Gone Cold

by Douglas Corleone

  Once I’d sent the image, I turned to Ashdown and said, “The Guards interviewed the staff here at the hotel, I presume?”

  Ashdown nodded. “MacAuliffe told me no one observed John Doe anywhere near the bar. No one witnessed him conversing with anyone. In fact, no one other than the clerk who checked him in heard him speak at all.”

  “Accent?”

  “Indistinguishable. The desk clerk took his U.S. passport without questioning whether he was an American. So obviously, John Doe, wherever he actually hailed from, could have passed for a Yank.” He paused a moment, then added, “Of course, given what we know, it may have been an act.”

  “Vehicle?”

  Ashdown pulled a handwritten form from the folder and studied it. “None listed on the hotel registration. Nothing left behind in the car park. Doorman said he saw John Doe jump into the rear of a standing taxi that night round six o’clock.”

  When Dana Doyle returned, we rose from our chairs. She handed Ashdown the key and asked him for a business card. As he reached into his overcoat, I surreptitiously stole a glance at his reflection in the framed photo of the castle.

  In the instant he opened his billfold to retrieve his business card, everything changed.

  I immediately made a decision. Once we viewed the room, the detective and I would be parting ways. That was for damn sure. The only question was, would he give chase?

  Chapter 9

  As Ashdown and I headed, unescorted, up to Perry’s room, I wondered how many hotels I’d stayed in over the past twelve years. It seemed impossible to comprehend. How many cases? How many children? How many worried-sick parents had I consoled over the phone? How many kids had I taken to private airports in the dead of night? How many made it back to the States and went on to college? How many later committed crimes or overdosed and died, the victims of the broken or dysfunctional home to which I’d so zealously returned them?

  On the fifth floor we stepped off the elevator and searched for number 506. Outside the door, Ashdown slipped on a pair of latex gloves and handed me another. Then he worked the key card and allowed me to enter.

  The room was spacious and well-appointed. Clean and orderly. The king-size bed was not only made but turned down for the evening of the murder, a mint chocolate in a green foil wrapper placed atop one of the half-dozen pillows.

  “What did the Guards remove from the room?” I asked Ashdown.

  He consulted his notes. “According to MacAuliffe, they found nothing of a personal nature except for his clothes and a few toiletries. His reservation was for a week. But there was a note in the file that he may need to leave early or extend his stay, depending on circumstances beyond his control.”

  “So he was here on some kind of business,” I said. “Alone.”

  Witnesses at the Stalemate on the night of the murder had offered little. No one had noticed the victim until he hit the floor with blood gushing from his throat. No one witnessed an argument. Because of the victim’s positioning and proximity to the restrooms, it was assumed the girl had just stepped out of the ladies’ room when the attack took place. Perhaps there had been an earlier confrontation, but no one could say for sure.

  I opened the closet. Three nondescript suits hung alongside several Oxford business shirts and a number of ties no louder than an octogenarian’s whisper.

  “Whatever he was doing he wanted to remain inconspicuous,” I said.

  I poked around. Neither the suits nor the ties contained any tags.

  “And,” I added, “entirely untraceable should his wardrobe be searched.”

  “You think he was following her?”

  “I think he was following someone. It may have been her. It may have been someone she was with.”

  “Witnesses at the Stalemate said she was alone.”

  “Alone at the bar,” I said softly. “Maybe not alone in Dublin.”

  “She may live here for all we know.”

  “She may,” I said. “But then why do we have a John Doe as opposed to a John MacNamara or a Joe O’Malley?”

  “Bit of a jump, wouldn’t you say?”

  “With the girl on the run and the Guards on her tail, jumps are about all we have time for.” I stepped over to the nightstand and stared down at the phone. “Downstairs you looked over John Doe’s invoice. Any calls made?”

  “Not a one. None incoming either.”

  “And yet no one discovered a mobile phone,” I said. “Not on his person and not in the room.”

  “The girl might have taken it from him. I mean, who today walks round without a mobile?”

  “The same type of people who walk around with false identities, I suppose. The same type of people who cut the tags out of their suits.”

