Ep 5
Doug Nichols parked his unmarked cruiser in the lot of The Hotel, a few rows back and around the corner from the front desk. The long-term clientele knew who he was, but most of the rest were nervous when a cop, even if off duty, walked into the lobby. It was not a secret that he had a room, but it was not well known as to why he was a Legacy key holder. Doug had his own apartment in town, but he came here when he needed specific information that could not be found by normal means.
Doug’s great grandfather, Markus Nichols, founded The Hotel many years ago. As owner, he had his own room. It was not on the top floor, not that anyone could really tell by looking out the window. The view was similar for all the rooms, and repeat clients always got the same room, no matter how many rooms were occupied. Doug still could not understand how his ancestor worked out those details. He assumed it was just one of those ‘quirks’ that he was known for.
The Hotel started as a waypoint for those lost in their travels. A night here would always help them get to where they needed to be. After some time, word of mouth got around that The Hotel was able to get what you needed. Sometimes, it was your needed destination. Other times, it was what you needed. The Night Manager was a fixture. Ever present, yet never much for conversation. Markus wanted to have a place where you could just show up, rent a room, and not have to worry about questions. Originally, there were only stairs, on each side of the building. After a particularly delicate situation where two clients who were trying to avoid each other met in the same set of stairs, the elevator was installed and the stairs were closed off. No one knew who the Night Manager hired to do it, but it, like so much in the building, it was unique.
Nichols walked into the lobby. It was reminiscent of the old grand hotels, with high backed leather seats, and an ashtray on a stand next to the arm. Sitting in one of the seats transported you to a time without cell phones, where you would expect to see a dust-covered traveler come in, having been dropped off at the stagecoach stop down the hill. The Night Manager looked up at him, and his face darkened. He looked down at his book, still without a bookmark. It was only a few hours since Nichols had left with his partner, and The Night Manager had not yet replaced the bookmark that was crumpled in the trash. Nichols approached the front desk, a dark, stained hulk of wood. Even with years of studying, he never could tell what stained it, but it wasn’t a can of Minwax. The wood itself was in very good condition, with little wear, aside from the rounding of the corners. No laminate to peel, it was burnished with decades of sweat and skin.
“Listen, I didn’t expect the kid to say anything,” defended Nichols. “He has been adapting to the town since he got here, but it still takes a while for many. I couldn’t leave him in the car like a little kid, could I?”
The flat look on the Night Manager’s face told volumes of where he thought Nichols’ partner should stay.
“Yeah, I know, the best questions to ask are the ones you say into the mirror,” sighed Nichols. “Here, it isn’t much, but I found another bookmark to hold you over until someone needs a favor.” With that, he fished out a tattered piece of paper and slid it across the counter.
The Night Manager reached over and took the paper to read it. Explaining his reasons for needing a martyr to support and the need for a shift in government, it was the suicide letter of President John F. Kennedy. The Night Manager nodded approvingly. He never cared about whether it was money that he received; he cared about the intrinsic value. That note was highly sought after once it had been revealed that the entire event was staged.
“I occasionally come across scraps of paper when taking inventory of a criminal’s pockets. He won’t need it anymore.”
The Night Manager shook his head. He never liked the gossip about a gift. Turning, he reached into the cubby hole that held Nichols’ mail and retrieved it. It was in a large, unmarked envelope, sealed like all mail that sat waiting to be claimed by a guest. Nichols took the envelope and nodded in thanks as he headed to the elevator.
Nichols pressed the only button on the elevator call panel and waited. A few moments later, the doors opened. Just as Nichols, distracted by the volume of mail, stepped onto the lift, a man cleared his throat.
“Well, this is rather awkward, old chum,” the man said. He was an elderly man, somewhere in his mid-seventies, dressed like he was going to a business meeting.
Nichols stopped in his tracks. He had never run into another person on the elevator. Anonymity was something The Hotel prided itself on. You might see someone in the lobby, but you never rode the elevator with anyone, and you never saw someone on your floor either. The thud of the Night Manager’s book hitting the floor was loud in the sudden silence of the lobby.
“Um, I’m sorry to block you from getting off, uh, sir?” Doug Nichols was just as shocked. This was not part of operations.
“Oh, it’s rather ok, my friend,” the man smiled. “I was going up, but the door opened before I could get my key in. Would you like to ride along? I promise I won’t bite.”
