Dusty dug out the guest book from a cluttered
drawer in his office. When he returned to the desk, Dotty Warren
was just coming down the stairs. She paused to take in the sight of
the inspector, gave a questioning look at Dusty, who simply
shrugged. Dotty's expression turned to a miffed anger at not being
able to nose any information out of Dusty and she stalked out of
the hotel.
"Nosy old woman," Dusty mumbled under his
breath.
"Who?" Phillips was suddenly interested in
whoever might be in the lobby and turned around to give the room a
quick sweeping glance.
"Woman who just left," Dusty explained as he
handed the roster to Phillips. "From one of those do-gooder
volunteer groups. Guess we expect them to be all smiles and mind
their own business. Of course, people are their business. They must
see a lot of shit every day. Especially in this neck of the
woods."
"You get a lot of volunteer types?" Phillips
wanted to know.
"More than we used to," Dusty sighed. "From
the churches mostly. They give out little booklets and bibles to
people who can't read and preach to folks who are near deaf from
their private pain. Don't make sense to me."
"The one who just left, what does she
do?"
"They come, they go," Dusty smiled as he
retrieved a master set of keys from a niche in the wall behind him
and stepped out of the wire cage to join Phillips in the lobby.
"They ought to be helping people read and write, and speak English,
if you ask me. Get 'em cleaned up and help them get jobs so they
won't have to live like this."
"Then I'd be out of a job," Phillips smiled
but her brown eyes did not.
"Let me show you around," said
Dusty.
"I'll need to see the basement and the fire
escapes as well," said Phillips as she hooked her umbrella handle
over her arm and fell in step behind Dusty's shuffling
gait.
"County's getting pretty efficient," said
Dusty with a touch of sarcasm that was evidently lost on the
inspector.
"How close to a hundred percent are
you?"
"We run about fifty to sixty percent full
every night," Dust told him as he nursed his arthritic knees up the
stairs. "Of course, it is fall yet. Winter nights we run nearly a
hundred percent every night."
"Many singles here or are you mostly
families?"
"Singles mostly. Some single mothers with
kids. We only allow two kids per room."
"What's the ethnic balance? I see a couple of
odd names here on the list. Nabat, Panchanathan, Dugan,
MacGill."
"Latino mostly. Some Armenian, some whites,
not many Orientals. Panchanathan is from India. He's a permanent
resident as is Percy "Doc" Rowland and Martha Collier. All three
are seniors that have been here since before the government took
over the hotel as a shelter. MacGill overdosed last night. They
took him to County USC Medical Center. Don't think he'll be back.
The Dugan girl is young, white, in her twenties, hard to tell. Been
told she's a hooker hiding from her pimp."
"You don't think so?"
Dusty gave him a wry smile. "I don't think
so."
"I'm sure you've seen your share."
"Too many, if you ask me."
"Dugan usually there during the day gone at
night?"
"So far she hasn't left her room except to use
the phone once. Goes to the soup kitchen at the church. She's
scared of something."
"She go alone?"
"Usually with Rowland."
"Anyone been around to see her? Any
visitors?"
"A woman brought her in. Said she was a
friend. Said the girl needed a place to stay for a few nights. I
don't like to ask questions. People come and go. I don't mind as
long as they have their county slips for a room. This girl had a
fist full."
Phillips checked something on the list. "Let's
start with the third floor," she said.
Dusty knocked on Clarissa's door.
"Who is it?" came her muffled
response.
"Just Dusty," he called.
He heard her hesitant footsteps and a chair
being removed from under the doorknob. Then the dead bolt slid back
with a click and the door opened a crack.
"This is Dana Phillips," Dusty explained
indicating the inspector. "She's with County Health Services. She
wants to look at the room. Can we come in?"
Clarissa opened the door wider and the two
stepped into the room. Phillips ignored Clarissa as she ran water
in the sink and shower, and flushed the toilet.
"Everything work alright, Miss Dugan?" she
asked her.
"Yes, including the cockroaches," she answered
evenly. "I don't suppose you can do anything about
them?"
"When was the last time this place was
fumigated?" Phillips asked Dusty.
"Some guy is supposed to come and spray about
every three months," Dusty replied.
"You got paper work on it?" Phillips asked as
she opened the window and looked out onto the fire escape. "An
invoice or receipt that would indicate when he was last
here?"
"I'm sure I do," Dusty said.
"I'd like to see it. Right away if you will."
Dusty scowled and started to protest. "If there's a problem with
that, Mister Patterson...?" Phillips snapped irritably.
"I'll be right back," Dusty told Clarissa.
"You should have said something to me earlier about the problem,
Miss Dugan."
"Sorry," Clarissa apologized.
"Any other problems or complaints?" Phillips
asked her after Dusty had disappeared down the hallway.
"No," she said. "I just need to borrow a cell
phone to make a phone call."
Clarissa shrunk back inwardly from the woman's
severe gaze. She looked through her rather than at her and, even
though her lip was curled into a smile, her eyes scrutinized every
inch of her.
"What are you doing here, Miss Dugan?" she
asked and her voice was hard edged and demanded an answer. "Who are
you going to call?”
“Um...I. ...what business is it of yours? What
does care who I call?”
“Just asking.”
Clarissa took a step toward the door, ran
fingers through her hair nervously. Phillips watched her. The only
move she made was to unbutton her suit jacket.
"Just a friend," said Clarissa and her first
instinct was to run into the hallway. "I need to get out of here.
Do you have a phone I can use or not?"
