Ornaments of Death (10 page)

The man looked at his companion. She nodded.

“All right then,” he said. “The Blue Dolphin it is. Would you make us a reservation? For eight?”

“You bet,” Jonah said. “I'll leave a message on your room voice mail once it's confirmed.”

They thanked him, and Jonah left them still scanning the binder and approached us, giving me a wide smile, but looking askance at Ellis.

Jonah was about five-nine and built like a wrestler, wiry and tough. His wavy black hair was cut short. His red and black flannel shirt and black jeans were his winter uniform; in the summer he wore collared T-shirts and khaki shorts. Jonah had a go-with-the-flow attitude toward most things, unlike his wife, Taylor, who was more of a by-the-book sort of gal.

“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Ellis asked.

“Of course,” Jonah said, no longer smiling. “Give me a minute.”

He disappeared through a door marked
PRIVATE
. Two minutes later a thin young woman with curly blond hair appeared behind the front desk. Jonah stuck his head out from the private area and waggled his fingers, inviting us in.

“We don't need to sit,” Ellis said in the hallway to Jonah's back, stopping him from leading us into an office. “I didn't want to disturb your guests.” He handed over the signed order. “When I spoke to you earlier, you said Ian Bennington had not checked out, is that correct?”

“Right.”

“When was he supposed to leave?”

“Monday morning.”

“What's your policy about people who stay beyond their scheduled departure?” Ellis asked.

“It depends how full we are. In the summer, when we're booked solid, we'll follow up within a few minutes of checkout, which is eleven, and we keep at it until they leave. This time of year, there's no urgency, but of course, we tried to contact him. We've left two voice mails a day apart, and we left them on both his cell phone and his room messaging system saying that we assume he wants to extend his stay. I called the first time myself. That was on Monday, around noon. Taylor called up to his room on Tuesday about the same time. We e-mailed him, too, so we'd have the communication in writing. We told him that we'll run his credit card on a day-by-day basis for the room charge, and that's what we've done.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Sunday, early afternoon. He said hello on his way in. When Josie asked about him the last time, telling me he'd missed some appointments, I checked his keycard usage and our security photos. He left the hotel through the lobby around three. A couple of minutes later, he drove out of the lot. He hasn't entered his room since I saw him on Sunday. No one has.”

“That's very helpful,” Ellis said. “We may need to take that testimony as a formal statement, but for now, let's go look at his room.”

A red and blue laminated
DO NOT DISTURB
sign hung from room 218's brass doorknob. Jonah knocked on the door with a shave-and-a-haircut beat three times, waiting a few seconds between sequences.

“Mr. Bennington?” he called, his mouth close to the door. “Mr. Bennington? We're coming in.” He slid his master keycard through the slot and opened the door.

Ellis stepped in first, then Jonah, then me. We sidestepped to avoid two small pieces of paper lying just over the threshold. They were preprinted notes from housekeeping inviting him to call if he wanted anything, explaining that because he'd hung the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on his door, they weren't coming in to make up the room. My eyes flew around the room. I'd hoped to find Ian wearing headphones, deep in writing or painting or something, and I'd dreaded that I'd discover his corpse, that I'd learn he'd suffered a heart attack or had a stroke and was dead. From my vantage point, I could see the entire room, even into the bathroom and out over the small balcony into the blackness beyond. Ian wasn't in sight.

Jonah and I stood against the back wall watching Ellis work. He opened the double closet doors and got onto his knees to peer under the bed, which from all appearances hadn't been slept in.

“So the maid was in here Sunday?” Ellis asked.

“Right. Late morning.”

A brown leather shaving kit hung from a towel bar in the bathroom. A large black hard-sided suitcase rested on a luggage rack. A pair of cordovan slip-on shoes stood neatly aligned under it. A laptop computer, with the lid closed, sat on the desk next to a stack of papers, including one I could identify from afar: the kind of paper sleeve car rental companies issue. The contract would be folded up inside.

