Chapter 46
CINDY AND I stepped into the ornate but dated lobby of Hotel Montserrat. Even at a whisper, our voices echoed in the cavernous space. Its dark mahogany walls and its pillars covered in some sort of purple satin reminded me of Disney’s Haunted Mansion. Or the fictional House of Usher.
An indifferent clerk barely glanced up from the reception desk, which looked like it was newly added. The bright birch wood veneer didn’t match the rest of the lobby. The clerk pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose but didn’t bother to speak to us.
I said in a low voice to Cindy, “Are you certain they came in here?”
Cindy was clearly agitated. She nodded her head and said, “I’m sure. I’m sure they walked in here.”
We approached the reception desk. The clerk made a show out of putting down his cell phone, sighing loudly, then looking at us.
“Can I help you?” His tone sounded like it was a chore to even address us.
I smiled. “Did an older man and a teenage girl just check in?”
Now the clerk looked at us a little more closely. He had an unpolished look, unusual for a front-desk clerk. He was probably in his early twenties, with a thin ponytail dangling behind his head, and tattooed letters on each of his fingers before the first knuckle that spelled out, “Fuck life.”
“What are you, a cop?” he asked.
“As matter of fact…” I held up my badge and ID. “I’ll ask again. Did a man and an underage girl just check in? All we care about is the girl’s safety. Nothing else. If she’s okay, we’ll leave and there’s no report.”
The dopey kid snorted. “Like I’d believe a cop.”
Cindy said, “I saw them walk in here.”
“So you know the answer to the question. Why are you bothering me?”
Now Cindy couldn’t contain herself anymore. “Seriously, all we care about is the girl’s safety. Once we establish that, everything’s cool.”
The clerk said, “If you leave now, everything’s cool.”
I said, “I’m afraid I can’t leave now that we’ve established a concern for someone’s safety. I need to talk to your manager.”
“Does it look like there’s a manager around?”
“What’s your name?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then I refuse to identify myself. Now, do I need to call your manager to get you the hell out of here?”
Neither Cindy nor I moved. I said, “It’s critical we find that girl.”
“You cops think everything is critical. My dad works in the mayor’s office. He says cops overreact to everything.”
Cindy said, “Your dad does not work for the mayor.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Bullshit.”
I saw what Cindy was doing. It was genius. We’d find out this moron’s name soon enough.
Cindy added, “If your dad works in the mayor’s office, what’s his name?”
“Jerry Little.” The clerk looked satisfied like he’d just dropped a mic.
Cindy checked on her phone quickly and said, “Son of a gun. Jerry Little, right on the city website. He’s the mayor’s deputy press officer. And I’ve never even heard of him.”
An idea formed in the back of my mind. I took a risk. I looked at the clerk and said, “Call him.”
“What?”
“Call your dad. He’ll tell you what you should do.”
The clerk hesitated. Then he picked up the receiver on the push-button landline phone on the reception desk. From my end, I heard him say, “Hey, Dad. Some cops—”
I reached across and snatched the phone out of the jerk’s hand. I heard the clerk say, “Hey!” but I ignored him.
I wasted no time. I identified myself and explained quickly what we were doing.
All Jerry Little said was “So? Why are you calling me?”
I explained about the standoff with his son. To which Little said, “I recommend you leave the premises immediately.”
I was pissed off, but I held it together.
I said in an even tone, “Okay. As I understand it, you just told me to leave the hotel and your son alone. I want to make sure I get this right for my report: The mayor’s office declined to help when the SFPD expressed concern for a minor child’s welfare. Is that correct, Mr. Little?”
“I don’t respond to blackmail.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time.” I reached across the desk and hung up the phone before the clerk could talk to his dad. Cindy gave me a puzzled look. I just mumbled to her, “Wait for it.”
“Wait for what?”
Just then the phone on the reception desk rang. I felt a little smug when I said, “For this.”
The clerk answered the phone and spoke for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and handed me the phone. I heard the deputy press officer for the mayor of San Francisco say, “You were a little curt with me, Sergeant Boxer.”
“Look, this is important. We need to get to the point.”
Little said, “There’s no need to get the mayor’s office involved in this. If you’re just there to check on a girl’s safety—”
“Great, now talk to your son.” I thrust the phone back in the clerk’s face. As we were waiting for the clerk to get off the phone, I saw a heavyset man built like an NFL interior lineman step out of the elevator and start across the lobby.
Cindy said, “That’s him, that’s the man.”
I took a few steps in the man’s direction. “Excuse me, sir.” I pulled out my badge and said, “SFPD.”
The big man burst into a sprint and crashed through the front doors.