“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 convey to the hotel employees that they should answer the questions openly and honestly.
There’s always a chance that he will check, learn that I don’t have subpoena power, and change his mind. It’s unlikely; he will probably just go through with it and hope it doesn’t cause any problems.
I thank him and leave, and then call Kevin and tell him to hire an investigation agency that we sometimes use. I somehow forget to mention the part about making sure everyone is quiet and discreet; I want to learn who Diana Timmerman was there to see, and I don’t care if they have to set fire to the place to find out.
ANOTHER ONE OF MY STEREOTYPES IS about to unceremoniously bite the dust.
I hate when that happens; I like it much better when my ignorant, knee-jerk opinions about people and events are shown to be one hundred percent accurate.
This particular ill-fated stereotype concerns the people who enter their dogs in prestigious shows. I expect them all to be named Muffy or Buffy (I’m talking about the humans) and to eat watercress sandwiches and sniff about how hard it is to hire decent help these days.
When Martha Wyndham called to tell me she arranged a meeting for me with Barb Stanley in Greenwich, Connecticut, it made perfect sense. Connecticut’s snootiness quotient is way up there; as far as I know all people there do is play croquet, drink martinis, and eat bonbons.
Actually, even though I live in what is called the tristate area, which comprises New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut, the latter is sort of a mystery state to me. I don’t even know what the people are called. Connecticutites? Connecticuttians?
In any event, my predispositions about the people being snobbish and superior don’t seem to be holding true at all. The woman I assume is Barb Stanley is in her early thirties, tall and thin and seemingly possessed of boundless energy. Her place of business, where we are meeting today, is an old warehouse, modernized and designed as a doggy day care facility. People drop their dogs off on the way to work, secure in the knowledge that the animals will have a blast running and playing with friends on some incredible equipment.
When I arrive she is running with the dogs, pausing every so often to roll around on the floor with them. I watch her for about ten minutes, and I don’t know how she does it. I wouldn’t last thirty seconds. The most amazing part of all is that the NY METS baseball cap she is wearing does not fall off. It must be cemented to her head.
She finally sees me, waves, and then jumps to her feet. She signals to another young woman, whom I hadn’t even noticed, and that woman comes over to play with the dogs. Their tongues are hanging, and I think one of them looks over to their imaginary coach to see if they have any time-outs left.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Please tell me you’re tired.”
She laughs. “Not yet. But you should see me around four o’clock.”
“My name is Andy Carpenter…”
“Oh, right. Martha said you’d be by. I’m Barb Stanley.”
I nod. “She said you were an expert in showing dogs… the whole process.” I take another look at the dogs, back in play with their new leader. Very few of them look like purebreds. “Are any of these show dogs?”
She shakes her head. “No, although the springer in the back could be.”
She invites me back to her office, and when we get there she offers me a drink from a small refrigerator. I choose a bottle of water, and she takes one of the four or five million power drinks that are now on the market. Everybody seems to be drinking them, but I don’t think they work. These drinks are selling like crazy, yet the people I see on the street don’t seem any more powerful than they were ten years ago. Barb is the exception.
“So where do you want to start?” she asks.
“Do you show dogs yourself?”
She nods. “Sure.”
“Have you had any champions?” I ask.
“No, but I just missed a couple of times.”
“At Westminster?” I ask.
She laughs. “No, not even close.”
“Why do you do it?”
“I love it. I love the dogs, I love being around people who love dogs. It’s a lot of work, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’m doing a show this weekend; you can come if you’d like.”
I say that I’d like that very much. “Is there a lot of money to be won?”
She laughs again. “Not by me.” Then, “Sure, the prizes for the big shows are very nice.”
