While The Excelsior, off Central Park West in the mid 90s, was one of Manhattan’s more exclusive hotels, its garage was as grimy as the rest of the city’s underbelly. Exhaust fumes threatened to subdue what little oxygen crawled weakly through its dank, ramped cavern. Dirt caked the floor and walls, graying the entire space, even the air seemed thick with soot.
Mallory and Gunner flanked a hotel representative, a short, thin, well-dressed man with a hanky held over his nose. They descended an incline past a wide assortment of cars. One side was long-term parking, made obvious by the quality of vehicles found there: a hulking black Hummer, a silver Lexus GS430, four BMWs, two Audis, six Mercedes. The other side had to be employees, with cars ranging from Fords to Toyotas, and bumper stickers proclaiming “Jesus Saves” and “Proud my child is a Bloomfield Honor Student,” or college decals along the bottom of the rear windshields ranging from Penn State to Starfleet Academy.
The trio stepped under police tape, Mallory halting the Crime Scene photographer with an upheld hand, inspiring an eye roll. Mallory shook his head slightly, began to examine the victim.
Gunner nudged the hotel rep. “Talk about checking out.” The diminutive man cringed.
Before them lay Chamberlain Davis Whitfield III, who the hotel rep had reported as being a long-term guest. His death was a culmination of damage that likely took a significant amount of time to complete, even at a brisk pace.
From just a cursory visual inspection, there was evidence of a severe blow to the head, what looked and smelled like animal feces in and around the nose and mouth, and a series of deep cuts to the neck. White or clear granules stuck to the neck wounds in matted clumps, a trail running off the corpse to a discarded container about ten feet away.
“Salt in the wounds,” Mallory said.
Three fingers on the right hand were shattered; the digits bent back almost 180 degrees and held there with duct tape. The ring and pinky fingers strained purple against glowing gold rings.
“Theft seems unlikely, if those bad boys are still on him,” Gunner said.
The left elbow seemed smashed, forcing the arm into a stomach-turning reverse angle. Blood splotches stained the white dress shirt throughout the torso.
That brought the rep nearly to tears. “Custom-made Borrelli, easily $500,. Prada suit, over $1,500. Dolcepunta 11-fold tie, $325. Gucci loafers! I just can’t stand the violation!”
Without removing the clothes, Mallory couldn’t tell whether the skin had ruptured from bludgeoning, lacerations or stabbing. He did pull back the jacket, for a better look at the pants. They were exquisitely styled, and had been slashed and stabbed numerous times, reducing the crotch area to a large, deep red stain. The right leg bent away from the body in two unnatural angles.
Behind the detectives, the hotel rep dropped to his knees, gagging. The detectives left him there to wretch, and continued their inspection.
“Overkill,” Mallory muttered.
“Severe overkill,” Gunner agreed. “But definitely our guy,” he added, nodding toward the array of index cards. “More footnotes.”
The cards lay at the end of the victim’s outstretched right arm, under the ruined fingers. The top card bore a single marking; a Roman numeral:
III
Mallory was already on his cell phone, walking away from the hotel rep. “Lieu, this is very likely the same perp. … Yeah, with some pronounced variations, the M.O. is clearly present. … There is more detailed work here, but the similarities… yes the cards are present … Haven’t released them yet. … Lieu, I would say Gunner’s on the money — the mayor’s got his out. But please do not release the particulars., especially not the cards. … We’ll be here the rest of the shift would be my guess.”
Mallory and Gunner stepped aside, letting the CSI guy get back to work. It would be awhile before the detectives could get their rubber-gloved hands on the cards.
Behind the detectives, the hotel representative loudly mourned from behind his hanky. “Mr. Whitfield had been a fixture at the Excelsior prior to even my arrival,” his voice cracked. “He was a confirmed bachelor and true gentleman.”
Two valets standing off to the side scoffed. Hanky Man whipped his head around, but found them standing at attention. Mallory raised an eyebrow to Gunner, who wandered over to the valets. After a moment, the big detective took them for a stroll. The representative seemed relieved. “Immigrants,” he huffed, “they know nothing of great men.”
Mallory ushered Hanky Man back beyond the police tape. “What made Mr. Whitfield great?”
“His was a vast knowledge of the classics, fine wine, and only the best restaurants. This was not a man with whom to trifle.”
“How’d he make his money?”
“The old fashioned way: he was born into it.”
“Independently wealthy?”
“Dependently so. Mother visited twice a year, followed by a very visible influx of cash.”
Gunner walked with the two Latino valets. “Look, fellas, you’re not in trouble. In fact, I need your help.”
The valets were not convinced.
Gunner pressed his hands together as if praying, and looked up. “Guys, that manager back there, he tells us whatever makes the hotel look good. I need you to tell me the truth.”
The valets tensed further.
“Off the record, tell me about this Whitfield. Was he as kind as Hanky Man back there says?”
The valets exchanged glances, looked down.
“C’mon guys, just between us.”
The shorter one looked up. Gunner met his gaze with warm puppy dog eyes. “Please?”
“Mr. Whitfield, God rest his soul, the word friendly does not come to mind when thinking of him,” he offered quietly.
Gunner raised his eyebrows.
“Always he ordered us around, insulted all the staff. He was never satisfied with the quality or speed or abundance of service.”
The second valet, clearly younger, chimed in. “Alone, he would just ignore you. But if even two valets were together, he found fault.”
The first nodded. “And no tips. Ever.”
Gunner shook his head sympathetically, but kept quiet.
The other valet spoke up now. “Last Christmas he had my cousin fired. He said my cousin scratched his SAAB. That man scratched it himself, outside somewhere.”
Now Gunner laid out some bait. “Must’ve got you guys pretty mad.”
