Forgotten Witness (7 page)

“That the best you got?” the man asked.

Josie shrugged, “He’s a nervous guy. Kind of stops and starts.”

The clerk raised his chin and two more came with it. “Him. Yeah. I know him. Odd duck. He ain’t drunk.”

“Could he have signed in as A. Francis?” Josie asked.

“Yeah, but he didn’t. It was a kid. A girl. She signed in. I didn’t figure out he was with her until a day later.”

“What did she look like?”

“Like a kid in a coat and hat. What do I know?”

“Is she black? Pretty? Did you see a teenage boy with them?”

“Lady, I told you I don’t know,” he moaned and then that lazy eye of his managed to straighten for a suspicious second. “You sure you’re not here to make no trouble?”

“Nope. No trouble.” Josie’s heart beat hard. Once, twice, three times, like Hannah tapping out her anxiety. She gave it a minute to calm down. “Are they still in room 720?”

“Unless he bolted and didn’t pay. That would be a bitch. I gotta cover the room when that happens. They don’t pay me enough to do that, and how am I supposed to see everything. Can’t stay up twenty-four-seven.”

“If he’s gone, I’ll cover it.” Josie turned away.

“Want me to call up? Maybe the girl is there and you can talk to her.”

“No.” Josie was already retracing her steps. “Where’s the elevator.”

He pointed to the lobby. He had no time for anything more. He was already in his office. Josie found the elevators in the back of the building. She pushed the button three times before she heard a whir. The numbers above the doors stayed dark. She was about to head for the stairs when a bell finally dinged. She pivoted, getting back just as the door opened. She stepped inside then out again. A rat was nestled in the corner, dead and destined to ride the elevator for eternity. It would be better to take the stairs than to get caught between floors with that thing. At least that’s what she thought until she opened the exit door.

The stairwell reeked and she had seven flights ahead of her. She blessed the hours on the beach playing volleyball. Seven flights would be a piece of cake; seven floors were nothing if it got her to room 720, Ian Francis, and the girl who was with him.

***

Ian jumped a little. He shivered. He wrapped his arms around himself and took the cheap phone out of his pocket. The people in the building had taken it away and then they gave it back. That was nice because the girl had given it to him and told him it was important that he keep it. Good, good girl. She was there no matter what time he needed her. Sometimes he didn’t sleep and she didn’t either. Of course she might sleep and he might forget that he had been watching her. He also might forget that he had slept. Oh, life was strange and he was so tired.

Ian pushed a button, remembering that a button must be pushed. A number came up and a picture next to that. He pushed the number next to the picture he recognized. The phone rang. He said hello. She spoke quickly, a habit she picked up when she realized how fast the dark came. She almost had what they needed, she said. She would be back soon, she said. She asked where he was and reminded him how to go back to the room. That was good that she reminded him because he was unsure.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

He mumbled and nodded even though she couldn’t see him.

“You shouldn’t have gone alone. I’m sorry. There was the time to consider.”

He didn’t tell her she was right. He shouldn’t have gone alone. He forgot to tell her that it was getting harder to stay the course. His arm simply fell to his side. He still clutched his phone. Muscle memory. He had been so used to holding things: pens, pointers, his sweet girl’s hand.

Ian Francis continued walking, concentrating on the words pulsing inside his brain.

Hurry. Hurry man.

Hurry for your girl.

“Just checking in. Max is fine. A little off his food, but I think it’s just because he misses you. We all miss you.
” – Voice Mail, Faye Baxter to Josie

CHAPTER 6

Upstairs at The Robert Lee Hotel was no better than down. The guest floors were aged, grimy and clinging to their old glory by a fraying thread. The seventh floor smelled like a stew-pot of dirt, bad plumbing, mold, bodily fluids, and food. The plaster ceiling crumbled in places where melting snow and driving rain had leaked through a roof that needed replacing thirty years ago.

