The Fat Innkeeper (33 page)

To his own way of thinking, Am believed a fat worm was not likely to draw the walk-in crowd. It wasn’t cuddly like a sleepy
bear, or inviting like an apple. Am considered all the hotel logos used by the various chains, and then decided a fat sea
worm wasn’t such a bad thing after all, but he didn’t tell Hiroshi that.

They were twenty minutes late even before having to take on the police bureaucracy. Their way forward was blocked by an officer
sitting at a desk. After dutifully making a few calls, the sentry informed them that Detective McHugh had not left word for
them to be admitted, and that they couldn’t get by without a pass. McHugh wasn’t in, and there was no word when, or even if,
he would be back. The officer pointed to a waiting area, said that they were welcome to wait for Detective McHugh, or that
they could leave a message for him.

There were several messages Am was tempted to leave, but chose instead to wait. Am suspected a delaying action on McHugh’s
part, or a power play, or both. As time passed, Am fumed all the more. Hiroshi was content to watch the cast of characters
come and go. He engaged, even initiated, a few conversations with passers-by. Am was tempted to tell him to act more Japanese,
having read of a Japanese government poll where two-thirds of the Japanese stated they had no desire to associate with foreigners.
Hiroshi was all but flagging them down.

“I have to go feed the meter,” Am said. He had anted up for an hour, not expecting their visit to take longer than that, and
there was still no word from McHugh. Hiroshi nodded, and Am went out to feed some quarters. The way of the world, he thought.
You pay the city to talk with their so-called public servants.

He didn’t come back empty-handed, which made him feel better for having something to do besides just waiting. Am brought along
the copies he had made at the library, and to his surprise found the reading interesting. One of Kingsbury’s books documented
the distribution of human blood groups around the world. “Strange is it,” Kingsbury quoted from Shakespeare, “that our bloods,
of color, weight and heat, pour’d all together, would quite confound distinction, yet stands off in differences so mighty.”
In the Bard’s day, no one knew about the four blood types, A, O, AB, and B. Kingsbury’s book scientifically documented the
“differences so mighty.”

Am read how anthropologists had traced migration routes through the genetics of blood-group inheritance. The “trail of blood”
could be followed along the Bering Strait and other migration routes, the gene markers identified by types and factors in
blood. It wasn’t light reading, with passages dwelling on phenotypes, gene frequencies, graphs, genetical shorthand, and mathematical
formulas, but Am wasn’t willing to be deterred. He was on his own trail of blood.

Preoccupation always draws attention. Hiroshi started reading the pages that Am had finished with. Though he never inquired
directly as to Am’s interest, his curious glances were finally rewarded.

“It’s probably nothing,” said Am, putting his last page of reading aside and answering Hiroshi’s looks, “but I’m wondering
if Kingsbury didn’t announce his murderer when he died.”

Am sighed, wishing he had something more dramatic to announce. It seemed a tenuous supposition even to him, but it was his
only potential lead. “Dr. Kingsbury’s last words were ‘Be positive.’ We’ve all operated on that assumption. But were those
really his last words? Kingsbury was a hematologist, a blood doctor. Among his peers his last words might have been interpreted
very differently. A fellow hematologist might have assumed he was saying, ‘B positive,’ as in a blood type.”

“Be positive,” said Hiroshi. Or was he repeating, “B positive”?

“Part of this investigation has been to get to know Dr. Kingsbury,” said Am, “to try and understand how he thought and acted.
What was he thinking as he lay dying? Did his medical background come to the fore? Facing his own mortality, I imagine he
was scared and confused. Gasping for breath, paralyzed, he might have been at a loss to even remember his murderer’s name.
That’s where his training might have taken over. Kingsbury the research scientist might have identified his killer in a way
that made perfect sense to him.”

Am didn’t sound like Perry Mason making a point. Spoken aloud, he thought his theory sounded thin. In this instance, he wasn’t
even sure if blood was thicker than water.

“How would Dr. Kingsbury have known the blood type of his murderer?” asked Hiroshi.

“My guess is through his medical questionnaires,” said Am. “I was able to obtain one. It’s extensive, goes so far as to ask
for the blood group, and has a box to check positive or negative.”

“What medical questionnaires are you referring to?”