Curious to how this happened, and with an old sense of his family’s ownership, he stepped into the small box. As he did, he glanced at the Night Manager, who was still looking at him with concern. Doug nodded to him, letting him know that he was not worried. The doors closed, and Nichols turned to the interior panel. He was not surprised to see two key slots, but only one button. Number 13.
“I think that this might be the ‘interesting times’ that I have heard about,” the elderly man chuckled. The two pushed their key into a slot and turned, which turned on the light.
Nichols was even more puzzled. No one else had a room on 13. It was locked out from the elevator a few decades after the building were finished. Superstition was one thing, the reality was much worse. They rode the lift in silence, neither looking at the other. There was a buzz to announce the arrival at the floor, and the door opened.
“Hmm,” the other man commented. Instead of one hallway leading straight from the lift, there were two, going to the right and left of the lift door, “Which one is yours?”
Nichols looked to the right, and saw the door labeled 13A. Following a hunch, he looked down at his key. Engraved on the key was the letter B. The keys were never marked, and intentionally blank. It was a stipulation when Markus Nichols hired the locksmith. He wanted to guarantee that they could not be identified in case they were lost. It would be bad form for someone to get unauthorized access to The Hotel. Silently, he nodded his head towards the left, 13B.
The other man smiled and stuck out his hand. “Well, Mr. Nichols, I guess this is where we part ways? Maybe we shall run into each other, but I doubt it.”
“How did you know my name? Who are you, that you know my name?” Nichols did not like that any stranger knew he was here.
“I must have heard it when you were downstairs, I guess. Maybe from the quiet man at the front desk?” the gentleman started to walk towards his room. Suddenly, he turned back to Nichols, who was slowly walking towards room B. “Where are my manners? I never gave you my name. Everyone calls me Mars.”
Nichols continued walking to his door as a feeling of déjà vu came over him, turning back to the man, the other hallway had vanished. He was alone on his floor again.
Why would another man have a room on this floor, and his nickname be Mars? That is too weird to be coincidence. He stuck the key into the lock, and turned, opening the door. He looked up, and the letter ‘B’ was missing from the front of the door. Shrugging, he walked inside and closed the door.
Inside, the Owner’s Suite was little different from its original design. The Night Manager had Electricity installed, and also a private phone system. In the corner was an ornate desk, large enough to run a business and still have space to fit the bottle of wine that he has in case he wanted a drink. The entire suite had been paneled in solid walnut, except for the expansive bathroom. That was tiled in marble. Brass and silver fittings, with ivory switch and electrical plates. He didn’t know how the housekeeping kept it all in excellent condition, but that was just another mystery he didn’t care to investigate.
He took off his shoes and walked across the deep rug to the desk. A few years back, he had a computer custom built for this room in The Hotel. He sat down and turned it on. The main screen warmed up, and he logged in. He flipped the switch to turn on the other monitor screen. That had its own password and separate operating system.
Pulling up a browser in the main screen, he logged into the department’s server. He started reading the case notes of the stiff found on the highway. There was nothing new. It wasn’t like anyone was going to volunteer information on an event that they didn’t know they saw happen. Those that do know, are not the type to want to hang out with the police no matter the occasion. Absentmindedly, Nichols picked up the phone and pressed a button on the speed dial.
“Unicorn,” came the terse response.
“House special burger with bacon, and a root beer,” Nichols replied.
“Yes sir, 20 minutes.”
There was a click as the call ended. Nichols smiled. It was worth the money to have that line installed. He didn’t know how they brewed beer from the roots of the coffee plant, but it was damn good. He went back to the report, reading the medical examiner’s report. There was enough alcohol in his blood to show he was drunk, but the part that stood out was the volume of red meat and shrimp that was in his stomach. They tested it, and it was not bovine, but some other animal. The victim’s blood had markers that were yet to be identified.
His food arrived via the dumbwaiter. He bit into the burger, enjoying a flavor that he has never found in another burger…
Shit, he thought, and turned to the other screen for the computer. Bringing up another browser, he pulled up the Gilded Unicorn’s webpage. Clicking on the event schedule, he looked back to the date of death.
“Shit.” This time, he said it out loud. Taking another bite of the burger, he called his partner.
“Hey Rollie, what are you doing? We need to go check something out, and I need backup.” He paused, listening, then replied, “I don’t need more than you, but keep an open mind, and an extra magazine. See you in ten.”
Nichols finished the burger and turned off the computer. Checking his back up gun to confirm the silver hollow point bullets, with garlic capsules, he went to the elevator. Passing the elevator with the “Out of Order” sign on it, he took the old stairs to the lobby, and out into the night.
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