OLIVER AND MATTIE were sipping coffee and swapping flood stories when he let it slip.
With a few catastrophic exceptions, the waters receded almost as quickly as they’d come, leaving most Nashvillians soggy but safe. Most, but not all. While Oliver napped through most of the deluge, Mattie had organized a task force of neighbors to help ferry valuables from ground-floor apartments to those on the second and third stories. Apparently some priceless antique vase was shattered in the process and now the neighbor directly above her was threatening to sue the neighbor directly below her.
“Seems to be a lot of that going around,” Oliver said.
“Meaning?”
“Oh,” Oliver said. “I’m not really supposed to say.”
Sherman had summoned him to his office again for yet another detailed grilling about the robbery of Room 218. As they reviewed Oliver’s written report in excruciating detail, Sherman mentioned a lawsuit, then realized what he’d said and sworn Oliver to secrecy.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Oliver said, then told Mattie that the Johnsons from 218 had contacted General Sherman and threatened a criminal complaint.
“No way, that’s ridiculous,” Mattie said. A tiny bubble of maple syrup had formed in the corner of her mouth. Oliver had made pancakes. “They’ll never go through with it. They were totally lying. Maybe not about the money, but about something.”
“I wish Sherman had your confidence. Maybe then he’d get off my case. And frankly … your case too.”
Mattie swallowed her last bite of pancake, then clicked into the hotel’s registration software. “You really want him off our case? Give me those first names again.”
“I think it was Daniel. Or maybe it was Donald? I can’t remember the wife’s name.”
“Didn’t you write it down?”
“It’s all in the report.”
“And where is that?”
“In Sherman’s office.”
Mattie attacked the keyboard as if it were one of her adding machines. “You didn’t keep a copy?”
“Nope. And Sherman keeps all the more sensitive stuff like that locked away in a special desk drawer.”
After another flurry of keystrokes, Mattie said, “What about Dennis?”
“Who?”
“Dennis Johnson, former point guard for the Celtics, actually.” She shrugged, then formed her next words into a kind of verbal parenthesis, “My dad was a big fan of the Celtics. But it also happens to be the name of the alleged victim from Room 218.”
“I still don’t get how you can be so sure they were lying.”
“Looks like they checked in under a corporate account.” Mattie checked her watch and frowned. “I need their home number.”
“I remember writing it down in the file. But like I said …”
“Guess we’ll just have to break in and get that file.”
Oliver laughed at her deadpan delivery. But Mattie didn’t. She just dabbed the syrup from the corner of her mouth, licked her finger, and stood as if preparing for battle.
• • •
Once outside the executive office suite, Mattie gathered her hair into a ponytail. She then removed her hotel-issued vest and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. After she fished a small velvety pouch from her purse, she looked at Oliver and said, “Ready?”
“I suppose.” Oliver had to wonder if he looked as sick as he felt.
“Come on, Oliver. I promise this won’t hurt a bit. Just tell me where he keeps the security files.”
Oliver’s mouth was so dry he had a hard time forming the words. “Credenza. Bottom drawer, right-hand side.”
“You sure you don’t have a key to his office?”
Oliver shook his head and tried to think of a way out of what they were about to do.
“Okay, get me into the executive suite then. And you stand guard.”
Oliver unlocked the door and watched Mattie disappear inside. She flipped the switch that lit up the hallway, then shut the door behind her.
He stood in the foyer, his back to the wall, and tried to convince himself that there was no real crime in what they were doing. It’s not like they were trying to profit from all this cloaking-and-daggering. Quite the opposite, in fact. If anything, they were trying to salvage the hotel’s reputation. The more he thought about it, this was the closest he’d ever come to doing actual security work since Sherman hired him. Plus, with a little luck, he might be able to massage the entire ordeal into a few minutes of decent comedy.
Oliver was just starting to breathe normal again when a ghost appeared at the top of the foyer stairs. Oliver felt his knees buckling and his throat clenching into a scream when the apparition finally spoke.
