by Becky Clark
Our staring contest lasted either thirty seconds or fourteen years. Couldn’t be sure. But she blinked.
“Fine. I’m not here to clean your room.”
I waited for further explanation. And waited. “So what exactly are you doing in here?”
saRAH glided to the loveseat and folded her graceful legs under her. “Hanna has disappeared.”
“But I thought she—”
“And I’m sure it has something to do with the drugs that you and Michael Watanabe are dealing.”
I knew what every single one of those words meant, but strung together like that, the meaning stumped me. “Me? Drugs? Dealing?”
She stared through me until I almost believed that I was in the wrong here.
“I’m not dealing drugs!”
“Then what was in that bag he delivered to you on Thursday?”
“Food. From his restaurant.”
“Twice in one day?”
She was tracking my calories? Not cool. I didn’t want to admit that I’d had an ulterior reason for wanting to talk to Watanabe. Instead, I patted my belly. “It’s so good! I might already be addicted to—oh! You heard me say he got me hooked!”
saRAH nodded. “I was picking up the linens from the restaurant.”
“Well, he did get me hooked. On yakisoba.”
“Then why didn’t you eat it?”
“How do you know I didn’t eat it?”
“There was no trash in your room afterward.”
“The front desk told me I couldn’t bring outside food into the hotel, so to bribe them, I gave it all to them.”
“After you took the drugs out.”
“No!”
She raised her smug eyebrows.
“That was a trick question,” I said. I realized I still held the phone in the air, so I slowly, perhaps even threateningly, lowered it to my side. “Let me ask you a question, and it’s not even a trick. Even if I did buy drugs along with my yakisoba, what in the world does that have to do with Hanna?” If saRAH was wrong about me dealing drugs, she was probably also wrong about Hanna still being gone.
saRAH thought for a moment, all the while keeping her gaze on my face. “Hanna’s been clean for eight months. You and Watanabe show up here at the same time she goes missing. He claims he’s delivering food for minimum wage and out of the business. You claim to be a friend of Hanna’s mom.”
“I am a friend of Hanna’s mom. But why would that be suspicious in any way?” This conversation seemed to have as much, if not more, to do with Michael Watanabe as it did with Hanna. Was all of this a jealous ruse to keep me away from Watanabe? Did saRAH think we had something going on? Well, two could play this game. “I saw you with Michael Watanabe by the pool. Does Jack know you’re stepping out on him?”
“I’m not!”
“Then what were you doing with him, all hidden out there?”
She burned me with her laser-like stare before answering. “I was asking him about Hanna.”
“What a coincidence. I asked him that, too. But I didn’t have to skulk around to do it.”
“Coincidences are never just coincidences,” she said.
“Yes they are,” I said.
A million examples raced through my mind. Identical twins, separated at birth, who go on to lead essentially the same lives. Norman Mailer, who wrote a novel about a Russian spy only to find out later that a real-life one lived upstairs from him. Mark Twain’s dates of birth and death, marked by the appearance of Haley’s Comet seventy-four years apart. Three of us on a panel at a writers’ conference having the same birthday. Running into my neighbor last year in Santa Fe while at my mom’s house for Christmas.
Or coming to Portland the same day that my friend’s daughter was kidnapped.
“Coincidences are always coincidences,” I said firmly. “And why are you all of a sudden so concerned about Hanna?”
“We’re friends,” she finally said.
I was unconvinced.
She kept staring at me.
“Did you find drugs in my room?”
She quirked her mouth as if the word was painful to say. “No.”
“So, by your logic, Watanabe and I are dealing drugs, but you didn’t find them. If there are no drugs, I would have had to sell them in, what, thirty-six hours?”
“That’s how it’s done.”
“So maybe you’re looking for wads of cash?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find any?”
“No. But you interrupted me.”
“By all means, continue your search. I’ll even help.” I waved a magnanimous arm, offering her the living area. I moved to the coffee table, right in front of her, and unscrewed the mouth and ear pieces of the phone’s handset. I held it out for her inspection. “No drugs. No cash.”
