Chapter 81
LUCY
On Friday morning, I walked into Hotel Pico.
I’d planned on going in on Thursday, but Remington Patton had called an emergency meeting for my parents and me.
It proved unnecessary. Things had remained pretty much the same.
The LAPD continued to have zero suspects.
They wanted to interview me a second time, but Remington refused to let them.
I know it was the right decision, but being innocent, I hated the impression that it left.
I made a big mistake one day when I looked at comments on an article about Eddie’s murder, and they mostly said something along the lines of “If she’s innocent, why isn't she answering the LAPD’s questions?”
I brought this up with Remington at the meeting, and she said, “Would you rather be popular with the public and spend the rest of your life in jail? That can be arranged.”
She continued to be one tough woman, but she was right. I had no good response.
A nondescript woman in her fifties was at the front desk of Hotel Pico. Her nametag said Hilga. I had a picture of Eddie ready to show her when the time was right. I was nervous, but weirdly, excited.
Since Eddie’s death, I’d had this feeling that something depraved was going on, and I was hoping to prove it.
In no small part because I was beating myself up about not reacting as sadly to his death as maybe I should have.
If I proved that Eddie really was up to no good, it would help validate my reaction, or lack thereof.
“Hi, how are you, Hilga?” I said.
“Welcome to Hotel Pico. Would you like to book a room?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, what brings you here?”
“I have a few odd questions.”
She looked bemused. “I’ll play along. What are they?”
“My husband was recently murdered.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. And then I got a call from a friend telling me that she saw my husband walking out of this hotel about three weeks ago, possibly up to no good.”
“And you wanted to find out if he’d booked a room for that day?”
This woman seemed to be on my side. Good, I wasn’t sure what protocol would be for looking into people’s past reservations.
That didn’t look like it would be a problem with Hilga.
And maybe it wasn’t a problem with Hotel Pico at all.
I doubt they guarded people’s privacy like one of my father’s hotels would.
“Thank you so much. That would be great.”
“What was the date?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we could check from two to four weeks back on a Tuesday morning.”
“So a Monday night reservation, I’m guessing?”
“I guess so,” I said, and then hated myself for my follow-up question. “Unless you guys rent by the hour.”
She laughed quite loudly.
“I know we’re not quite a five-star hotel, but no, we don’t rent by the hour. This isn’t Skid Row, honey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you what, I’ll look at both Monday and Tuesday for the last month for you.”
“You’re amazing. Thank you.”
“What was your husband’s name?”
“Eddie Sykes.”
“Okay, give me a second.”
She tapped away on the computer screen in front of her. It seemed to go on for five minutes, but it was probably more like one.
“I’m sorry. No one named Eddie Sykes has stayed here in the last month. Monday, Tuesday, or any other day.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, and decided to show her the picture of Eddie. “Do you recognize this man?”
She looked at it intently. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I probably should have said this at the beginning, but I don’t work Tuesday mornings.”
“Who does?”
“His name was Harry Shoe.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, he died a few days ago.”
Hmmm. This just got a lot more interesting. “How did he die?”
“He drowned by the Santa Monica Pier, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I don’t know. Harry didn’t quite seem like the beach type. Then again, he was a recovering drug addict who still drank a lot, so maybe he got blasted on Wednesday night, and the Pacific Ocean took him away.”
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
“He was more of a co-worker, but thanks. Harry wasn’t exactly the most upstanding man I ever met.”
That got me thinking.
“If someone offered to pay cash for a room so they didn’t have to leave a paper trail, would Harry have allowed that?”
Hilga smiled. “Without question.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what? I just remembered something. I got a call sometime last week from a woman asking about Harry?”
“Oh, yeah. What did she want to know?”
“The times of Eddie’s shifts.”
“That seems odd. Was she hoping to hang out with him personally?”
Hilga laughed. “No, Harry wasn’t exactly a ladies' man. This woman just wanted to thank him for his great service. Which actually seems less likely than wanting to hang out with Harry personally. Sorry, that sounds mean.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s just that Harry wasn’t the most outgoing or nice guy. This was the first person I can remember who’d ever asked if they could thank Harry personally.”
“That does sound odd. Did you tell the LAPD about that?”
Hilga turned serious. “The LAPD doesn’t care about some ex-junkie in his late sixties who drowned. They haven’t even come by the hotel. I’m sure they think it was an accidental drowning. And maybe it was. It just doesn’t sound like Harry.”
“Can you look who made that call?”
Hilga smiled. “It’s a good thing I like you.”
Less than thirty seconds later, she looked up at me. “Was your husband really murdered?”
“Yes.” I almost said “I promise,” but I could tell that my “yes” was enough.
“Here, let me write down the number for you.”
She took a sheet from a little pad with Hotel Pico’s letterhead, wrote on it, and handed it over.
“I hope this helps you out.”
“Thank you so much, Hilga. You’ve been fantastic.”
When I arrived at my car, I took out the piece of paper and stared down at it.
Was this going to be pivotal in finding out who killed my husband? Was it just a coincidence that an employee of Hotel Pico had died? Was my husband having an affair there? Was he up to something far more devious?
I didn’t know the answers to any of the questions, but I was ready to start probing.
I called the number on the piece of paper.
A female voice answered. “Thanks for calling April’s Coffee Shop.”