“Whew, good thing I found you.” The man had to be in his seventies, at least. His skin was so thin, so translucent that Oliver would have sworn he could see the blood coursing through the man’s veins. And there was a lot of skin showing. The old man was wearing nothing but a pair of threadbare boxer shorts. “I’m afraid I’ve locked myself out of my room.”
Oliver looked at the man, then at the door to the executive offices, then back at the man. He had no idea what to say, much less what to do.
But then Mattie emerged from the hallway looking exactly like she did when she’d gone in there, empty-handed. She was about to speak when Oliver motioned toward the man at the top of the stairs. He bent his knobby knees inward and covered his nipples with his hands. When he seemed to realize how ridiculous that looked, he shrugged and dropped his hands to his side.
“Don’t just stand there, Oliver. Let this nice man back into his room.”
• • •
The nice man’s name was Cleve. He offered no explanation as to how he ended up stranded in the lobby in his underpants. And Oliver didn’t ask. He was more worried about what kind of witness the old-timer would make should he and Mattie end up on trial for burglarizing their boss’s office. Outside Room 623, Cleve stood there, pacing in place, muttering to himself.
“Did you just say something about Mr. Sherman?” Oliver asked as he inserted his plastic master key into the thin slit, waited for the mechanical click and the little green light, then opened the door.
Cleve glanced up, then back down at his veiny feet. “Please don’t tell him you saw me.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Oliver said. “It’ll be our little secret.”
Cleve asked Oliver to wait another minute, ducked into his room, then returned offering a twenty-dollar tip. Oliver refused it and just shook the man’s hand instead, his palsied fingers unnaturally cold. Then Oliver ignored the elevator and hurried down six flights of steps to Mattie’s office.
“So,” he said, “you couldn’t find it?”
“Of course I found it,” Mattie said, giving her cell phone a small spin on the desktop. “It’s all in here.”
“Isn’t it a little late to be calling these people at their home?”
“If you remember, these people like to party. Besides, they probably won’t even answer. If they do, we’ll have the element of surprise on our side. Calling after midnight will just let them know we mean business.”
Mattie had already stretched another hotel phone over to the corner of her desk so Oliver could listen in. She checked the number again and began dialing. Between the thrill of the moment and the luxurious sound of Mattie’s breathing in his left ear, Oliver’s brain had almost completely disengaged. But that all changed after four long rings, when a vaguely familiar male voice answered.
Mattie’s voice was stern, scary even. “Is this Mr. Dennis Johnson of Williamsburg, Virginia?”
“Am I, or am I not, speaking with the same Mr. Johnson who filed a criminal burglary complaint against the Harrington Hotel on April 9 of this year? And whose lawyers have subsequently filed, um, briefs without the express written consent of major league … you know, like, legal authorities and such?”
Oliver felt his eyes bulging. And he fully expected Mattie to abort after stumbling over her words. But she actually looked more confident, not less.
“Oh, yeah, that’s me.” The man struggled through a wrenching yawn; Oliver and Mattie waited. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Believe me, Mr. Johnson …” She pronounced his name like an accusation. “I’d much rather be staring at Letterman over the tops of my bunny slippers than sitting in my office at this hour. But I wonder if you have any idea how many times we’ve tried to reach you during more respectable hours?”
Johnson swore under his breath. But the name he took in vain sounded like his wife’s.
Mattie forged ahead. “And before we begin, I feel it’s incumbent upon me to inform you that I have our chief investigator, Officer McCartney, on the line with us.” Oliver cleared his throat for the sake of veracity; Mattie shot him a thumbs-up. “You should know that this call may be recorded for quality—I mean, like, for legal purposes. Do you understand, Mr. Johnson?”
“No ma’am, I really don’t. Did you say you’re some kind of lawyer?”
“Some kind, yes,” Mattie said. “Now, would you like me to repeat anything for you, Mr. Johnson? I can go really slow if you think that will help.”
“Whatever,” he said.