  Several seconds of silence were punctuated with a smirk. “What are you thinking, Simon? That this bloke was MI6?”

  “Would we necessarily know by now if he was?”

  Ashdown thought on it for a moment. “Not likely.”

  “Then we can’t rule it out,” I said. “On the other hand, if he was with SIS, I don’t think we’d be standing in this room right now. Do you?”

  Ashdown shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that.”

  The hell you don’t, I thought.

  Since before its inception, the NCA had boasted about its intelligence hub, the so-called Organized Crime Coordination Centre, which amalgamated and analyzed intel not only from every other police force in Britain but from the Security Services, MI5 and MI6.

  At that moment I felt a vibration against my right leg. I removed my gloves, plucked my BlackBerry out of my right pants pocket, checked the screen, and pressed it against my ear.

  “Magda just opened the photo you sent me,” Kurt Ostermann said in his stiff German accent.

  “And?”

  “And your John Doe’s an international.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I’ve worked cases with him before. He’s a career private investigator. Takes jobs all over the world.”

  “British?”

  “As the Beatles. Main base of operations is in London. Whitehall to be specific.”

  “What types of jobs?”

  “Anything and everything so long as the money’s right. Missing persons, divorce, insurance fraud, the whole lot. He’s good. Damn good. And he’s expensive.”

  “His name?”

  “Legal name is Elijah Welker, but everyone knows him as Eli.”

  “Wife?” I said.

  “Four children. All still in the nest. Why?”

  “Christ,” I muttered with a sigh.

  I told Ostermann that Eli Welker had been murdered and provided him with a few of the pertinent details.

  Following a brief period of quiet he said, “So the Guards still have him down as a John Doe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you keep it that way for twenty-four hours? I know his wife, Becky, rather well. I’d like to go to London and break the news myself. I can be there first thing in the morning.”

  “I assure you, if the Guards learn John Doe’s true identity, it won’t have come from me.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Simon, what are you doing in Dublin? Is this something you’re mixed up in?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” I gave him the short of it, filled him in on Kati’s e-mail and my visit to the Stalemate earlier in the evening.

  “All right,” he said. “Then while I’m visiting with Becky I’ll see if I can’t gain access to Eli’s files. Maybe I can find out for you who hired him. Maybe more, depending on Becky’s state.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I told him. “One last thing…”

  “Oh, yes, the other name.” Ostermann ruffled some pages. “Your host is indeed with Britain’s National Crime Agency. However…”

  “However?”

  “However, he’s currently stationed at Interpol Manchester.”

  Once I disconnected I found Ashdown working his iPhone with pract
iced thumbs. He too had removed his latex gloves.

  I cleared my throat.

  He held up an index finger, said, “I’ll be just another minute. Sending a text.”

  As I waited, I considered my options. Interpol, of course, wasn’t a police force in its own right. Rather, it was an organization that fostered international police cooperation. Each member nation maintained a National Central Bureau, which worked with local authorities to investigate and prosecute criminals according to national laws. So Ashdown couldn’t arrest me here in Dublin, not on his own. He’d require assistance. Perhaps from the “mutual friend” he was so eager for me to meet.

  “So what’s the story?” Ashdown said as he pocketed his phone.

  “Before I say anything,” I said, slowly moving toward him, “I need to know that information flows only one way, unless I say otherwise. I’m not here to solve a crime. At least not this crime. I’m here to find my daughter.”

  Ashdown didn’t hesitate. “You have my word, Simon.”

  I nodded once and extended my right hand, ostensibly to seal the pact. When he took my hand in his, I immediately twisted his wrist hard to the right, then kicked his left leg out at the knee.

  As soon as he dropped, I reached inside his coat and snatched his Glock 17.

  “Why?” I demanded with the gun pointed at his head.

  “Why what?” he cried in obvious pain.

  “Why do I have your word? Why are you involved in this? What do you want with me and Hailey?”

  Ashdown’s face grew red and defiant. “You’re making a mistake, you nutter. I’m trying to help you.”

