Broken English

CHAPTER 11: SATURDAY

7:51 AM, Monterey

         "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Gloria Roberts, and on behalf of Robert Durant, I'd like to welcome you all to PacRim One."
         There was a polite round of applause, and Kitfox, standing at the back of the crowded room, marveled at how quickly all the little side conversations ceased when Roberts began to speak. A murdered colleague tended to have that effect on people.
         "The last thing I ever expected to do was give the welcoming speech at Robert's conference. This was his brainchild, and that he should not have lived to see it come to fruition is unthinkable. Aside from that, I have been Mr. Durant's personal assistant for several years, and the organizers agreed that I should say a few words on his behalf, so I will try to keep my insignificant remarks brief and allow you to get on with the business for which he worked so tirelessly to bring you together.
         "When a good man, a decent man, is struck down at the pinnacle of his achievements, good and decent people of every culture, faith, and nationality wonder why."
         No kidding, Kitfox thought. The elusive answer to that question would blow this case wide open.
         "It is certainly no secret," Roberts went on, "that the issue of free and open trade with our fellow nations around the world has its opponents. One need look no further than the ongoing difficulties that beset the World Trade Organization each time they meet virtually anywhere on the globe. Freedom of trade, freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to assemble, or any other form of freedom is anathema to the despot, the tyrant, the dictator, to anyone, in short, whose only means of interacting with his fellow man is to dominate him. A great man, a man of vision, has been struck down by a conspiracy of cowards. It was suggested that the conference be postponed or even cancelled outright. To do so would be to hand victory to the cowards, and such a course of action was rejected unanimously. I am heartened to see that virtually everyone who scheduled is, in fact, in attendance. I'm sure that Bob Durant, as he looks down from heaven, whatever you conceive that to be, is heartened by your resounding rejection of terror."
         She had to pause here for a standing ovation. Kitfox was impressed. He had had no idea from their short meeting that the woman was such a skilled orator. He also hadn't known that she was Durant's personal assistant. Could there be a motive there?
         "We stand today on the threshold of the Third Millennium. The First was marked by fear and ignorance. The Second is renowned for its intolerance, religious persecution, and the enslavement of whole segments of society by their fellow man. Both have been the playground of the warrior class.
         "It is the aim of modern, hopefully enlightened people everywhere to make this the Millennium of peace and freedom for all."
         She stopped to wait out another round of applause.
         "Peace and freedom are not spread by war. We have the whole of human history to demonstrate the truth of that statement. Peace and freedom are spread through trade, the commerce of goods and ideas in a free marketplace where ordinary people reward quality and weed out mediocrity in both goods and ideas. It will not be an easy path from here to there. You people, those of you in this room today, are the scouts, the point men, the leaders who will take us all into the brave new world. Mr. Durant named his conference PacRim for a reason. Pacific rim. It was his belief that the economic powerhouse of the United States would be joined initially by the emerging economies of Asia, and joined in time by Europe, Africa, and South America, we would carry the world into this promised land of brotherhood and security. This conference, PacRim One, is the first step on that journey. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monterey, welcome to PacRim One, welcome to the shining future of mankind. Thank you all for attending. Now, let us begin our work."
         She stepped out from behind the podium to bow in acknowledgement of the thunderous ovation that swept the hall. When the noise died down and everyone took their seats again, she introduced the mayor, who would exhort them to visit his town and spend lots of money, and descended from the dais to take an unassuming place at the back of the room. Kitfox moved to her side, taking a program from the table at the back wall.
         "Marvelous speech, Mrs. Roberts. Do you write your own material?"
         "Just the eulogy. The marvelous bits were pure Bob. We've met, haven't we?"
         "Leon Kitfox, FBI"
         "Oh, yes. You're the one trying to get the murderer off."
         "I don't get people off, Mr. Roberts. Attorneys do that. I'm trying to find out who lit her fuse."
         "You still don't think she acted alone, then?"
         "No more than you do. Why didn't you tell me you were Mr. Durant's personal assistant?"
         "You didn't ask. Anyway, it was implied, wasn't it? I was running the bank when you interrogated me."
         "Interviewed. Interrogations are a bit more forceful. Do you realize that the fact of you being his PA gives you substantial motive for doing away with him?"
         "That's ridiculous!"
         "Is it? It implies immediate inheritance of his duties, his projects, his mantle, if you will."
         "All of that was coming to me in due time."
         "Maybe. Durant wasn't old. He could have gone on for another twenty years. A lot could have happened to your relationship in twenty years. It may have been happening already."
         "Are you accusing me of murdering my mentor, Agent Kitfox?"
         "Do you see handcuffs? Do you hear the Miranda warning? When I spoke to you just now, you put some thought into placing me on the defensive. I'm just exploring possibilities."
         "What's wrong with the possibility that that woman the police have in jail murdered him for her own reasons?"
         "She has no reasons."
         "Perhaps her livelihood stood to be harmed by free trade. That's a common theme with the protestors."
         "Doesn't apply to her."
         "So, you think somebody who did have motive asked her to kill him for him, and she just said, 'Okay, why not?'"
         "That would be in line with your 'conspiracy of cowards.' I don't know what got her going, but I will."
         "Gloria," a young man interrupted, "I'm so glad to finally meet you! David Chou, National Bank of Taipei."
         "Oh, David, I'm glad to meet you as well. Duty calls, Mr. Kitfox. You know where to find me."
         The mayor had wrapped up his remarks and the delegates were up from their seats and introducing themselves to each other. Roberts moved off the join a small group at the far side of the room, leaving Kitfox to wonder whether she had vacationed in Cabo, and how he might find out.