Am explained how the UNDER conventioneers had filled out medical questionnaires for Kingsbury prior to their gathering, and
how Kingsbury had selected sixty of them to interview during the conference.

“B positive,” said Hiroshi. “Is this blood type that uncommon?”

“Not in your country,” said Am. “Japan has twice as many B
genes
as in America. In Japan, seventeen percent of the population has type B blood.”

Am thought about Hiroshi’s interest in the case, and for a moment felt a little paranoid. He had to ask the question: “Do
you know your blood group?”

“O,” said Hiroshi, “although I couldn’t tell you whether it’s positive or negative.”

“Probably positive,” said Am, then glumly added, “It would have been a much better clue if Kingsbury had said, ‘B negative.”

“Not necessarily,” said Hiroshi. “Everyone might have just assumed he was being fatalistic at his end. From what you have
said, it was his optimistic final words which surprised everyone, and drew attention.”

There might be something to that, thought Am, but he still wished the doctor had done a better job of identifying his murderer.
While a B positive blood type was relatively uncommon in San Diego, a B negative would have been much more rare. He had learned
how all blood types are either Rh positive or Rh negative. The determination of Rh factor was done through red-blood-cell
tests (they were originally done on rhesus monkeys—thus the Rh) whereby if the cells clumped, the blood was identified as
Rh positive, and if they didn’t, the blood was Rh negative. The designation was particulary important in pregnancies. If mother
and fetus have different Rh blood factors, complications can result. In the United States, Am had learned, only 15 percent
of the population has Rh negative blood.

“Caulfield,” announced Detective McHugh. “Sorry to have kept you.”

The detective managed to say those words with a straight face, even if there was some giveaway in his eyes. McHugh would have
preferred finding Caulfield red in the face and stomping around, but having made him cool his heels for ninety minutes was
almost good enough.

Hiroshi was already standing and bowing. “This is Hiroshi Yamada,” said Am, “of the Hotel California.”

The Fat Innkeeper presented McHugh with his hand, and then his business card. The detective halfheartedly shook hands, but
didn’t offer his own business card, merely pocketed Hiroshi’s card and looked unimpressed. He knew the Jap was the big Hotel
cheese, but that didn’t excite him. As far as McHugh was concerned, the sooner the Hotel fell into the ocean, the better.

The detective led them to an elevator. “Ground rules,” he said. “You can look over the case file, as well as Kingsbury’s notes
and the questionnaires, but no copies. Not even any notes.”

“Why?” asked Am.

“Because this is an active homicide investigation,” McHugh said, though by the tone of his voice he might just as well have
said, “Because I said so.”

On the ride up, the detective decided to elaborate a little more. “This information is sensitive, and nothing is attributable,
even to that reporter you were playing footsies with at the press conference.

“Speaking of which, Caulfield,” said McHugh, “couldn’t you have been a little more generous with that food you served? Those
reporters didn’t even leave crumbs for me.”

They got out of the elevator and the detective led them to what must have been an interrogation room, told them to sit there,
and went to get the promised material. When he returned, McHugh dropped the stack of questionnaires, loudly, onto the table.
Then, ignoring Am’s outstretched hand, he tossed the investigative reports and Kingsbury’s notes atop the questionnaires.
He also tossed a bone.

“Talked with your two birds this afternoon,” he said. “That’s why I was a little late. I’d say they’re both guilty.”

It took Am a moment to figure out that the detective was referring to Skylar and Brother Howard. “How could they both be guilty?”
asked Am.

“Guilty of being con artists,” said McHugh. “Guilty of being liars. Guilty of being greedy slugs. And it wouldn’t surprise
me if one of them is guilty of murdering Doc Kingsbury.”

He walked to the door of the conference room, warned Am and Hiroshi once more not to make notes, and said that if he suspected them of trying to smuggle anything out they’d be subject to full body
searches, “including any and all cavities.” He closed the door firmly behind him.

Hiroshi, for one, believed him. “Please do not try to leave with anything,” he said.

“Only my dignity,” said Am, even if he suspected that was wishful thinking.

Bradford Beck had gotten a glimpse into a world very different from the Scottsdale country-club set he was used to. It had
scared the hell out of him.