  “The hell you are,” I said. “I saw your identification when you produced your business card for Miss Doyle downstairs. And I just received confirmation from my friend in Berlin. You’re not just with the NCA. You’re Interpol.”

  “So what?” he shouted from his knee.

  “So you lied about it.”

  “I didn’t lie,” he insisted. “It just isn’t bloody relevant.”

  “It’s relevant to me.”

  “Look, I didn’t want to scare you away, make you think there’s a Red Notice issued for you.”

  “Then why travel all the way up from Manchester to meet me?”

  Ashdown drew a deep breath, cradling his wrist in the palm of his other hand.

  “Simon,” he said, looking me squarely in the eyes from his spot on the floor, “it seems it’s well past time you met our mutual friend.”

  “If you think I’m getting back into your vehicle, Detective, you’re badly mistaken.”

  “You don’t have to. She’s already here. That was her I texted. She’s going to meet us at the bar just downstairs.”

  I took a step back but kept the gun aimed at his center mass.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “A detective from the Garda Crime and Security Branch to help you effect an arrest, since you’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  Ashdown shook his head with vigor. “She’s not a cop, Simon. Not even remotely.”

  I took another step back and allowed Ashdown to pick himself off the floor. He took a step forward, gingerly, clearly favoring his left leg.

  He said, “You can hold on to my gun if you still don’t trust me.”

  “Believe me, Detective, I intend to.” With my head, I motioned for him to move past me toward the door. “And make no mistake. If you so much as breathe too hard in my direction, I intend to use it.”

  Chapter 10

  Despite my warning, by that point I did trust Ashdown. Because had he in any way considered me a hostile, he would have been ready for me. Even if he hadn’t considered me a substantial threat, he would have at least been prepared to put up a struggle. Relieving him of his firearm would have been no simple task. Especially considering the shape I was in after eleven months of skipping not just the gym but meals and full nights of sleep. Right up to and including the previous twenty-four hours. Not only had I lost significant muscle, I was practically dead on my feet. A sleepwalker. That I was able to disarm him at all was owed to pure instinct. But had an elite officer like Ashdown executed the simplest handgun retention technique, he’d still have possession of his weapon, and I’d have been riding the down elevator in cuffs.

  Given Ashdown’s lack of preparedness, I had been certain that when we arrived downstairs at the Orangerie Bar, I would see a woman I instantly recognized. Maybe the Warsaw lawyer Anastazja Staszak. Maybe the London private investigator Wendy Isles. Maybe someone I hadn’t thought of in ages. But surely someone I’d be able to identify the moment I laid eyes on her.

  Not so.

  When we entered the bar I turned to Ashdown, expecting him to say, “Let me give her a buzz; maybe she stepped outside for a cigarette,” or “Let’s have a seat at that booth; she probably just went to the ladies’ to powder her nose.”

  But no.

  Ashdown instead looked back at me in silence, anticipation evident in his cold blue stare. I scanned the room a second time. An older couple sipping gin and tonics in the far corner. Three boisterous businessmen in shirtsleeves with untied ties hanging from open collars, throwing back shots of whiskey at a tall bar table. Two Middle Eastern women sipping tea in a booth. A young man nursing a black and tan at the bar. Next to him a woman somewhere in her late thirties or early forties, flirting with the well-built bartender who probably had first-year college classes scheduled early the next morning.

  Then there was the cocktail waitress, a fit young lady with short, dark hair. Before I could get a good look at her face, she turned her back to us to collect the empty shot glasses being stacked like a house of cards by the rowdy business boys.

  “You don’t recognize her, do you?”

  “Should I?”

  “No,” Ashdown said, “I don’t suppose you should.”

  He led me to an intimate round table where we each took one of the plush green chairs. I slipped a hand inside my black leather jacket and gripped the butt of Ashdown’s gun, just in case. But I knew by then I wouldn’t need it.

  I eyed the empty lounge sofa, wondering who was about to sit across from us.

  A second, older waitress came by to take our orders.