8:39 AM, Monterey

         Inez Zamora walked along the hall taking in a constant buzz of prime rates, treasury bond values, conversion rates, and initial public offerings. She had never realized that it was possible for this many boring people to gather in one place without disappearing into some sort of gravity sink. Steeling herself against some mind-numbing slideshow, she entered the main convention room.
To her relief, everyone still inside was gathered into groups, all droning on in Geekanese about their own little areas of expertise. To her even more profound relief, Kitfox stood alone at the back of the room flipping through a pamphlet and casting furtive glances at one group or another.
         "Hey, G-man," she greeted him quietly.
         "Good morning, copper."
         "Did I miss anything?"
         "A hell of a speech. The woman in the dark suit over there is Gloria Roberts. She is, or was, Robert Durant's personal assistant."
         "Oh, that’s Gloria Roberts?"
         "Impressive, yes? I interviewed her earlier this week. She was the assistant manager of the B of A here, filling in for Durant until she or someone else was named to fill the position, and she didn't let on otherwise."
         "And this has your antennae quivering because?"
         "Durant was more than just a banker. He was the driving force behind this conference, for one thing. What if he led, or was himself a financial empire, and that woman was his personal assistant?"
         "Then his sudden demise could lead to quite a windfall for his girl Friday. That will be easy enough to check out. I'll get somebody on it. What about security?"
         "What about it?"
         "How does it look?"
         "Like it's supposed to."
         "But?"
         "But it's a big show. Lots of uniforms, cops and private, standing around looking like they're ready for Armageddon, but they can't prevent anything." Kitfox scanned the room. "They can only react after something happens."
         "It's the best we can do. A big show of force might deter an incident. You know how security works."
         "Yeah. They're doing their part. Now we have to do ours."
         "Which is?"
         "We're investigators, Inez. We have to find out what's driving this thing, unravel the plot, and get out ahead of it somehow."
         "How? We're going to check out Durant to see if your buddy Roberts there had motive. Even if she did, that doesn't mean she's guilty."
         "Agreed."
         "What else? There's the Cabo connection. This town's cold and wet half the year. I can't imagine how many people bug out for the sun belt any chance they get."
         "Still, that might be doable. All the perps track to one place, that Casa de Maya, what was it?"
         "Casa de la Playa. Means House of the Shore. We can try to track the guest list, but, Christ, think about it. There'll be hundreds this time of year. Thousands."
         "Yes, thousands that visited, but they will have paid with credit cards, yes?"
         "Most of them."
         "And those companies bill their statements to their cardholders' homes. Now, what if we could get a list of charges to Casa de la Playa filtered by the local zip codes in the area?"
         "We'd have a hell of a head start, that's what. It won't be easy, though. We'll need court orders for each company. They aren't going to hand over their clients' private financial records without it."
         "Are you cozied up to any judges here in town?"
         "Excuse me?"
         "If you think my FBI credentials will carry more weight, I'll make the request, but if you have an I.O.U. floating around, this might be a good time to call it in."
         "Well, there's Judge Cavenaugh. He doesn't owe me anything, but he's tough on crime. He might come through once he hears the story. We still won't get anything out of this before the conference is over."
         "What else have we got? The only other commonality is the amnesia, and they only come down with that after they've done the deed. I don't see any way we can use that, do you?"
         "No. So, it's the billing list, then. I'll pull the good judge off the links and see if he can follow our little tale through the twilight zone."
         "Pitch it good. Lives may depend on this."
         "Let's hope not. What are you going to do?"
         "I think I'll look around here for a weapons cache maybe, something like that."
         "Talk about the twilight zone!"
         "Look, I was attacked by staff in my rinky-dink motel. If our mastermind had a guy there, how many more will he have here where the conference is? Smuggling a weapon through this security isn't going to happen. How much easier would it be to have them prepositioned inside before it all starts?"
         "Okay, you've sold me. Keep in touch."