He hadn’t known that the police had no intention of booking him. They had put him in holding (along with mostly drunks), ostensibly
as a preliminary to processing him. In reality, he was under observation of sorts. If he acted truly bonkers, they’d take
him for a ride to county mental health. If he acted no crazier than most who were behind bars, they’d kick him.

Bradford tried to make himself invisible to everyone in the holding tank, or as invisible as possible with bright-red pajamas.
He sat in a corner and came to life only when someone resembling SDPD came around, at which time he was extremely unctuous.
That was probably one of the reasons he got kicked early. Cops aren’t very fond of gratuitous ass-kissers. Better to be cursed,
in their opinion, than to get too many “Yes, sirs” and “Thank you, officers.” Bradford’s release didn’t come quite in time.
Before he left, one of his roommates threw up on his calfskin loafers. Though Bradford tried to wash the shoes at a water
fountain, he couldn’t seem to rinse off the smell. The damnedest thing was that despite the vomit and rinsing, the shine on
the shoes was still something to behold.

People’s idea of heaven can radically change at any given time. After his experience, Bradford couldn’t imagine anything more
pleasureablc than taking a bath. He didn’t care if his room was a shambles. He didn’t care if the staff at the Hotel was insolent
and uncaring. After being thrown in with hardened criminals and felons (so he thought), and being afraid for his own life,
he was ready to be more accepting. And besides, that itch in his groin area was driving him crazy. He had been afraid to scratch in the holding tank, afraid to give others ideas. But a bath and a good
scratch—that was heaven. That was all he could ask for.

He had a hell of a time getting a taxi to stop for him, had to show his cash and promise a sizable tip before the driver would
consent to take him, and even then the man had an attitude. The cabbie kept pointedly sniffing the air, and made a point of
opening his window and keeping his nose out of the cab as much as possible.

Bradford was probably the first person in the Hotel’s history to be dropped off wearing pajamas. He ran ashamedly up to his
room. When he opened the door, Bradford immediately sensed something was wrong. The room smelled… nice. There was a spring
scent in the air, the fragrance of pine needles and lavender. Afraid that he was walking into the wrong room, Bradford double-checked
the room number to make sure he wasn’t breaking and entering. It was 212.

Everything was immaculate. This was the room he had expected the day before. The sliding glass doors were so clean as to be
almost invisible, and beyond them was the ocean, blue, and immense, and inviting. For a moment Bradford forgot about his itch.
He went to the sliding glass doors, girded himself for a mighty tug, but only had to use his index finger to throw the doors
open. The ocean breeze kissed him lightly. The sun was getting lower in the horizon, was already casting a red tint to the
clouds. A spectacular sunset was in the offing.

Bradford walked back inside the room and looked around. There was a fruit basket, by God, on the table, with a card which
read “Compliments of the Management.” Bradford remembered how hungry he was, and quickly chewed down an apple, then sucked
on an orange. He walked around the room and was amazed at the difference. It was now light and cheery and bright and… expensive.
The trappings were those of glossy magazines: solid wood and comfortable chintz and live plants and original artwork, with
the backdrop of the immense Pacific. It was the picture postcard he had so wanted.

Somewhat dazed, he ran a bath. It was like one of those fairy tales, he thought, where the elves had come and in a very few
hours had transformed a setting. The sunken tub filled with water. The Hotel offered not one, but two kinds of bath gelee.
Suds frothed everywhere. Before easing himself into the water, Bradford removed his offensive lizard-skin shoes and placed
them on the balcony. He wanted to let the ocean breeze work its wonders on them, had the distinct feeling that in a few hours
they’d smell as good as they looked. Bradford took off his soiled clothes, threw them in one of the valet bags, then sank
down into the tub. This was beyond ecstasy. He scratched and scratched. Almost, he was able to relieve himself of that damned
itch.

He had no desire to get out of the tub. Periodically, with a twist of his foot, he treated himself to some more hot water.
When he had left the room that morning, the bathroom hadn’t even had a towel (not to mention any toilet paper). Now there
was a rackful of thick towels, and two full inviting terrycloth robes. A fat amenity basket had magically appeared, whereas
before there hadn’t even been soap in the room. There was even a telephone in the bathroom, Bradford noticed. And it was apparently
working, to judge by the flashing red message light.