In another era, the lead detective would have squared off with them and said, “Bullshit—you want the cops and the dead guy out of your dining room as soon as possible so you can get on with lunch and pretend this never happened.”
Today’s NYPD is different. We practice CPR—Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect. I thanked them for their help, exchanged business cards, and politely asked for their indulgence while my partner and I took a look at the deceased.
“We have a defibrillator on hand,” the manager said, like this was a dry run for the insurance investigation. “But it appears to be one of those sudden but deadly coronaries. There was no time to save him.”
The corporate guy, who was probably the vice president in charge of covering shit up, said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a heavy smoker.” Then he assured us that all the resources of the hotel were at our disposal to help resolve this tragedy in a timely fashion.
Short of tossing the body on a baggage cart and tucking it out of sight behind the bell desk, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what resources he had in mind.
I have no idea how they describe the Regency dining room in their brochures, but I’d call it Old Money Posh. Thick carpeting, heavy drapes, silky fabric on the walls, and upholstered chairs, all in various shades of gold.
In stark contrast to all those golden hues was a brownish red puddle and the splayed body of a man who was definitely not flying back to LA first-class.
“His name is Sidney Roth, Bel Air, California, age fifty-three.”
It was Chuck Dryden, a crime scene investigator with a keen eye, remarkable instincts, and zero personality. With Chuck, there’s never any of the usual how’s-it-going cop banter. They call him Cut And Dryden because he gets straight to the point, without any mirth, without any chin-wagging.
I introduced him to Kylie, which I’m sure was a total waste of six seconds of his time.
“What’s the COD?” I said. “The hotel brass are pushing heart attack, but I’m sure they’ll be happy with any God-given untimely death that indemnifies them.”
“Heart attack victims don’t usually crap their pants,” Dryden said. “I think he was poisoned, but we won’t know for sure till we do an autopsy and a tox screen.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Chuck nodded and went back to work.
“Did you hear that?” Kylie said. “He said poison.”
“He said he thinks it was poison.”
“I hope he’s right,” she said. “I’ve never worked a poison homicide before.”
“In that case, can I give you a little free advice?”
“Sure.”
“A lot of people are watching us. Try not to look quite so happy about it.”
Chapter 10
NOTHING CLEARS A crowded restaurant like a bleeding corpse. We were told that someone yelled “Call 911!” when Roth hit the floor. After that, everybody yelled out “Check!”
By the time the two uniformed first responders showed up, most of the witnesses had left the building. Luckily, this was the Regency and not a Starbucks, and Philippe, the very buttoned-up and genuinely helpful maître d’, assured us he could refer to his seating chart and reconstruct the entire population of the dining room from the minute it opened to the minute Roth died.
“Mr. Roth was at table twelve with four others,” Philippe said. “Two of them are still here.”
He pointed to two men in their early thirties sitting at a table in the corner, a silver carafe and two coffee cups between them.
I looked up, and one of the men grinned and started waving.
“He seems to be taking Roth’s death rather well,” I said to Kylie. “What the hell is he waving at?”
“Me,” she said. “I know him. He’s a friend of Spence’s.”
We walked over, and the man stood up. “Kylie,” he said. “I knew you were a cop, but what are the odds?”
“This is my partner, Detective Zach Jordan,” she said. “Zach, this is Harold Scott.”
“My friends call me Scotty,” he said, shaking my hand.
He introduced us to the other man. “This is Randy Pisane. We were having breakfast with Sid Roth when he died.”
“Thanks for staying,” I said. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“One minute Roth is fine. He’s telling us war stories. I mean this guy worked with everybody—Eastwood, Newman, Brando—the biggest of the big. I’ve got to tell you, even if half of that shit was true—”
“Scotty,” Kylie said. “What actually happened?”
“Anyway, to make a long story short, all of a sudden, bam—he’s standing up, puking, having some kind of a seizure, and then down he goes. Smashed his head open, bled all over everything. It was gruesome. I mean, you see a lot worse on film, but in real life, it’s—I don’t know—it’s real. It sucks.”