  Ashdown said, “A pint of Smithwick’s.”

  I said, “I’ll have an espresso.”

  As she walked away, Ashdown asked whether I planned on sleeping tonight.

  “Sleep will come when it wants me bad enough,” I told him.

  Our drinks arrived before our guest. My impatience began clutching at my throat. My nerves were raw, my skin tingling. I removed my hand from inside my jacket. Took a bite of the biscotti then downed half my espresso.

  I set the cup down on its saucer and leaned back in the chair, pinching the bridge of my nose and squeezing my eyes shut because I felt a monstrous headache coming on. When I opened my eyes, I glanced at my watch without noticing the time. I exhaled audibly, lifted my cup of espresso but didn’t take a drink. Instead I tilted my head back and gazed up at the high ceiling.

  When I looked down, the thirty- or fortysomething woman from the bar was seated directly opposite me.

  She stared at me, though I wasn’t sure whether it was to scrutinize me or to avoid Ashdown’s gaze. The tension between them was immediately obvious—and thick enough to smother someone.

  “Hello, Simon,” the woman said in a heavy British accent. She was lanky, wore a bright red dress she couldn’t quite fill out. She may have been pretty, perhaps even beautiful, but it was impossible to tell under the dense layers of paint on her face. Her eyes were brown, possibly black, their color lost in a whirlwind of electric-blue eye shadow and brightly colored mascara.

  I glanced at Ashdown.

  “Simon,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Zohanna Carlyle.”

  As I sat in silence trying to associate this woman with a case, with a cause, with something, anything, the cop added, “She is also the former Mrs. Ashdown.”

  I turned to him. “Your wife?”


  “Ex-wife,” the woman said, crossing her long, black-stockinged legs.

  “I don’t understand,” I said to Ashdown. “You told me we were meeting a mutual friend.”

  Ashdown rocked his head from side to side. “A figure of speech, old boy.”

  “But I don’t even know her.…” I started to say.

  Then it struck me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

  Slowly, I said to the woman, “I take it Carlyle isn’t a return to your maiden name.”

  She shook her head.

  Impossible, I thought. After more than three and a half decades …

  “Tuesday?” I said so quietly I wasn’t sure I said it aloud.

  She parted her ruby red lips in a smile. “I never much fancied that name. Tuesday. An awful day, isn’t it? Stuck there between Monday and Hump Day like the meat in a bleh sandwich. Not to mention I was actually born in the wee hours of a Wednesday morning.” She shook her head but never once took her eyes off me. “No, Tuesday’s not for me. Since you and dear old Daddy left us, I’ve always gone by Zoey.”

  Chapter 11

  TWELVE YEARS AGO

  “We went out to the backyard,” Tasha says breathlessly, “to have a kind of picnic. I’d put together ham and cheese sandwiches and made a pitcher of sweet tea. We threw a blanket down on the grass and set it all up then sat down to eat. We’d each taken just a few bites when the telephone rang. I ran inside to get it because I thought it might be Simon. I thought maybe his plane had been delayed or he was landing sooner than expected. I don’t know…”

  Sitting on the sofa next to Tasha as she tells Special Agents John Rendell and Candace West what happened this morning, I want to lift my arm and place it around her shoulders, but I don’t have the strength. But no, it’s more than that, I realize. I don’t want to hold my wife. I don’t want to hold her because I’m angry. I’m angry at her. I don’t want to be, but I can’t help myself. How the hell could she let this happen? How the hell could she allow Hailey to be taken right from under her nose?

  “But it wasn’t Simon,” she says, “it was my mother. She was just calling to check in with me, see how Hailey and I were doing. She calls a lot while Simon’s away. While I was on the phone with her I looked out the window. Hailey was fine. She’d finished half her sandwich and she was sipping her sweet tea. The kitchen phone’s a cordless, so I was about to take it outside. But I noticed a little puddle on the floor. Just a splash of Hailey’s orange juice from this morning. I didn’t want to step in it, so I grabbed a paper towel off the rack and wiped it up. Then I threw the paper towel in the garbage under the sink.”