She didn’t move.
“Go ahead. I’m waiting.” I stepped toward the bedroom. “Did you finish in my suitcase? Although you must not think too highly of my drug dealer skills if you assume I’d toss everything in there on top of my undies.”
We had another staring contest. I lost.
“I didn’t buy drugs from Watanabe,” I said flatly. “And I can’t prove a negative. Ask him.” I screwed the phone back together.
“I did.”
I didn’t look at her. “What did he say?”
“That you ordered Japanese food.”
“See? Another coincidence. Now get out of here before I tell your boss.”
I ushered saRAH out of my room and watched her leave the hallway, ignoring the cleaning cart. A uniformed maid stepped out of the room two doors down and gave me a cheery greeting as she grabbed two drinking glasses and a roll of toilet paper. I sighed and tossed the Do Not Disturb sign on the floor inside my suite before heading back to the elevator and my discarded T-shirts.
I saw Jack at the far end of the hall, wheeling a large suitcase for a man carrying a Boston terrier. Jack was performing his concierge routine, just like he’d done for me when I checked in. He set the guest’s suitcase down, stepped forward to unlock the door, gave a gentlemanly sweep of his arm to usher the guest in first, and picked up the suitcase to follow. Odd, then, to see him pocket the room key instead of handing it over to the guest, as he’d made a show of doing with me.
It wasn’t my room, or my key, but it made me uneasy all the same. First, saRAH’s odd beliefs and overwhelming need to search my room, and now Jack acting odd while doing his job. I fought the impulse to crawl into bed and tremble under the covers.
As I passed the open door of the suite, Jack bent down to pet the Boston terrier and didn’t see me. I was glad, because I probably would have blurted something about saRAH, and I hadn’t quite processed everything yet.
saRAH said that Hanna was still missing. Surely she would have heard if her friend was found. Wouldn’t she? And now Viv being AWOL—on the very day the kidnapper had threatened to start whacking attendees?
Perhaps Viv and Hanna were debriefing, or celebrating now that the crisis—whatever it was—was over. But surely she’d call to let me know? Wouldn’t she? Viv knew I was worried.
I was glad the pile of T-shirts remained heaped on the floor near the elevator where I’d kicked them. I didn’t need an extra dose of Clementine’s wrath if I had to tell her the shirts had disappeared. I loaded them into my arms.
Nothing made much sense. Not only were my old questions not answered but it seemed I collected new ones like T-shirts. By the armful.
I pushed the elevator button, not sure if I wanted Jack to finish his business with the guest and join me or not. I couldn’t form an opinion as to whether Jack was behaving mysteriously or normally. Moot point. The elevator door opened. I rode down alone.
When it deposited me in the lobby, I turned toward the restaurant, but a single bark drew my attention. Scout and Scott held court with a handful of people. I recognized some of the writers from yesterday. He was explaining something to them while Scout performed her repertoire of tri
cks. After each one, he gave her some of the lobby trail mix I’d been snacking on the last few days.
Jack’s look of disgust as I’d crunched it that day—and every day since—made more sense now. I placed a hand protectively on my belly. I didn’t think anyone had ever died from eating doggie kibble. It was probably healthier for me than most snacks I ate.
I continued on to get some breakfast but had to step aside for a large crowd emerging from a different elevator. As they passed, I yelped and stumbled, gawking as I watched Brad Pitt trailing behind them. He veered toward Scott and Scout when they greeted him.
Dropping my armload of T-shirts on a nearby table, I hurried over.
“Charlee, good morning,” Brad Pitt said.
“I thought you—”
“Shh. You’re just in time to see Scout’s new trick.”
Scott pulled a six-foot-tall rolling luggage rack close to our small group. It matched the one in the alcove of my room upstairs: shiny gold rails curved over the top, a carpeted base, many convenient hooks.
Scout quivered with anticipation.
