All the Lucky Ones Are Dead by Gar Anthony Haywood Page A

Crumley’s account of his discovery of the body, and maybe ask him for a short tour of the room, if that’s possible.”
    â€œThe room is occupied at the moment,” Zemic said.
    â€œI see. Maybe you could just walk me quickly past the door then.”
    â€œThe door?”
    â€œCall it going through the motions. My client’s getting charged for the time, the least I can do is take a quick look around, right?”
    It was a rationale that fit in perfectly with Zemic’s low opinion of Gunner and those in his profession. Calling himself being generous, he shrugged after a moment and said, “Sure. No harm in that.”
    The last room C.E. Digga Jones would ever sleep in—number 504—was, predictably, up on the hotel’s fifth floor. It was one of ten large suites arranged symmetrically on either side of a freshly painted mauve hallway. To reach it, Zemic had to guide Gunner past a gauntlet of fine southwestern art pieces and kaleidoscopic flower arrangements, and wrought-iron light fixtures that mimicked the soft radiance of kerosene lamps.
    Zemic stopped at the appropriate door and said, “This was Mr. Elbridge’s suite here. Five-oh-four.”
    â€œSure we can’t go in?” Gunner asked.
    â€œI’m afraid so. Like I said, the room’s occupied.”
    â€œReally? How do you know? I never saw you check.”
    â€œI don’t have to check. Part of my job here is always knowing what rooms are vacant, and what rooms aren’t.”
    Before the white man could stop him, Gunner reached out with his right hand, rapped on the door three times. “Let’s just make sure,” he said.
    Zemic was furious. “That wasn’t smart, Mr. Gunner. The Westmore doesn’t appreciate having our guests disturbed unnecessarily.”
    When no one answered his knock, Gunner said, “You can’t disturb guests who aren’t in.” Letting the security man see he never believed they were there in the first place.
    â€œAll the same. We can’t go in there,” Zemic said.
    Gunner peered down the hall, saw a housekeeper’s cart parked outside an open suite door. Zemic watched him start toward it, moved quickly to follow him.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Mr. Gunner?”
    Ignoring him, Gunner reached the open suite, stepped inside just far enough to get a look at the interior side of the door. A uniformed housekeeper stood in the bathroom nearby, eyeing him warily, as Zemic appeared alongside him.
    â€œI asked you what you’re doing,” the security man said testily.
    â€œJust wondered what the locks look like. This the same setup as the one in five-oh-four?”
    â€œYes. But I’m not sure I care for the question.”
    The door featured a dead bolt with a large, wedgelike knob, and above that, the latest replacement for the old standby chain lock: a swing bar. A thick U-shaped brass bar that swiveled on a hinge when the door was closed to interlink with a brass ball mounted to the jamb. Gunner was no expert in such things, but it didn’t look to him like an arrangement that could easily be manipulated by someone working on the outside of the closed door.
    The investigator stepped out of the suite as Zemic watched, and found the twin camera domes he knew had to be there, this being the high-cost establishment it was. They were mounted to the ceiling at either end of the hallway. The domes’ mirrored skeins made it impossible to see how the cameras inside were aimed, but it seemed safe to assume that one of them must have had a fairly decent view of the door to suite 504 the night Carlton Elbridge died.
    Following Gunner’s gaze, Zemic said, “We have surveillance cameras like that on every floor here. Security at our hotel is the finest in the industry, as you can see.”
    â€œThe video feed is recorded, as well as monitored?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œAnd are the tapes recycled, or