Oliver mouthed the word Wow at Mattie, but she ignored him. She was in a zone.
“Tell me, Mr. Johnson. Are you under the influence of anything right now?”
“Does sleepiness count?”
“I’ll be brief then. If you intend to move forward with what we, here at Harrison, Lennon, & Starr, frankly consider a frivolous criminal complaint against our client, then you are obligated under statute 3, section 2B of the Tennessee State Penal Code to allow us a rather wide purview in the pursuit of our due diligence against —”
“Calm down lady. You’re making my head hurt. Just tell me what you want. And try to say it in English.”
“We’re asking you to cease and desist in this fraudulent litigation.”
“What?”
“It means stop, sir. It means we want you to drop all legal action against the hotel.”
He laughed, but not like he meant it. “Now why would I do that?”
“Do you watch CSI, Mr. Johnson?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Then I’m guessing you’ve seen what they can do these days with fingernail clippings. Not to mention skin fragments, pubic hairs, and all the other grimy little microbes people leave in hotel rooms.”
“So what? We never denied being in the room.”
“Who’s the nail biter in your family? Is that you or Mrs. Johnson?”
“This is ridiculous. Did you find my money or not?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Are you familiar with Inositol, Mr. Johnson?”
There was a pause, long and suspicious. Oliver heard loud breathing in his ear, realized it was his own breath, and stopped. Finally, Johnson said, “No.”
“It’s a cutting agent.” Mattie inserted a long pause of her own. “Commonly used to make crystal meth.” Mattie let this sink in, then added, “If you cooperate, we might consider giving you the benefit of the doubt and assume you and the missus were on your way to a science fair.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”
“I think you do, Mr. Johnson.”
“If you’re so confident, why are you calling me? Why not just take it to court?”
“Trust me, the longer we talk, the more anxious I am to blister your sorry behind in front of a jury. But unfortunately for me, my client would prefer to avoid the publicity.”
“I’ll need to talk to my wife.”
“I’m sure you will, sir. But if you’d like to avoid criminal charges, I’d suggest you talk to her tonight.”
“She won’t be happy.”
“That makes at least two of us.”
Johnson sighed, a long tortured sound. He mumbled a creative string of naughty words, then said, “Give me a number where I can call you back.”
“Just call your lawyer, sir. Have them drop the charges.”
• • •
Mattie hung up and released a gust of pent-up breath. Oliver stared at her, still in awe. “You think it will work?” he said.
“I have no idea.” Mattie’s cheeks turned pink and her eyes lost their ability to focus on any one thing. She seemed to have spent all her confidence on Mr. Johnson.
“The law offices of Harrison, Lennon, and Starr?” Oliver asked.
“You caught that, huh?”
“I did. And did I hear you say ‘express written consent of major league … what did you say again?’”
“What can I say? My dad was a big baseball fan too.”
“Just remind me to never get on your bad side,” Oliver said. “And how did you know about that Inosi-stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Mattie said. “They had all the obvious signs when I checked them out that morning—the acne, the random scabs and gaunt faces, and that constant wide-eyed look. Just seemed kind of obvious.”
“So does your family, like, run a meth lab out of the basement or something?”
Oliver was laughing when he said it. But again, Mattie didn’t laugh back.
“Something like that, yeah.”
• • •
Hours later, Oliver nearly killed a valet on his way out of the garage.
He was fiddling with the car radio as he came down the ramp and didn’t see the pink-faced car jocky standing there and waving at him with both hands. Oliver braked hard and the sound of shrieking tires haunted every concrete crevice of the entire parking garage.
Oliver rolled his window down and the panting valet said, “General Sherman needs to see you.”
“Did he say why?”
“Nope, but he sounded pretty serious,” the valet said as he opened the driver’s-side door. “Better let me park this thing for you.”
Sherman was studying something on his desk and didn’t look up when Oliver entered. With his head still down, he said, “Was there some kind of problem last night?”
“A problem? I don’t think so.”
