Blood Money

12:15 P.M.  The Del Rio Hotel.  A seedy part of town.  The sound of gulls shrieking in the distance.  A thick, heavy bank of fog had drifted in from the ocean.  Kellermann and Rodriguez had eased the unmarked sedan to the curb directly across the street from the hotel.  It was a smallish, modern hotel that managed to give an air of age and dilapidation.  Except for a tiny, yellow night-light, in the deserted lobby, the building was shrouded in darkness.  There was a sense of loneliness and desolation about it.  Kellermann killed the motor and for a long moment the two detectives remained seated inside the car.  They were gazing silently at the hotel.  Fingers of billowing fog drifted in and at times, completely enveloped the forlorn-looking building.  In a small parking area adjacent to the hotel, was a beat-up, 1984 Eldorado.  “Looks like Rosa Molina was givin’ us the straight story,” Rodriguez said.  “There’s the car she was talkin’ about­”

“Yeah.  Felt kind of sorry for her.  Hope Mendoza catches up with that fat asshole and gives him a little jail-time.”  (Detective Mendoza had returned to the police station with Rosa Molina, where he was preparing a report, plus a warrant for Harry Davenport’s arrest.)

Kellermann took a final drag on his cigarette and dropped the butt into the street.  “Whaddya say, Mike?” he said.  “You ready to take on Baranski?”

Rodriguez reached for the door handle.  “Yeah.  Let’s go wrap this thing up, Joe­”

The two men exited the car and as they made their way up a short flight of wooden steps to the hotel’s entrance, they could hear the surf pounding against the shore.  This, punctuated by the intermittent drone of a foghorn.  Kellermann opened the flimsy door and they entered the lobby.  There was a tarnished brass mailbox for the half-dozen permanent guests.  Under the number, 204, was the name, MOLINA.  The detectives climbed the creaky, linoleum-covered stairs to the second floor.  In front of them was a long, dimly-lit hallway.  The stench of cat-urine permeated the place.  They walked slowly down the corridor to Room No. 204.  The number ‘4’ dangled from a single screw.  As they had done at the Granada Hotel the day before, they took a position on each side of the door, their .38 Smith and Wesson weapons at the ready.  Kellermann knocked on the door.  “Okay, Baranski...this is Detective Kellermann with the Los Angeles Police!  Open the door, Baranski!  Do it now!”

There was silence.

“Let’s go, Baranski!  We know you’re in there!  Open the door!  Open up, Baranski!”

The detectives waited.  There was no response.  No sound except for the constant shriek of seagulls in the distance.  Kellermann glanced at Rodriguez.  “Let’s take it, Mike!”  The younger detective heaved his right shoulder against the flimsy, weather-beaten door, and it flung open.  They entered.  Like the rest of the seedy hotel, the room was dank and gloomy.  The walls were stained yellow from cigarette smoke; the curtains faded and listless.  A dull, amber light emanated from an ancient, tattered table lamp in one corner of the room.  Ed Baranski was lying on the bed in a sitting position, his back propped up against the bed headboard.  He was stripped to the waist.  He had put the muzzle of his .9mm Beretta into his mouth and pulled the trigger.  Blood and brain-matter were splattered all over the wall behind him.  The gun was lying on the floor beside him.  Ed Baranski was dead.