At the end of the hall was a window and icy air blew through the broken glass. Josie could make out the shadow of a fire escape past that. She walked slowly, noting the silent butlers outside each room, the grime on the doors, the torn carpet. Josie measured her steps, staying alert but she heard nothing until she knocked on the door of room 720 at the end of the hall.

“Mr. Francis?” she called. “Mr. Francis. It’s Josie Bates. From the hearing?”

She knocked again. The sound her fist made on the door was hollow and swallowed by the room beyond. Josie took hold of the knob, ready to break the door down if necessary. It wasn’t. The door was unlocked so she pushed it open slowly.

“Mr. Francis? It’s Josie Bates,” she called. “I’m coming in to talk to you. Don’t be afraid.”

Josie wished she could take her own advice, but she couldn’t. She was terrified. Her heart beat harder, sweat formed under her collar, her coat weighed her down, and her gloves seemed to constrict around her hands. She strained to hear a response. She heard nothing. Josie had heard this kind of nothing in Billy Zuni’s house where death kept its quiet, cold counsel. She had heard this silence in the concrete prison where she thought she would die. Josie had heard this silence in her home when she was thirteen and her mother deserted her. She wasn’t sure she could walk into that void again and alone. But this time it was for Hannah, so she threw the light switch.

The overhead fixture was out but there was enough light coming from the hall to let her see the layout of the room so she left the door open. In front of her was an entry that was no more than five feet long. To the right was a partially closed pocket door. Flat-palmed, she slid it back to reveal a small bathroom. Josie turned on the light. There was a hairbrush on the counter, a glass with two toothbrushes, and a small bar of soap near the sink that had been opened and used. Two towels hung neatly on a bar. The mirror was glued to the wall and plastic clamshell brackets held it in place. It looked like the bathrooms in the base housing where Josie grew up. The mirror itself was cracked on one corner and the silver backing was showing through and turning black in another. The shower curtain was drawn over the tub. She pulled it back with one finger. There was a bar of hotel soap and bottle of cheap shampoo. A woman’s shampoo.

Josie went to the main room. It was standard: two beds, a low bureau, a chair, tall and narrow french doors overlooking the street. Those doors were framed by chiffon sheers yellowed with age, sagging where the drapery pins had come loose. They rippled like the hem of a ghostly gown.

Convinced she was alone, positive she wasn’t going to trip over a corpse, Josie walked to the window and looked out. What she assumed to be a balcony was only an illusion. A railing had been bolted to the building outside the window as a safety guard for sleepwalkers and drunks. Summers in D.C. could be brutal and there was no air-conditioning when this place was built. Tonight the doors were closed. She pulled the drapes aside and put her hand up to the glass. Cold air was seeping through cracked caulking and yet the room was relatively warm. She touched the radiator. It was cool but not cold. Someone had been there to turn it on and off.

The spreads on the full-size beds were thrown over the pillows but the sheets were un-tucked. She walked between them, fumbled with the switch on the lamp that sat on the table between them and finally managed to turn it on. The dim bulb under the fringed, grey shade shed light that made everything look like it was floating under dingy water but it was better than nothing. She opened the narrow drawer in the bedside table and found a bible. Someone had written a profanity on the cover and misspelled it. Josie closed the drawer. There was no iPod, tablet, book, or notepad. There was nothing in the room that a normal traveler would have. There was no loose change, no pen, and no keys. There had been no medicine bottles in the bathroom. There was nothing to indicate that someone had eaten here. The bureau was clean, too. She pulled back the sheets and stuck her hand under the pillows of the first bed and then the other. No nightclothes, books, or treasures. She lifted one mattress and then the other and wanted to wash her hands when she was done.

Josie opened the top drawer of the bureau.

Nothing.

She opened all six drawers.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

She swept the room again with a sharper eye and was rewarded for the effort. A small, wheeled bag was tucked into the corner of the room, half hidden because it was black and the sheers had blown over it. A case could be made that she had already broken a passel full of laws just by walking into this room and searching it. Josie, of course, could argue an exception. The door was open and she was concerned about the occupant. Searching a closed, partially hidden suitcase was another matter and it should have given her pause.