The second one sighed. “That would help nothing. He is not the only one who acts in this manner at this hotel.”
The first one smiled. “In this city.”
The second valet chuckled. “In this country.”
Gunner smiled with them. “Whitfield’s kind of treatment didn’t insult you?”
The first one shrugged. “Too much to lose. I am so close to finishing my college degree. Why ruin it on someone like him?”
“College?”
The valets smiled now.
Gunner realized he must sound like just another Whitfield. “I apologize for sounding surprised. You sound like you’ve been through college already. What are you studying?”
The first valet looked him right in the eye. “In Bolivia, I held a doctorate in education, taught Algebra. Trigonometry. This country does not honor my license. I am made to repeat college. I did. Soon, I will teach Math again, to Latinos in the public school.”
“Impressive,” Gunner turned to the other. “And you?”
Now the second one met his gaze. “First, I help my brother get through school, become a teacher again. Then it will be my turn. I want to teach English as a Second Language, also in the public school. Serve my community.”
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your assistance.” Gunner nodded to both, then made his way back to his partner and Hanky Man. These two were not suspects, but that didn’t clear the rest of the staff. He was eager to peruse a list of Excelsior service employees, particularly those who were white males in their 30s or 40s.
The hotel rep nearly had a heart attack when Gunner made his request. “You can’t possibly suspect anyone on The Excelsior staff! Think of the publicity!”
Gunner put a meaty paw on the slender hotelier’s shoulder. “Pal, there’s a body already cold on the floor right here. Publicity is coming. It ain’t got brakes, and it ain’t gonna be pretty. Nothing we do is gonna make it much worse.”
Hanky Man spun out from under Gunner’s hand. “No! The press mustn’t come here! You cannot tell them! I forbid it!”
Laughter got the better of the detectives. Hanky Man retreated behind his linen shield.
“We’re not in charge of who tells whom, and what gets told. That would be the mayor’s job,” Mallory said.
“Perfect. You see, the mayor is a friend of The Excelsior. He would never allow the media to overrun—”
Mallory cut Hanky Man off, smiling. “Timing is everything.” Behind them, at the garage access doors, part of the mayor’s police detail and a few well-dressed political types had arrived with a team of City Hall journalists.
Hanky Man paled. “He wouldn’t.”
Gunner leaned in towards the petrified hotel rep. “To get his own ass out of the fire? Sure he would.”
Hanky Man was close to collapse. “I can’t— I cannot face the press …”
“Then don’t,” Gunner said. “Go get us the list. Worst case scenario, you’ll show the Excelsior is working with the mayor and the NYPD as a concerned guardian of New York’s safety, aggressively fighting to protect its guests, and the entire city. Now that’s a good spin on this whole thing, ain’t it?”
Hanky Man straightened, adjusted his tie, jacket, hair, and then led them to the business offices. He punched information up on his computer. “Let’s see, white males in their 30s or 40s whom have been terminated within, shall we say, the last two years?”
Mallory nodded, studying the screen. “Those years should cover it.”
The hotel rep hit one last button. The computer whirred, hummed, switched screens, and came up with nothing. “Not a single name comes up. No one fitting that description has been terminated here in the last two years. I told you it was futile.”
Mallory frowned, brows meeting to confer at the bridge of his nose like old, insincere friends at an upscale bar. “May we see current employees who fit the description, please?”
“There aren’t any white males in their 30s or 40s in the service departments of The Excelsior.”
“Incredibly Caucasian of you,” Gunner offered.
Before either Mallory or Hanky Man could comment, Mallory’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he swept the plain silver model out of the holder clipped to his belt, flipped it open, and pressed it to his ear. “Detective Mallory … Great, Mac. Can you get a uniform to bring them to the offices behind the main lobby? Room 112. Some gloves too? And Mac? Discreet, okay? Thanks.”
“Pizza delivery?” Gunner asked with mock hopefulness.
Hanky Man sat bolt upright, while Mallory just nodded his head. “Maybe you could run a list of white males in their 30s or 40s employed on managerial and executive levels?”
“That would include me,” Hanky Man huffed. “Am I to be a suspect now?”
Gunner grinned. “Why? You got something you need to get off your chest?”
“That you would even joke about such a thing leaves me aghast.”
The big detective opened his eyes wide. “Really? I’ve never met someone who was aghast.”
Hanky Man surrendered. “Fine. Make your fun. Sully all of our reputations, why don’t you?”
“I’m not sure we have that kind of time,” Gunner smiled.
There were considerably more white males on this list. Mallory counted 37 names. “We’ll need to interview them, starting with any working right now,” he said.
“You will not! These people have rights!”
“And you’ll have to call back any who worked during your last shift.”
“I will not!”
“Have it your way, sir.” Mallory turned to Gunner. “Get the paper work started. Warrants on all of them.”
“Oh! My! God!” He punched a few more keys, and printed out the current list. “Here are your 30 pieces of silver!”
As the printer kicked out the last of the names, a uniform entered carrying a Daily News. He nodded to Mallory, who stepped forward to block Hanky Man’s line of vision. From the paper’s center, the uniform withdrew two pairs of rubber gloves and an evidence bag. Mallory slipped everything into a jacket pocket, nodding his thanks. The officer left. Mallory turned back to the wary Hanky Man.
“That officer is cleared to obtain the warrants should we deem them necessary,” he assured Gunner.
Mallory turned to Hanky Man. “I need one more search.”
“What now?”
“White males, 18-25, terminated from any type of employment in this hotel over the last two years.”
Hanky Man typed. The computer whirred, hummed. Letters flew across the screen. Forty-seven names appeared. One stood out:
William Hill.