usually smaller than the average Holiday Inn, and you have to take out a mortgage to eat peanuts from the mini bar. Yet those rooms are always filled, at least until another, even hotter, hotel opens up down the street.
The female concierge is helping a male guest, so I stand behind him and eavesdrop. He has a number of requests: dinner reservations, theater tickets, limousine rental… all of which she handles with ease with a phone call.
Each call she makes she starts with, “This is the concierge at the Hamilton Hotel,” spoken in the same imperious tone she would use if she were announcing that the queen of England was calling. But it certainly works; this is a woman who gets what she wants, or at least what the guest wants. If I were staying here I would be throwing requests at her all the time; it would be like having my own genie.
When it’s my turn, we exchange greetings and I say, “I’d like to speak with the manager, please.”
She smiles and says. “Perhaps I can help you?”
“Are you perhaps the manager?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you likely to be promoted to manager in the next few minutes?”
“No, sir, I—”
“Then I’m afraid you won’t be able to help me. So please tell the manager that I would like to see him.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“My name is Carpenter… I’m investigating a double murder.”
Apparently among the things concierges don’t like to deal with are double murders, since once I say that, she seems rather relieved that I am not asking her to help. She picks up the phone and dials the manager, or at least his office, and within moments I am on the elevator on the way to the top floor. There are video screens on the elevator running old cartoons, which must be another sign of hipness. I should be taking notes on this stuff, so I can impress Laurie with it.
The manager’s name is Lionel Paulson, and he seems not to be more than thirty-five or so. He’s dressed in a suit that, while I’m no expert, appears to be silk. In fact, it looks so silky smooth that he must have to hold on to the arms of his chair so as not to slide to the floor.
We say our hellos, and I take the chair across from his desk. He asks me to show him some identification.
“You mean like a driver’s license?” I ask.
“No, I mean like a badge, or a shield, or whatever it’s called that shows me what agency you are employed by.”
“I’m an attorney,” I say. “We don’t get badges, but I can show you our secret handshake.”
He is surprised, and tells me that since I had told the concierge that I was investigating a murder, he assumed I was a law enforcement officer.
I assure him that I am not, and I tell him that I want to interview his staff to see if anyone remembers Diana Timmerman. I take out a picture of her that I have and show it to him.
“I certainly have no idea who she is,” he says, holding the picture up as he looks at it.
“Was.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who she was,” I say. “She was one of the murder victims.”
He drops the picture as if it were on fire. “Oh, my. And she was a guest in this hotel?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. But she visited someone who was on at least two occasions. I want to know who that was.”
“Our guests have an expectation of privacy.”
“Then one of them is not going to have his expectations met.”
“Your hope is to ask hotel employees if they have seen this woman?”
“I won’t be doing the asking. I’ll send a few private investigators in; they’ll be discreet.”
“I can’t have disruptions, I…”
I shake my head. “A disruption would be if I send a team of big burly guys to serve subpoenas on everyone when you’ve got a line of people waiting to get into your bar.” I’m not being honest about this; I don’t have subpoena power, and couldn’t get it if I tried.
“When do you propose to have your people here?”
“Tomorrow at five thirty. That’s the time of day that she was here both times. And I’ll need to know if someone was on duty those days, especially in the bar, who won’t be here tomorrow.”
He agrees to my request, after getting me to promise to have my people go about their business quietly and professionally. He will