“Then maybe you could explain why when I arrived this morning I found the lights on inside the executive office suite. Unless I’m missing something, I was the last one out last night and the first one in this morning.”
“Huh.” Oliver resisted the impulse to bang the heel of his hand against his now throbbing head.
“Did you happen to enter the executive hallway on your rounds last night?”
“No, sir.” Oliver checked his conscience as the words tumbled out of his mouth. And it was true. He never actually stepped foot in there. Mattie did. But Sherman hadn’t asked about Mattie yet.
“And did you not notice the light pouring out around the doorway on your rounds last night?”
“No, sir. I can honestly say I didn’t notice that.”
“Isn’t that part of your job, Oliver? To notice such things?”
“Yes, sir, it is. And I’m afraid I don’t really have a good explanation—”
“Tell me this. Did you see anyone roaming the halls last night?
“Just an old man in his underwear.”
“You think this is funny, Mr. Miles?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
Sherman cocked his head, then wrinkled his brow at Oliver, as if trying to figure out if he was joking or not. “Okay, I’ll be a little more specific then. Did you see anyone from our executive team here after hours?”
“Oh no, absolutely not.”
“Because we both know they resent having to ‘check in’ with the lowly security guard when they need to pop back into their office to grab their umbrella or lunchbox or whatever. This may not be the crime of the century, Oliver. But we do have rules about these kinds of things.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Very well then. I just wanted to make sure you had nothing to report before I hit Send on this rather scathing email about after-hours policies.”
Oliver had every intention of feeling guilty about all this, but then the phone on Sherman’s desk lit up. He whispered, “Excuse me,” then answered. Oliver watched his boss’s expression morph from an overly pleasant hotel manager face to one lined with concern and confusion, and maybe even a hint of relief. Sherman’s side of the conversation was limited to punctuating bursts of I see and yes, uh-huh and very well. His only complete thoughts came at the end, a string of sentence fragments that amounted to variations on the theme of Thank you.
“Interesting,” he said after disconnecting. Then he just sat and stared at the fancy mechanical pencil in his hand.
When he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, Oliver said, “Everything okay, sir?”
“Oh yes, sorry. That was good news, actually. Odd, but good.” Sherman opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. There appeared to be some kind of internal debate raging behind his eyes. Finally, he nodded to himself and said, “Do you remember the name Dennis Johnson?”
“Isn’t that the guy from 218?”
“Two-eighteen?” Sherman said. “Oh, yes, the scene of the alleged robbery. Nice memory.”
“He called you?”
“Actually, that was his lawyer. And it seems they’re dropping the charges against the hotel.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Sherman. That’s fantastic.”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.”
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Not wrong, just curious. It seems the Johnsons’ change of heart came after talking to one of the members of our legal team.”
Oliver didn’t see any obvious lapses in logic so he waited. And tried not to smile.
“The thing is,” Sherman continued, “the Harrington lawyers were never apprised of the situation.”
“They weren’t?” Oliver said, mostly just to have something to say.
“Up to this point, all the communication has been limited to their attorney and me. My hope was to mediate this in-house before involving the Harrington legal team. As you can imagine, we don’t need this kind of negative publicity. Sometimes, the less our superiors know the better.”
Oliver could not have agreed more. “But now you don’t have to worry any more, right?”
“I suppose not. But I still cannot fathom how or why the Harrington lawyers could have contacted Mr. Johnson. As far as I can tell, the only people who knew about this were my wife and myself.” Then Sherman met Oliver’s eyes and added, “And you.”
Oliver almost blurted out, “And Mattie!” He could—and probably should—try and give her credit. But to do so would be to admit he watched her break into Sherman’s office. Oliver decided that silence was the least of all available evils.
Plus, Sherman was still studying him, no doubt wondering if his lowly security guard had the necessary moxie to tangle with adversarial lawyers on the behalf of his employer. But then he laughed, something Oliver had never actually heard Sherman do before. It was not an altogether pleasant sound.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Miles. And have an outstanding day. I know I certainly will.”