“Three. Girls in and out, too. They booked it under Justin’s father’s name, used his card at check-in. Justin and a girl. That was last evening. Sometime last night—we’ll check the lobby security tapes—the other two boys— that’s his usual crew, Chad Cartwright, Doyle Parsins—and two more girls came in. Justin told the desk to let them up. No law against having guests in your room. They stayed the night. The desk and security fielded a few complaints about noise from the other guests. Best I can tell the girls left this afternoon, and the other three spent the day smoking weed, ordering room service, watching porn. About six we started getting complaints again— yelling, crashing, wild laughter, banging. They had the damn door barricaded, wouldn’t open it for the floor manager. I came up. Jesus, you could smell the weed in the damn hall.”
Brooks just nodded, let Russ spill it out. His friend’s hands still shook some from what Brooks understood was rage and a kind of grief.
“I told that little fuckhead if he didn’t unblock the doors I’d be calling the police and his father. Nothing against the fear and awe you generate, Brooks, but I think it was the threat to call his old man—and the rest of their parents—that got me in. Then that
“I do.”
“I told the floor manager who was with me to get security. That’s when that piece of shit sucker punched me.” Gingerly, he rubbed a fingertip over his abused lip. “Carolee—you know Carolee.”
“I do.”
“She grabbed her walkie, called for Ben, told him to bring a couple of the bigger bellhops. She thinks on her feet. I’ve got the fuckwit up against the door now, and the other two are so wasted they’re pissing themselves laughing. And he humps at the door, gives Carolee this shit-eating grin and tells her she oughta come on in, how he’ll fuck some life into her.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Struggling to calm, Russ pressed his fingers to his eyes. “He just wouldn’t quit, Brooks. Ben and the others came on the run, and that’s when he starts kicking, trying to punch, starts screaming. Carolee called the station, and Boyd came right quick. He sent for Ash for backup, and we all figured they should let you know.”
“Figured right. He likely stole the credit card from his father, but the parents, they’ll back him up, say they let him use it. Can’t prove otherwise, but the damage here, the assaults …”
Brooks realized he needed to calm a bit himself. “I’m going to have Boyd come in with Alma; she takes good pictures. She’ll document all of this, and Boyd’s going to do an official search, in her presence and yours or Carolee’s, for illegal substances. Even if they smoked and snorted everything they had, there’ll be trace. And God damn, I can see the joints mixed in with cigarettes in those soap dishes. His daddy won’t buy that vicious moron out of this one. Not if you press charges.”
“You can bet your ass on that.”
“Good. I’m going to call them in now. If you put Carolee on this, you can ride in with me. You can make an official statement, press charges. You get your insurance people on this, get me a good, solid inventory and assessment of damages.”
Russ nodded. The high color in his face began to fade to a sickly white that wasn’t much better. “I already called them.”
“All right, then. You need some time first?”
“No.” Russ covered his face with his hands, scrubbed hard. “God, I feel sick. I’ve got to tell my parents. It makes me sick what they did here, but I don’t need time.”
“Then let’s get started.”
Brooks thought he could have written it himself in three acts. Justin Blake goes on one of his personal rampages, the authorities are called and take the arrogant shithead into custody. Before you could say you have the right to remain silent, Lincoln Blake strides in, lawyer in tow.
In the time Brooks drove to the hotel, surveyed the worst of the damage, spoke with Russ, then drove to the station, Lincoln Blake had already arrived with his lawyer.
Blake pushed to his feet.
He cut an imposing figure with his broad chest in a well-cut suit, his bull neck caged in a striped tie. Cool blue eyes peered out above a sharp nose.
He wore his slate-gray hair cut military short, though rumor was Blake had successfully dodged the draft, when there’d been a draft to dodge.
“Russell, I understand my son and his friends may be responsible for a little breakage at your hotel. I want to assure that if this proves to be the case, we’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry, now.”
“Mr. Blake, I’ll apologize for being rude, though it doesn’t feel sincere at this moment, but I don’t want to talk to you. Brooks, I’m going to go sit in your office, if that’s all right.”
“Go ahead.”
“Now, Russell,” Blake began, but Russ kept walking. Blake’s face set hard. “A hotelier should understand that a certain percentage of overhead has to be earmarked for breakage and overuse.”
“Mr. Blake, I don’t much want to talk to you now, either.”
As Brooks topped him in height, Blake couldn’t look down his nose, but the sentiment was clear.
“You’re a paid employee of this town, and you won’t last a year in this position with that attitude.”
“I’ll take my chances. I assume you’re going to tell me Justin had permission to use your credit card for the suite at the hotel, for all the room service and miscellaneous charges.”
“Of course.”
“Then that’s your business. The rest is mine.”
“I want my son released immediately. We’ll pay for any damages incurred, naturally.”
“Then you ought to know those damages are going to approach, if not exceed, six figures. Yeah.” Brooks nodded when Blake’s eyes rounded, as his face reddened. “They did a number on those rooms.”
“If Russell Conroy or his father, whom I have always respected, think for one short minute they can inflate this business to exploit—”
“Two of my officers are at the hotel right now, documenting the damages. The insurance agent is also on his way to do the same. I’ve just come from there and seen it for myself. My officers will also be doing a search for illegal substances, as the place reeked of marijuana. I don’t know where your son or his friends got the red wine or the brandy, the beer and the other assorted alcohol, the containers of which were all over the damn place, but they are all under the legal drinking age. Added to it, your son assaulted Russ—don’t you bluster at me this time,” Brooks snapped. “He assaulted Russ, in front of witnesses. He also assaulted the security guard, in front of witnesses.”
“I want to speak to my son. Now.”
“No. I will speak with him, and his lawyer can be present and speak with him. But while he’s under the legal drinking age, he is also legally an adult. It may not make much sense, but that’s the law. You’ll speak to him when I’m done with him. And, Mr. Blake, you can’t buy the Conroys off like you have the others. They won’t be bought. This time, Justin’s going to pay for what’s he’s done.”
“Push too hard, Gleason, you push on this and you’ll lose your job.”
“Like I said, I’ll take my chances. Now, I assume Justin asked for a lawyer, but I’m going to check. Until I know he’s engaged that right, nobody talks to him.”
Brooks walked over to Jeff Noelle, one of his part-time deputies, who was doing his best to look invisible. “Did he ask for a lawyer, Jeff? Do you know?”
“Yessir. He was bitching about a lawyer when Ash and Boyd brought them all in, and yelling at the other two prisoners to keep their mouths shut.”
“All right, then.” Brooks walked back. “You’ve got a client, Harry.”
“I’d like to speak with my client privately at this time.”
“Sure. Jeff, you take Mr. Darnell to his client.”
“Yessir, Chief.”
Ignoring Blake, Brooks walked to his office, shut the door. “Justin lawyered up, as expected. They’ll have their confab, then I’ll talk to him. Want some coffee?”
“No. I got some water. I don’t think I can stomach anything else.”