"This is not a good place for a pretty young
woman," Phillips said. "There are other shelters. Nicer than this
with kitchenettes and no bugs. They shelter mostly abused women and
their kids but you'd be a lot safer there. Security is better than
a place like the Hempstead. I could get you in, no
problem."
"Look, I just need a phone."
"What if you can't reach your friend?"
Phillips slid her hand slowly into the back pocket of her skirt.
Clarissa tensed. "You don't want to spend another night here do
you?"
"No," Clarissa whispered.
"Harvard House is cleaner and the beds are
better than this thing," Phillips indicated the cot-like bed. "All
women, it's safe at night, don't have to worry about being ripped
off, two meals a day. Why don't you let me put you in that shelter?
They even let you make local calls on the office phone and they'll
take messages for you if calls come in. I have a few night's worth
of slips for Harvard House. They're yours, Miss Dugan."
The inspector's eyes were piercing and evil
and full of malice like Marco's. A cold paralysis seeped into
Clarissa's limbs, her legs were weak with terror. She was conscious
of the pounding rain outside, of the smell of damp garbage coming
from the alley below. An alley so many years ago flashed across her
mind. She wanted to scream, but she could not force sound from her
lips.
"I think you should go, Miss Phillips," she
whispered.
She should have run while she had the chance,
while the door was still open. Clarissa looked at the door
longingly and prayed that Dusty would come back. Phillips smiled
and reached out to give Clarissa the chits for Harvard
House”.
"Dusty will be back," she said.
"Do you think that old man cares what goes on
in these room?" Phillips said.
"I don't want your other shelter," Clarissa
cried. "I'm happy here. Just leave me alone."
"Miss Dugan" she whispered. "Those women are
not evil. They are a caring, loving community. They don’t care if
you’re gay or straight, using or strung out. They only want to
help. They truly care."
"Miss Phillips?" Dusty's voice was farther
down the hall. "I have that receipt."
"Dusty!" Clarissa cried."
"Miss Dugan?" Dusty said as he knocked lightly
on her door.
Phillips reached into her pocket and pulled
out the slips for the other shelter. She thrust them at Clarissa
who took them carefully and tucked them into her shirt
pocket.
"If you change your mind, Miss Dugan,"
Phillips said.
Phillips took the papers Dusty offered her and
scanned them briefly. She tucked the umbrella neatly under her arm
and without looking up at Clarissa she said, "At least you'd be
safe, Miss Dugan. Give that some serious thought.”
“Thank you,” Clarissa said quietly. “Really,
thank you.” Tears welled up in Clarissa’s eyes and suddenly the
room became close and oppressive.
Clarissa bolted past Dusty and the inspector
and ran down the hallway.
"Strange woman," Dusty scratched his head.
"Kind of high strung, if you ask me.
"Nobody's asking you," Phillips said as she
handed Dusty back the papers.
CHAPTER 10
The pretty blond receptionist glanced up as
Marco walked into the lobby of the executive offices of Roth
Galleries. She looked genuinely relieved when the phone rang at
that very moment and she was not required to further acknowledge
the disturbing visitor. Marco headed toward Wolfe's office. The
gallery offices were quiet and sullen except for an occasional
phone that rang or a computer printer that rattled out some closing
statements.
A couple of secretaries talked in hushed
whispers around the water cooler and an elderly man in his glass
enclosed office was putting the contents of his desk into a
cardboard box. Several such cartons and boxes were on the desks of
the employees. There were some tears and hugs, well wishes for the
future, and the exchange of phone numbers and promises to keep in
touch. There were solemn handshakes and hushed discussions of what
went wrong. There were quiet curses of Morgan Wolfe, and
accusations of murder muttered under the breath that went
uncomfortably silent as Marco passed.
Marco opened the door to Wolfe's office and
stepped inside. The secretary's desk was bare. Marco did not give
it a second glance. He knocked softly on the inner office
door.
"Come in, Marco," he heard Wolfe's voice and
marveled at how Wolfe seemed to be able to see through doors. "You
seemed troubled," Wolfe said as Marco stepped into the plush,
antique decorated office.
"I haven't heard from McKinnon," Marco began.
"Contact was supposed to have been made and the job done by this
afternoon."
"It's early yet," Wolfe said and went back to
some reports he was reviewing.
"This has never happened before, Mister
Wolfe," said Marco. "We've always taken care of things like this
right away and we did it ourselves. It's the way we stay clean. I
don't like this one bit. Her out there so long is
dangerous."
“She'll be dead by tonight," Wolfe
snapped.
"I'd like to make sure," Marco
protested.
Wolfe's glare was demonic when he raised his
eyes at Marco, and the man stepped back from the shear evil in the
glare. "You go near that place and you'll answer to me for it.
Clarissa knows you. You cased that flop house. You know that there
are too many damn witnesses. You blow this hit and we all can go
down. You do as I say. You don't call any shots. Let McKinnon do
the job. I don't want this business traced to us. McKinnon never
knows the client, only the victim and the payment. The job just
gets done quietly. Clarissa even helped out. She picked a damn flop
house to hide in. The murder will look like she was into drugs all
along and got knocked off by her supplier or someone equally as
questionable. So you don't go near that place, Marco. Am I
understood?"
"Yes, Mister Wolfe," said Marco quietly but
there was a hint of reluctance in his whisper.
"Where's Alex?"
"I haven't seen him since he got back from La
Jolla," Marco admitted.
"He was at breakfast this morning," said
Wolfe. "He was supposed to get me a revised Steadman report and I
need it for tomorrow. Find him. Tell him to get it over here to
me."
"Yes, Mister Wolfe. How long do I wait to hear
from McKinnon?"