was she in person? Did she clam up?”
“Well, she talked, but it was all memorized. Someone’s got her really scared. I feel bad for her. She doesn’t know what she’s in for.”
“The girl’s a prostitute, right? She’s chosen the life.”
“That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, there’s something about her. I like her spirit. She’s tough.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Listen, I need you to run a phone number. And do some background on an ex-DC cop named Curtis Schmidt.”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s the guy who was following Kayla just now.”
“How’d you get his name?”
“I borrowed his wallet.”
“I won’t even ask.”
“Also, I need you to see what you can find about who owns Slander Sheet. I’m sure it’ll be some media corporation owned by a shell company or whatever, but see what you can pull up. How close you can get to who really owns it.”
“What about the hotel? Claflin allegedly stayed at the Monroe three times to meet with this call girl. The hotel must have a record of that—or not. My money’s on not.”
“That’s where I’m headed right now.”
“If Claflin never stayed there, that cuts the legs out from under this bogus story.”
“It should,” I said. “This shouldn’t be too complicated.”
For some reason, though, I wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic.
I had no idea what was coming.
14
T he security director of the Hotel Monroe was a fussy little man named Kevin Chung. He wore a slim gray suit and a white shirt with short little collar points and a skinny black tie. The sides of his head were shaven so close you could see the white of his scalp, and on top of his head the black hair stood up in serried ranks of bristles. If the hair on top were longer, it would have been a Mohawk.
The walls of his small windowless office were covered with cheaply framed certificates for various security courses he’d completed and professional security organizations he belonged to. The surface of his desk was uncluttered, though: nothing more than a computer monitor and a desk set and a plaque with his name on it that faced the visitor’s chair, just in case you’d forgotten who you were talking to. The plaque was unnecessarily big: He obviously considered himself an important man.
“I wish I could help you, Mr. . . .”
“Heller.”
“Mr. Heller. But it’s a question of privacy. If I were to confirm whether this person was a guest in our hotel, I would be legally liable. I’m sure you understand. Anything else?”
His response didn’t surprise me. Most hotel security directors won’t cooperate with private investigators. You have to know the guy, or know somebody who knows the guy, so they’ll do it as a favor. But I was here cold. Some security directors you can slip a hundred to and buy cooperation. Sometimes it takes a more sizable bribe.
But Kevin Chung was an officious jerk, and I knew at once that a bribe wasn’t likely to work. I needed a different approach.
“That’s too bad,” I said. “I was hoping we could settle this case quietly, without dragging the hotel’s name into it.”
I caught a spark of concern in his eyes before he masked it with a studied neutrality. “I don’t follow,” he said.
“You remember when the Mayflower got caught up in that whole Eliot Spitzer thing. It was ugly.”
His cheeks flushed, and he sat up a little straighter in his chair. He knew immediately what I was talking about. Everyone in Washington remembered when the governor of New York had hired a call girl on several occasions. It was a huge scandal. One time he saw the prostitute at his room at the Mayflower Hotel. Room 871 at the Mayflower was briefly famous. As a result, the Mayflower’s reputation was tarnished a bit. Not a lot. But enough. Even today, if you Google “Mayflower Hotel Washington, DC,” one of the top auto-suggestions is “scandal.”
In reality, of course, call girls frequent the
“Well, she talked, but it was all memorized. Someone’s got her really scared. I feel bad for her. She doesn’t know what she’s in for.”
“The girl’s a prostitute, right? She’s chosen the life.”
“That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, there’s something about her. I like her spirit. She’s tough.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Listen, I need you to run a phone number. And do some background on an ex-DC cop named Curtis Schmidt.”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s the guy who was following Kayla just now.”
“How’d you get his name?”
“I borrowed his wallet.”
“I won’t even ask.”
“Also, I need you to see what you can find about who owns Slander Sheet. I’m sure it’ll be some media corporation owned by a shell company or whatever, but see what you can pull up. How close you can get to who really owns it.”
“What about the hotel? Claflin allegedly stayed at the Monroe three times to meet with this call girl. The hotel must have a record of that—or not. My money’s on not.”
“That’s where I’m headed right now.”
“If Claflin never stayed there, that cuts the legs out from under this bogus story.”
“It should,” I said. “This shouldn’t be too complicated.”
For some reason, though, I wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic.
I had no idea what was coming.
14
T he security director of the Hotel Monroe was a fussy little man named Kevin Chung. He wore a slim gray suit and a white shirt with short little collar points and a skinny black tie. The sides of his head were shaven so close you could see the white of his scalp, and on top of his head the black hair stood up in serried ranks of bristles. If the hair on top were longer, it would have been a Mohawk.
The walls of his small windowless office were covered with cheaply framed certificates for various security courses he’d completed and professional security organizations he belonged to. The surface of his desk was uncluttered, though: nothing more than a computer monitor and a desk set and a plaque with his name on it that faced the visitor’s chair, just in case you’d forgotten who you were talking to. The plaque was unnecessarily big: He obviously considered himself an important man.
“I wish I could help you, Mr. . . .”
“Heller.”
“Mr. Heller. But it’s a question of privacy. If I were to confirm whether this person was a guest in our hotel, I would be legally liable. I’m sure you understand. Anything else?”
His response didn’t surprise me. Most hotel security directors won’t cooperate with private investigators. You have to know the guy, or know somebody who knows the guy, so they’ll do it as a favor. But I was here cold. Some security directors you can slip a hundred to and buy cooperation. Sometimes it takes a more sizable bribe.
But Kevin Chung was an officious jerk, and I knew at once that a bribe wasn’t likely to work. I needed a different approach.
“That’s too bad,” I said. “I was hoping we could settle this case quietly, without dragging the hotel’s name into it.”
I caught a spark of concern in his eyes before he masked it with a studied neutrality. “I don’t follow,” he said.
“You remember when the Mayflower got caught up in that whole Eliot Spitzer thing. It was ugly.”
His cheeks flushed, and he sat up a little straighter in his chair. He knew immediately what I was talking about. Everyone in Washington remembered when the governor of New York had hired a call girl on several occasions. It was a huge scandal. One time he saw the prostitute at his room at the Mayflower Hotel. Room 871 at the Mayflower was briefly famous. As a result, the Mayflower’s reputation was tarnished a bit. Not a lot. But enough. Even today, if you Google “Mayflower Hotel Washington, DC,” one of the top auto-suggestions is “scandal.”
In reality, of course, call girls frequent the
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