Scott snapped his fingers and the dog hopped onto the cart. I maneuvered for a better view. Scott waved at Scout and she waved one paw back at him, eliciting laughs from the crowd. Then he said, “Sing, Scout.”
And she did. A gloriously goofy cross between howling and bugling.
The watching crowd laughed and cheered, as did people all across the lobby.
But three hotel employees race-walked over, clearly not as charmed by Scout’s performance as we were. One was the bow-tied manager.
“Quiet,” one of them scolded.
“That’s enough,” said another.
The manager adjusted his bow tie, turned to Scott, and spoke sternly. “While the Pacific Portland Hotel loves all God’s creatures, we cannot tolerate this type of disruption. All my employees have orders to report any noise infraction. We’ve been more than generous to our four-legged guests, but we must draw the line somewhere.” He reached a conciliatory hand to pat Scout on the head, but she ducked him.
Good for you, Scout. Just because he wears a spiffy bow tie doesn’t make him any less of a meany.
“You’re absolutely right,” Scott said. “I’m so sorry.” To the crowd he said, “We didn’t mean to disturb anyone. Forgive us.”
Someone nearby said loudly, “Sing, Scout!” And she did. Still loud, still funny.
I looked around to see who’d pranked the manager and saw Brad Pitt laughing behind his hand.
Scott attached Scout’s leash to her collar and commanded, “Quiet,” but you could see his attempt at keeping a straight face wasn’t completely working. “On that note”—he paused to let the pun sink in—“we’ll be off to the morning competition. Wish Scout luck today!”
He led her through the lobby, where everyone wanted to stop and pet her. Most everyone. A couple of handlers stood off to the side with their dogs, conspicuously withholding their love. Jealousy was an ugly creature, whether in man or beast.
The crowd dispersed, leaving me with Brad Pitt. He offered me the bowl of kibble. “Hungry?”
“I can’t believe you let me eat that.”
“You seemed to enjoy it. Who am I to judge?”
I took the bowl from him and walked across to a nearby table to set it down. It gave me the few moments I needed to decide to relaunch my plan. I had to ask him if he was the B. Pitt who wrote that comment on the Strength in Numbers website, and, if so, in what way did Viveka Lundquist ruin his life.
“They told me at the desk you checked out,” I said.
He waggled his eyebrows at me. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes.” Seeing his grin, I quickly added, “No. Not like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“I’m sure it’s not like that.” I felt my face burn.
“Charlee, I’m sorry. I was just teasing.”
I took a breath. He looked fairly adorable standing there like a scolded puppy. My conviction last night that he was somehow tied to Hanna’s disappearance seemed so ridiculous this morning. My original assessment that he was a completely harmless flirt made much more sense.
“I’d love to spend the day with you, lovely Charlemagne, but I have things to do.” Brad Pitt performed an exaggerated Shakespearean bow. “Love, peace, and bacon grease.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Oh, like your brother always says.”
I stopped myself from asking what his name really was. I wanted desperately to know, but if he said Greg, I might lose my mind. I needed to form a plan before losing my mind. And if I needed a plan, I needed some time. I couldn’t just blurt things. AmyJo would be so proud of me.
“Hey, you want to have breakfast?” I asked.
“I just told you I had things to do.” Brad Pitt gave a melodramatic pout. “You never listen to me.”
“How about lunch?”
“I won’t be back for a while. I have some business to attend to. Might be done around two. Late lunch?”
“Sure. I’ll … um … look for you.”
With a wave, he trotted to the revolving door.
I stared after him for a long time. He was using a false name, I felt certain. But he’d shown me his driver’s license! I kicked myself for not asking his brother’s name. I could have done it in a conversational manner. Did it matter to him if I knew things? Especially if things were clues? Were they clues? Was the charming guy act simply an act? Sociopaths were charming. Narrators could be unreliable. But Brad Pitt wasn’t acting unreliable.