9:02 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox wandered aimlessly around the bellhops' lounge, looking for he knew not what. He had the place to himself, only the careworn furniture to keep him company. The staff was swamped, kept busy by no less than three conventions including PacRim. He looked under sofa skirts and chair cushions, behind pictures, in cabinets.
         A supervisor came in, a pompous older man looking for anyone goofing off on his watch.
         "May I help you?" he smarmed.
         "FBI," Kitfox replied, holding up his credentials without looking at him.
         "Do you have a search warrant, sir?"
         "I have the enthusiastic cooperation of the hotel management"
         "In that case, I ask again, may I help you?"
         "I'm looking for weapons. Have you found any over the last few days?"
         "Weapons? Like pistols, perhaps?"
         "Yes. Pistols or maybe something bigger. Just anything out of the ordinary."
         "I am sorry, sir. No pistols, no flame-throwers, no bazookas nor trench mortars have I seen. Perhaps the kitchen may hold what you're looking for."
         "Perhaps it might. Well, thanks for your help."
         Kitfox opened a roll-around cart that contained spare uniform parts and rifled through them in search of foreign objects.
         "Was there something else?"
         "No. Thanks again. You can carry on."
         The old boy gave him a look that would have curdled milk, made a crisp military turn, and walked out.
         He was probably right, Kitfox knew. Nothing especially sophisticated had been used yet, and the most likely weapon was a knife from the kitchen. He was wasting time. Still, there was nothing else to do until Zamora got her hands on that list. Maybe the housekeeping staff was sitting on a stash of firearms.

