Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part X

The Carstairs Hotel had a doorman dressed up like a London beefeater: Red coat, tall fuzzy hat, gold button, bayonet -- the works. It was just that kind of hotel, the kind that catered to top executives, politicians and even media celebrities.

To say the lobby was ornate would be like saying that Limburger smells cheesy. The chandeliers, the plush, dark carpeting, the frescoes on the wall, the gold trim and statues of British generals. The Carstairs defined ...

"Class," thought Flak as he noted that the sand in the ashtray was imprinted with the Carstairs logo.

The real question was, what was Janey doing there? Alive?

Flak stood in the lobby, soaking in its ambiance of wealth, status, prestige.

"Excuse me, sir." The voice had a rough British accent. Flak turned around to find the Beefeater doorman just behind him.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Flak said.

"That's just what I was going to ask you, sir," the doorman said.

"Just soaking it all in, my good man," Flak said in his best British accent. "A fine hotel you have here...old chap."

"Yes, sir, old chap," the doorman cleared his throat. "But is there a place where you'd fancy going."

"Ah, yes. Certainly. Can you show me to the ... lift? I'm meeting a friend in room 215."

"215?"

"Indubitably," Flak said. English accents were fun!

"I have something for you," the doorman said to Flak's surprise and marched to the bell desk, took an envelope and marched crisply back. He handed the envelope to Flak.

"What's this then?" Flak asked, switching to a more Cockney style. Sort of.

"This is for you. I was told to look for you and hand you this. And here you are. And I have handed it to you."

"Inscrutably, I might add," Flak said, then did a double take, realizing that the doorman still stood before him, clearing his throat. Finally, Flak understood, pulling a crisp 20-dollar bill from his money clip and handing it to the doorman.

"My good man," he said, and resumed his post at the entrance.

Flak opened the envelope. Inside, he found a folded sheet of manila note paper bearing the logo of High Profile Communications. On the paper, in Janey's familiar, loopy script, was a note:

"Zip on up, Pete. Right to the top!

Luv,

Janey

Inside the note was a plastic hotel door key for the Carstairs.

Flak turned to the doorman.

"Is there a restroom here, my good man?"

"In the back, behind the fountain."

"Cheerio," Flak said, and walked as fast has he could before the bile in his throat could reach his shirt.

Been doing too much of that...there must be a drug for this, Flak thought, as he carefully washed his faced, scraped the dirt from his fingernails, ran a dab of gel through his hair and sucked vigorously on a fresh breath mint before heading to the elevator.

* * *

"Goddammit you beefeating son of a bitch! You will let me in!" Samara Steele was adorable when she was angry. And she knew it. Rosy cheeks and icy blue eyes and a rock hard 5-foot-three-inch frame that belied a low, booming broadcaster's voice. The doorman took a step back and gripped his bayonet.

"Yes, ma'am. But the camera has to stay outside. We do have strict rules. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Not as sorry as your going to be. Get your manager."

"Very good, ma'am," the doorman said, and turned to the phone attached to the wall by the door.

Damn, Steele thought. On to Plan B, I guess.

She turned to her camera man. "Artie, run," she whispered. I'll meet you." Artie nodded and jogged off.

"Ma'am..."

"No matter," Steele said, smiling her widest TV smile. "He's gone. If you'll excuse me..."

"Very good, ma'am," the doorman said, holding the door open as Samara Steele strode briskly into the lobby. As the door closed, he picked up the phone and made one more call, smiling.

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Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part IX

You might want to start this saga at Part I...

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The message light on Flak's phone was blinking like a debutante. He sat down at his desk, spun on the chair and punched the voicemail button. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the News 6 cameraman standing in the doorway, red light on. He suppressed a smile as he punched his password into the phone with efficient authority.

Two messages...first message:

"Flak! Johannson. The Commissioner wants a report tomorrow at 6:00 am. No more goddamn press conferences!"

Oh-kay, then, Flak thought and punched six to hear the next message.

Second message:

"Peter, it's Janey. I'm in trouble. It's Bannister. I can't believe this. You've got to come quickly. I'm in trouble and you're the only one who can help. Meet me at the Carstairs Hotel, room 215...I left the key at the desk. Hurry! Love ya."

Hmmph, Flak snorted. Janey was always a bit melodramatic. Great trait for a publicist, lousy for a friend. Fortunately, she's my publicist, not my friend, Flak thought. Or was...before she died.

Right! Dead! Forgot again!

She'd left a message on his home machine last night, but he assumed that was before she died. But this one ... it had to have been more recent... this morning.

Flak dropped the phone, and ran out the door, nearly upending the News 6 cameraman and tackling Reporter Samara Steele. He hastily untangled himself from the reporter and raced for the street.

"Let's follow him," Steele said.

"Like you had to tell me?" the cameraman said.

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