It didn’t.

***

The girl poked at the numbers and letters of the keyboard earnestly and yet she still made mistakes. Little sounds of frustration bubbled up between her lips but she was careful not to be too loud. The last thing she wanted to do was bring attention to herself. Not that anyone in this Internet café had given her a second look.

She reentered the numbers and this time she got it right. Behind the coffee bar a printer whirred. She logged off and went to the counter where a young man with a short beard and long hair took her money. He paused when she put out her hand for her change.

“Man, you’ve got a short lifeline.” He touched her palm with his pointer finger.

She grabbed back her hand. “Can I have my copies?”

“Sure.” He looked sheepish as he realized it probably wasn’t a good thing to point out that she was doomed. He looked at the boarding passes. “Sweet. Wish I was headed that way.”

“Can I have them?”

“Sure.” He handed them over along with her change.

“Thanks.” She pocketed the money, folded the passes, and didn’t bother to look at him when she said: “And that’s not my life line. It’s my heart line. One true love.”

“Yeah? Well, good luck with that,” he snorted.

She left with a scowl on her face, striding through the crowded café full of people no older than her, people who didn’t have a care in the world, who thought love was sex and sex was worth something. She knew better. Real love took over your soul, it guided your life, and it fed on your heart and mind until all you could see was the person you loved. When you were in the grips of true love, nothing else mattered. She had been taught about true love by an expert.

She pushed through the door and left behind the smell of coffee, the sound of conversation, the clicking of computers and hurried on through the cold night knowing that she would only feel safe when they were back home again – or at least back to the place where they started – and that was just plain sad.

***

Josie grabbed the case and swung it onto the bed. It was light and cheap. The zipper jammed when she started to open it. Working her finger through the opening, Josie felt the fray of lining fabric that had caught on the teeth. Patiently, she worked it free until the zipper gave.

Inside, neatly folded, were clothes held tight by a strap. The plastic buckle unsnapped easily and Josie lifted out each piece as she found it: a man’s T-shirt, clean but worn thin, two pairs of men’s underwear, a woman’s long sleeved T-shirt. She held it up and knew instantly it wasn’t Hannah’s. This one was medium and Hannah wore small. This one was the color of sherbet, cheaply screen-printed with a riot of flowers and fruits. Hannah wouldn’t be caught dead in it. Josie left it on the bed and pulled the rest of the clothes out of the suitcase: a plain bra and equally plain panties. Josie put the clothes back as she found them. The list of what she knew was getting longer than what she didn’t.

She knew that Ian Francis was not a citizen of D.C. or he wouldn’t need a hotel room or a suitcase. Ian Francis had not traveled here alone unless he was fond of women’s clothes. And, finally, Josie knew that Ian Francis and the woman he traveled with must be wearing almost everything they brought with them because it was cold outside and the case was nearly empty.

She clicked the buckle back in place, flipped the top up, and unzipped the outer pocket. Empty. Still, she felt she was coming up short. Ian Francis was fond of puzzles, hidden things, cyphers and it was up to her to figure this out. Josie opened the case again and this time ran her hands around the sides stopping when she found something deep in the lining. Pushing her hand inside she found a map of D.C. The Russell Building and the Capitol Building were circled, the metro stops marked. She tossed it aside and reached into the pocket again. This time she came up with gold: four small bags of the same white powder Ian Francis pressed upon her. These had markings, too, but the codes were different than the one in her bag.

Cupping her palm, she swiveled to hold them up to the weak light only to stop mid-turn. Slowly, her fingers curled around the packets and her hand fell to her side.

“Hello,” said the man standing at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, Archer, what’s shakin?” –
Burt

“Josie thinks she’s got a bead on Hannah.”-
Archer

“No kidding? That would be a helluva thing finding her half way across the country. Sit down. I’ll get you some chow. How about a beer?” –
Burt

“Just the food. Jo’s taking the red eye. I’ve got to pick her up.” –
Archer

“It’ll be good to have her home. Max still at Faye’s?” –
Burt