone.
“I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on,” Hank said, picking the concierge and doorman up by the arms and attempting to slam their heads together. He missed, but they both fell to the ground anyway. “Jack Johanssen is an innocent man. The concierge and doorman here were buddies, and they teamed up to commit the murders. The concierge would keep his ears open for a wealthy woman who would be coming home or going out alone and tell his pal George when to be ready for her. He had access to the surveillance rooms, so he’d go in, distract whoever was on duty in there, and then look out for where George could get off the elevator without anyone seeing him.”
“Yes, and wee would haf gotten away weeth eet eef eet weren’t for you meddling Private Eenvesteegator,” the concierge spat.
“Oh, Hank! That was wonderful!” Lisa ran up from the middle of the crowd that had formed around the scene and flung her arms around his neck. “How ever did you ever figure it out?”
“All in a day’s work, kid. It
was all in a day’s work.”