9:41 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox stepped into the bright, noisy kitchen, ears recoiling from the raw clanging of metal implements. A busboy with a stack of trays bustled in behind him, almost running him down before he could step aside, and then he only stepped into the path of a room service cart whose driver braked suddenly and rolled his eyes above a muttered curse.
         "You, out!!"
         That sentiment was voiced by a wiry man with a pencil mustache who was bustling toward him, eyes bugging out below a ridiculously large chef's hat. Kitfox looked around to see who he might be addressing.
         "You! I am talking to you!" The accent was French, and the target was Kitfox. "Out of my kitchen!"
         "Special Agent Kitfox, FBI. I'm investigating—”
         "And this gives you the right to stand in everyone's way on the most important day in the hotel's history? Mon Dieu! What do you want, and make it quickly, please!"
         "I'm investigating a multiple homicide, with possibly more to come."
         "In the hotel?"
         "Not yet. That's what I'm trying to prevent. I'm looking for weapons the killer may have stockpiled before the security perimeter was established."
         "Weapons? Do you not know where you are?"
         Kitfox gave him raised eyebrows and an upturned palm.
         "This is a kitchen. Everything in here is a weapon."
         "This would be something a little more sophisticated than the cutlery. Are there places in here you hardly ever look?"
         "Are you blind? Look at this place. You see a hundred people working in a space for fifty. What are you thinking?"
         "I'm thinking of a place where you keep something you hardly ever use, like, I don't know, Tupperware, the microwave, something like that."
         "Ah, yes. The microwave is there. Help yourself. Tupperware is not allowed in this room."
         "Louis, your hollandaise!" someone shouted.
         "Stir, you fool!" he shouted back. "As you see, I have to go. Feel free to amuse yourself, but for the love of God, stay out of the walkway!" He took off running toward a row of pots along the far wall.
         Kitfox stepped cautiously into the maelstrom, dodging a steaming cauldron carried by a man not tall enough to see over the edge of it. Stepping into a tiny niche out of the aisle, he opened a cabinet, and had it instantly slam shut again as someone ran into the back of it with a loud curse. The man passed and he took a quick look inside. Ladles and strainers.
         He moved along the wall to the bulk refrigerator and opened the door in time to let a young woman carrying a rack of ribs into the kitchen; she almost fell into the room, having expected the door to resist her weight. He went in, finding parts of carcasses hanging from racks and, surprisingly, frozen vegetables, but no good hiding places.
         Back into the roiling kitchen he went, checking another cabinet, getting his toes trod on for his trouble, and gave a cursory examination to a bin of soiled linen. He also reached underneath but found nothing but some fresh chewing gum. He stood up to think, pulled at his chin, and got shouldered aside once again.
         The back row had the stove burners against the wall with the cutting board opposite. There may have been space below the burners, but it would be folly to hide ammunition there. Cabinets lined the row below the cutting boards, but junior cooks were constantly in and out, and nothing out of the ordinary could possibly remain unnoticed. And then one of the bellhops approached him.
         "Special Agent Kitfox?" the boy shouted.
         "Yes."
         "Telephone." The kid handed him a handset.
         "Kitfox," he shouted without elaborating.
         "Jesus, Leon, where are you?" Zamora's voice, barely audible, came into his ear.
         "The kitchen."
         "Sounds like a boiler factory."
         "You should hear it from here. Hang on, let me get out of here." He maneuvered his way to the door and stepped out into the corridor. "Okay, this is better. What do you need?"
         "A judge."
         "How's that?"
         "Cavenaugh's gone to Hollister. Won't be back until this evening. I can try another one, but the results would be less certain."
         "Damn! What are we looking at, eight, nine hours?"
         "Minimum."

10:15 AM, Monterey

         Woodbury Travel was one of those small businesses that the Chamber of Commerce liked to hold up as a local success story. That was an understatement. Kori Woodbury graduated on the dean's list from Monterey Union High School, married the football team's star receiver, and started a family, all in accordance with the American Dream. Ten years and two kids into it, her loving husband took up loving with another woman, got caught, and was duly served with divorce papers. Law and sympathy were on Kori's side, she got the house, the kids, and a big settlement. Mr. Wonderful made exactly two child support payments before dropping off the face of the earth, leaving Kori to fend for herself.
         Kori, who had never been further abroad than San Francisco, had combined her fascination with travel and her native intelligence with a burning drive to provide more for her kids than a welfare check, and had turned a rundown storefront into the hottest dream store on the Peninsula. She was enjoying a lull in business when her old classmate and partner in crime walked through the door.
         "Inez!" she shouted, putting down coffee cup and brochure, and rising with a wide smile on her pretty features. "Inez Zamora! Is it still Zamora?"
         "Jeez, Kori, you sound like my mother. How's life treating you?"
         "Very well, as it turns out. How about you? Are you still with the police department?"
         "Still am. That's kind of what brings me here."
         "Really?"
         "Yeah. I need to get a feel for Cabo San Lucas. How's business been to there over, oh, say the last six months?"
         "Six months? That's a coincidence." She turned to a file cabinet behind her desk.
         "How's that?"
         "Well, it seems like we've been packing every plane going out of here." She dug through a long rack of folders. "Are you thinking of taking a little getaway?"
         "Could be."
         "This would be a great time for it. Ah, here we are." She turned and spread a stack of brochures across her desk. "It's unusual for a resort to run a special during its big season."
         "And someone is?"
         "Yes. Ever since the spring this charming little inn called Casa de la Playa has been running a two-week singles package that comes in at about forty percent below the going rate. We try to refer everybody. It's a great... deal. Inez?"
         She had looked up to find Zamora staring at the colorful folders with wide eyes and gaping mouth.
         "Inez, what is it?"
         "Oh, I just remembered, I have to get back to the Marriott. God, look at the time. I'm working security on the PacRim Conference with an FBI agent."
         "Is he a stud?"
"Kori, he's gay, all right? This is work. Keep those things handy, will you? In fact, let me have one. Thanks. Gotta run!"