“I don't see his wallet,” I said. “Or his cell phone.”

“His car keys seem to be missing, too,” Ellis said.

Ellis walked to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the balcony. He stood with his back to us while he made a phone call.

The call lasted longer than I expected. Ellis was checking something, not merely reporting or issuing orders.

“Two officers will be arriving shortly,” Ellis told Jonah as he swung around to face us. He surveyed the room as if he thought he might have missed something. “I've asked them to go through everything.” He shifted his eyes to my face. “Ian's car hasn't been returned to the rental company.”

“Which means Ian left his room on Sunday,” I said, “under his own steam, drove off the property, and hasn't been seen or heard from since.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Isn't the car outfitted with GPS?”

“So they say. But they need permission from higher-ups to track it. Once I get back to the station, I'll fax them a copy of the court order, which has to be reviewed by their legal team.” He brushed it aside. “If we get lucky, it'll be days, not weeks, before they respond.”

My shoulders tensed. I understood the rental car company's position. It was the same as the hotel's. Privacy. I got it, but that didn't mean I liked it.

Jonah closed the door behind us, leaving the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign in place.

Ellis thanked him, and we left.

As we walked down the freshly shoveled pathway to the parking lot, I asked, “What do we do now?”

Ellis double-clicked his remote, and the SUV's lights flicked on and off.

“We find him.”

*   *   *

Ty's flight landed at Boston's Logan Airport on time at six, and he got home just before eight thirty. After a late dinner, Ty and I went over to Zoë's for dessert, Ellis's brownies, warm from the oven. I sat on the floor by the fire, leaning against a pillow, braced against a club chair. Ty sat in the chair. If I leaned my head to the right, I could nuzzle his knee with my cheek.

“There's more than ninety-five thousand miles of shoreline in the country,” Ty said, “the overwhelming majority of it unmonitored. We want to set up trip wires, figuratively speaking. That's why my boss formed this committee—to identify and implement tactics to spot breaches sooner, rather than later.”

Ellis took a poker from the black metal hanging tool stand and flipped the top log in the smoldering pile. Orange and red flames flared for a few seconds. He balanced another log on top and the fire burst to life.

“What's an example of a trip wire?” Zoë asked.

“A webcam configured to recognize heat or motion.”

“Out in the middle of nowhere?” she asked, incredulous. “Can that really be done?”

“Sure.”

“We're going to install security cameras along stretches of deserted shoreline?” I asked.

“We might. Some communities already have. You sound surprised. How come?”

“Because there aren't any cameras installed in the corridor outside Ian's room. We're not even able to protect people where they sleep, let alone on tens of thousands of miles of unguarded coastline. It's hopeless.”

“It's not hopeless,” Ty said. “It's just deciding to do it. Like going to the moon. Once we put our collective mind on the problem, we solved it.”

“I guess,” I said, my eyes on the fire.

“We're doing everything we can to find Ian, Josie,” Ellis said quietly. “We've sent out BOLOs for him and his car. We've got alerts on his credit cards. I have calls in to his daughter.”

I watched flames touch the smoldering logs. I knew Ellis was doing his best. I also knew it wasn't good enough.

Later, when Ty and I were on my porch, Ty paused with the key in the lock.

“I still think there's a good chance Ian will resurface with one heck of a good story.”

I rubbed his cheek, knowing he was only saying it to bolster me, and I was grateful. It allowed me to hold on to a glimmer of hope, and sometimes a glimmer is enough to be able to navigate your way out of despair.

Upstairs, I switched off my lamp and closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the dark.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Just before ten next morning, Wednesday, I sat in my office, staring out the window, trying to talk myself out of my funk. There was no news of Ian, and Becca hadn't called back.

“Get to work,” I said aloud.

