the seat.
Less than half an hour later, Butoli’s prediction was proven right. The desk clerk at the Georgian Hotel identified the picture before Larry Marshall could get out his notebook.
“Oh my…he is dead?” the clerk asked.
Butoli nodded.
“Poor man, but glad it didn’t happen here.”
Marshall smirked. “Yeah, I see your point. Not good for business, huh?”
The clerk flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t say that right. I’m sorry Mr. Walton is dead. He seemed like nice man, but you know what I mean…right?”
Butoli frowned. No luggage had been found with the body. Maybe they’d just found their motive for the old man’s death. People had been killed for far less than a suitcase of clothes.
“What name did he register under?” he asked.
“Walton…Frank Walton. I remember I teased him and asked if he was related to John Boy. You know…from TV show.”
“Exactly when did he check out?” Butoli asked.
The clerk turned to the computer and typed in the name.
“Here it is. Yesterday morning.”
Butoli’s frown deepened. The coroner had told them that the old man had probably died between 7:00 and 9:00 p.m. the night before his body was discovered. So if Walton was already dead, then he couldn’t have checked himself out. His pulse skipped a beat.
“You’re sure? Did he check out at the desk?”
The clerk scanned the screen and then looked up. “I was not on duty. All I know is room key was turned in and his bill put on credit card he gave on arrival.”
“We’ll need that credit card number,” Marshall said.
The clerk frowned. “I am not supposed to give—“
“It’s to confirm identification and to make sure it wasn’t a stolen card, understand?”
The clerk hesitated and then copied it from the screen to a piece of paper and handed it to Marshall.
“Had his room been slept in?” Butoli asked.
The clerk shook his head. “I don’t know. You have to check with housekeeping.”
“Then get somebody up here,” Butoli said. “We’ll wait.”
“Can you speak Russian?” the clerk asked.
“No,” Butoli said.
“Then I need to call manager, too, or you get nowhere with the help.”
“You don’t speak Russian?” Marshall asked.
“I am not Russian. I am Slovak.”
“Whatever,” Marshall muttered.
A short while later they were in the manager’s office, conducting a half-assed interrogation through a man who quite obviously wished them to be anywhere else but here. The reluctant hotel manager was standing beside a cowering housemaid, who obviously thought she was in some kind of trouble. Despite the fact that they’d assured her otherwise, she hadn’t stopped crying since she’d entered the room.
“What the hell did you say to her?” Butoli growled.
The manager, who was also of Russian descent glared back at Butoli.
“I said noting,” he snapped. “She makes her own conclusion.”
“Fine.” Butoli said. “So ask her this. Did she clean Mr. Walton’s room every day?”
The manager translated the question, and the housemaid quickly nodded.
“Ask her if he ever had any visitors.”
The little maid shrank even smaller against the chair, muttering beneath her breath as she shrugged.
“She says she saw no one but him in the room.”
Butoli nodded and smiled at the woman, hoping she would take that as a sign he meant her no harm. It didn’t seem to work. She covered her face with her hands and refused to look him in the eye.
“God almighty,” Butoli mumbled, then took a deep breath and started over. “Did she clean that same room on the morning Walton checked out?”
“She says yes, but that there was not much to do. He had not slept in his bed.”
Butoli’s attention sharpened. “What about his clothing…his luggage? Was it still in the room?”
The manager relayed the questions, then translated her answer again.
“She says everything was
Less than half an hour later, Butoli’s prediction was proven right. The desk clerk at the Georgian Hotel identified the picture before Larry Marshall could get out his notebook.
“Oh my…he is dead?” the clerk asked.
Butoli nodded.
“Poor man, but glad it didn’t happen here.”
Marshall smirked. “Yeah, I see your point. Not good for business, huh?”
The clerk flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t say that right. I’m sorry Mr. Walton is dead. He seemed like nice man, but you know what I mean…right?”
Butoli frowned. No luggage had been found with the body. Maybe they’d just found their motive for the old man’s death. People had been killed for far less than a suitcase of clothes.
“What name did he register under?” he asked.
“Walton…Frank Walton. I remember I teased him and asked if he was related to John Boy. You know…from TV show.”
“Exactly when did he check out?” Butoli asked.
The clerk turned to the computer and typed in the name.
“Here it is. Yesterday morning.”
Butoli’s frown deepened. The coroner had told them that the old man had probably died between 7:00 and 9:00 p.m. the night before his body was discovered. So if Walton was already dead, then he couldn’t have checked himself out. His pulse skipped a beat.
“You’re sure? Did he check out at the desk?”
The clerk scanned the screen and then looked up. “I was not on duty. All I know is room key was turned in and his bill put on credit card he gave on arrival.”
“We’ll need that credit card number,” Marshall said.
The clerk frowned. “I am not supposed to give—“
“It’s to confirm identification and to make sure it wasn’t a stolen card, understand?”
The clerk hesitated and then copied it from the screen to a piece of paper and handed it to Marshall.
“Had his room been slept in?” Butoli asked.
The clerk shook his head. “I don’t know. You have to check with housekeeping.”
“Then get somebody up here,” Butoli said. “We’ll wait.”
“Can you speak Russian?” the clerk asked.
“No,” Butoli said.
“Then I need to call manager, too, or you get nowhere with the help.”
“You don’t speak Russian?” Marshall asked.
“I am not Russian. I am Slovak.”
“Whatever,” Marshall muttered.
A short while later they were in the manager’s office, conducting a half-assed interrogation through a man who quite obviously wished them to be anywhere else but here. The reluctant hotel manager was standing beside a cowering housemaid, who obviously thought she was in some kind of trouble. Despite the fact that they’d assured her otherwise, she hadn’t stopped crying since she’d entered the room.
“What the hell did you say to her?” Butoli growled.
The manager, who was also of Russian descent glared back at Butoli.
“I said noting,” he snapped. “She makes her own conclusion.”
“Fine.” Butoli said. “So ask her this. Did she clean Mr. Walton’s room every day?”
The manager translated the question, and the housemaid quickly nodded.
“Ask her if he ever had any visitors.”
The little maid shrank even smaller against the chair, muttering beneath her breath as she shrugged.
“She says she saw no one but him in the room.”
Butoli nodded and smiled at the woman, hoping she would take that as a sign he meant her no harm. It didn’t seem to work. She covered her face with her hands and refused to look him in the eye.
“God almighty,” Butoli mumbled, then took a deep breath and started over. “Did she clean that same room on the morning Walton checked out?”
“She says yes, but that there was not much to do. He had not slept in his bed.”
Butoli’s attention sharpened. “What about his clothing…his luggage? Was it still in the room?”
The manager relayed the questions, then translated her answer again.
“She says everything was
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