11:19 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox stood in the fourth-floor housekeeping storeroom looking around without really seeing anything. His mind was numb with the fruitless search, like the way your eyes got when you tried to stare at one thing for too long. At some point after the kitchen, he had crossed the line into the ridiculous. He looked at the shelves of cleaning supplies and wondered whether a murdering pacifist could make a delegate drink Liquid Plumber, and what the effect would be if he could. Chlorine bleach and ammonia stood ready and waiting to be mixed in one of the handy plastic buckets, sending clouds of lung-blistering chlorine gas through the ventilating system. It was a positive relief when the hotel's PA system chimed.
         "Leon Kitfox," a soft female voice called, "Telephone at the front desk, please. Mr. Kitfox, telephone."
         He rode the elevator to the lobby and identified himself to one of the receptionists, who handed him a telephone.
         "Kitfox."
         "Leon, it's Inez. Sit down."
         "I'm kind of busy. What's up?"
         "Well, I dropped in on an old school chum who runs a travel agency now."
         "Travel agency? I'm guessing you found something useful, or you wouldn't be calling me."
         "And how! It seems a little hostelry by the name of Casa de la Playa has been offering a discount package for the last six months that has been packing in visitors from all over America. My friend says she's had vacationers going on every plane out of here since it started."
         "You're shitting me!"
         "Oh, that's not all. I called them. This whole discount during tourist season was the brainchild of a fellow named Wilhelm Uberoth. He had an accent, but the man I talked to didn't think it was German. Somewhere east of there, more like. Now, get this. This Uberoth guy just up and left last week."
         "What does 'left' mean in this context?"
         "Disappeared. Didn't give notice, didn't pick up his severance check, nothing. They just got up one morning and he was gone. The package has been working so well, they continued it, but I don't think anyone who went after this guy left is a problem for us."
         "You're probably right. Where did they find this guy, what's his background?"
         "He applied for an opening for a social director. Gave three references at European resorts. They called one, a number he gave them, and they confirmed him. Apparently, they were real happy with him. They're kind of in a backwater down there, and he put them on the map. They were real sorry to find him gone."
         "I'll bet. So, what do we have on this guy?"
         "They're going to fax me his employment package, which isn't much, but there is a recent photo and the references he gave. Maybe we can track him down with that."
         "I wouldn't bet on it. The name will be an alias, and the references are either disconnected or they never heard of him."
         "Yeah, but there's the picture. Maybe we'll get lucky."
         "Sure, an Eastern European con man's going to show up in your mug book."
         "I was thinking more like your mug book."
         "Oh, sure, we'll send it up, but photo matching takes longer than we've got."
         "It's something, Leon."
         "Yes, it is. I'm sorry. You've done some great work here. I just hope it leads us somewhere."
         "So do I."
         "Well, what do you do now?"
         "I'm going to my office to wait for the fax."
         "You don't think it's there already?"
         "Leon, it's coming from a Mexican innkeeper."
         "Point taken."
         "Are you still at the Marriott?"
         "Yeah. I'll be here all day."
         "Okay. I'll bring it over as soon as it comes in. See you then."
         "Bye," he said, but she was already gone.