Still. That comment on the website. Viv ruined B. Pitt’s life? Lost in thought, I chewed my lip until it hurt. He’d said he had important business to attend to this morning … right when the ransom was due. Was Brad Pitt the kidnapper after all? The enforcer? Some kind of hit man? Why else would he be hanging around the hotel under an assumed name? And if Brad Pitt was an assumed name, perhaps it had nothing to do with the B. Pitt on the website and the whole Greg Pitt annexation situation. Just a coincidence, right?
My litany of what-ifs had spun me up into such a state, it wasn’t surprising that I jumped like one of the agility dogs when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
Clementine.
“Do you have those T-shirts?”
I pointed at the pile on the table, then raced for the door to the pool area. The sky was still overcast and drizzly, so I stuck to the covered portico near the building. I called Viv again to find out if Hanna was back. Still no answer. I fumbled through my caller history until I found the number for the Portland Police. I was glad that the desk sergeant from last night didn’t answer. I asked for Detective Kelly’s direct number, entered it into my contacts, and immediately called him.
“Detective Kelly here.”
“Remember when I called the other day about a kidnapping?”
“Sure. The crime with no proof.”
“Yes. I guess. But I think I have some now.”
“Remind me of your name again?”
“Charlemagne Russo.”
“Okay, Ms. Russo. Dazzle me.”
“Brad Pitt isn’t using his real name at the hotel.”
I heard his long exhale and realized I sounded like a complete nut-job.
“Wait. Let me start over.”
“Ms. Russo, I don’t know much about the Hollywood scene, but I do know that celebrities never use their real names at hotels. It’s how they keep on the down-low.”
“Somebody going by the name Brad Pitt is at this hotel, but not using his real name.”
I heard Detective Kelly sigh again.
I was just as frustrated. Which made me veer off topic and stamp my foot. “Why do parents name their kids after celebrities?” Way off topic, since Brad Pitt told me he was born before the actor was. Which probably wasn’t true anyway.
“Maybe their mom was a fan?”
>
“This Brad Pitt isn’t a celebrity.”
“Now, you may not like his work, but that doesn’t make him less of a celebrity. I really enjoyed those Jack Reacher movies.”
“That was Tom Cruise. But you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“Brad Pitt isn’t using his real name at my hotel!”
After ten seconds of silence, Detective Kelly said, “Ms. Russo. Are you calling to report a crime?”
“Yes. I guess. Maybe.”
“Do you have any sort of evidence of a crime?”
I started to speak but he interrupted.
“That doesn’t involve Brad Pitt?”
I went through a mental checklist of all the strange behavior over the last few days. “No.”
“Then you have a good day now.” Click.
I stared at my “call ended” screen. Really? Nobody was the least bit curious that there might be a kidnapping happening right under their noses? Wasn’t that their job? It certainly wasn’t mine. In fact, none of this was, and yet….
A rustling of bushes made me glance over in time to see saRAH and Michael Watanabe walking past the hot tub, away from me. What was going on with them? She had to be two-timing Jack. I considered a second possibility. What if saRAH was dealing drugs with Watanabe and participated in getting Hanna hooked again? If her suspicion that I was working with him was just a cover story, what was she really doing in my room?
I gasped.
I raced through the lobby and stabbed the elevator button continuously until the doors opened. Why, when you’re in a hurry, do elevator doors take an eternity to close? When they released me on the eighth floor, I flew down the hall to my room. Housekeeping had cleaned it already, but I tore it apart.
If saRAH had planted evidence, I was going to find it.
Searching every inch of the room and my belongings turned up nothing unexpected. Except eighty-nine cents in the couch cushions, a pair of sunglasses in the room safe, and a pizza flyer wedged way behind the extra pillows on a shelf in the closet.
No drugs, no wads of cash, no fake ransom note in my handwriting. I had to believe there was no evidence planted in my room. Because the alternative was impossible.
Back downstairs, I made my way toward the Clackamas Room. At least I could check in to see if there were any last conference-related emergencies.