I didn't move. The snow had stopped overnight, and the temperature had warmed to heat wave status, forty-five degrees. Mica embedded in the granite boulders that dotted the woods twinkled like faraway stars. A small bird, black with white tips on some of its feathers, caught my eye as it fluttered through the thick green branches of a pine tree. I wondered why, speculating that it might have built a nest on a protected branch.

A buzz from the intercom startled me. It was Cara calling to tell me Lia was on line one. I grabbed the phone.

“Lia!” I said. “Tell me you have news.”

“No. But I need to talk. Can you have lunch?”

“Of course,” I said.

We arranged to meet at twelve thirty at the Portsmouth Diner. I stared at the receiver for a moment before placing it in the cradle. She sounded both morose and agitated. Something was up.

*   *   *

Lia was in a booth toward the back when I arrived at the diner.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said.

I slid onto the bench across from her. “You seem upset.”

“I am.” She shook her head and sighed. “I'm a mess.”

The waitress appeared. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, a random decision. Lia ordered a Caesar salad, no meat.

As soon as the waitress stepped away, Lia said, “I'm not on such solid ground as I thought I was. I'm so ashamed of myself.”

“I don't understand. Why?”

She looked down and began twirling a gold bangle. On the one hand, she looked the same as always, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup subtle and elegant, her cherry red silk blouse fitted by an expert. On the other hand, I could see the tension along her jaw and neck, and when she raised her eyes again to mine, there was a sorrowfulness in them that I couldn't miss. I recognized it. I'd felt it. It was the look of grief.

“I know how I sound most of the time—at least lately. Cynical. Jaded. Bitter. I'm sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Lia. Anyone in your situation would feel horrible, and many of us would act way worse than you have.”

She straightened her knife, moving it a micro-smidge, then lined up the spoon. “He's moved a girl into his condo—the condo I'm paying for.”

“Your ex?”

“The jerk.”

“Awful. How do you know?”

“Missy told me this morning.”

“Missy?” I asked in disbelief.

Lia snorted. “Everyone wants to be the first to deliver bad news. That way they get to watch.”

“That doesn't sound like Missy.”

The waitress appeared with food. We didn't speak until she left.

“She's eighteen,” Lia said, stabbing a lettuce leaf with a fork. “Her name is Tiffany. He'll live with her, but they'll never marry because that would end my obligation to pay spousal support.”

I nibbled at my sandwich, not tasting it. I didn't know what to say.

Lia's story was up there with most women's worst nightmares. Twenty years after her jock-hunky high school boyfriend ditched her for a girl he met on a field trip to the United Nations, he friended her on Facebook. A whirlwind romance ensued, with all her friends singing, “Fairy tales do come true … it can happen to you…” A month later, she married him, and learned the truth. He was a helluva good talker who couldn't hold a job and had a disastrously wandering eye. I wished I could do more to help Lia recover from the wounds her pride and pocketbook had endured.

She kept talking, expanding on her ex-husband's flaws, her comments becoming more personal and snarkier. When she started in about his bald spot, I stopped listening. I kept my eyes on her face, watching her expression harden, feeling disloyal and guilty in wishing I were anywhere but listening to her repetitive and acerbic rant.

She didn't pause to eat.

I lowered my sandwich onto my plate, my appetite gone. I hoped venting was good for her, suspecting, though, that it would only serve to stir up all the spiteful negativity that surged around her like a maelstrom.

Finally, after ten minutes or more, she stopped. She dropped her fork and it clinked against the bowl. She slid toward the booth opening.

“Oh, God. I'm sorry, Josie. I don't know why I asked you to meet me. I thought I needed to talk. I don't. There's nothing to say and nothing to do, and the more I talk the worse I feel. Forgive me.” She stood up. “I'll settle the bill on the way out.”

She walked out, her chin up, her back straight. I felt battered.

The waitress hurried over, thinking she was dissatisfied with something. “Is something wrong?”

“Not a bit,” I said, forcing a smile. “Could I have some more water, please?”

I pecked away at my sandwich for a few minutes before giving up. I pushed it aside, left a big tip, and fled.