“Just make sure you talk me up to Sissy, okay?”
“I will.” Casey meant it. Finding out how to chat with Mike Hargrave’s boss had made the half-hour bus ride more than worth it.
Chapter Five
“So, remember, we don’t want them to know that we think the contest might have been a sham,” Casey said to Ellen as they pulled into Radiant Rejuvenations’ parking lot. “They might not even know of any contest. The weekend could have been a gift. Did you tell them you were a contest winner when you checked in?”
Ellen pulled down the driver’s visor and fished a lipstick from her purse. “I don’t remember.” She gazed into the mirror clipped to the visor and touched up her lips. “There was a congratulatory basket in my room, though.”
“Anybody could have sent that.” Casey climbed out of the car and followed Ellen to the entrance…and into an oasis. The sun streaming through the windows, the water fountain, the plants, the white cushioned benches, the cooled air… How much did a night here cost? If someone had paid for Ellen’s stay out of pocket, he hadn’t spared any expense.
A man in skimpy swimming trunks and flip-flops smiled as he strolled past. Ellen turned and lifted her sunglasses. “Nice butt.”
“The front desk,” Casey said.
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Ellen murmured, but she lowered her sunglasses and approached Reception, with Casey trailing after her.
Could she trust Ellen to be subtle? Was the sky green? Maybe she should have tried her own luck before involving anyone else. A quick glance around the reception area indicated that most of the clientele were women over forty, but another twenty-something beach boy looked up when they approached the desk. Whatever floated their boats.
“Can I help you?” the young man said.
Ellen smiled. “I stayed here about a month and a half ago.”
Beach boy grinned back at her. “Really? I mustn’t have been working, because I would have remembered you.”
Ellen’s hand went to her throat. “I’m sure you say that to everyone.”
Casey concurred.
“Only the lovely ones,” beach boy said smoothly. “Are you back for another stay?” His eyes flicked to Casey. “This time with your sister?”
“My sister?” Ellen giggled. “Oh, no, no, no.” She coyly eyed him. “How could you think she’s my sister? I’m old enough to be her mother.”
Beach boy drew back and placed his hand on his chest. “No way. You don’t look a day over thirty.”
Casey wanted to roll her eyes. These two couldn’t possibly believe the BS coming out of their mouths, right?
“She’s a friend I brought with me for moral support,” Ellen said. “I’m hoping you can help get someone off my back.”
Beach boy’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“You won’t believe this. I won a contest for a weekend stay here. The company took care of everything, of course, and I enjoyed every minute. Every single minute. Unfortunately, I left without a copy of the bill, which was apparently a really dumb thing to do. Can you believe I have to pay tax on that win? My accountant needs to know the dollar value of my stay.”
“I didn’t know you had to declare that sort of thing,” beach boy said.
“Oh, yes. Bloodsuckers, all of them. Everyone wants a piece of you.” Ellen held out her arm and pinched it. “Christ, they tax you when you die, too. You’d figure they’d give you a pass on that, but nope. They don’t care that you’re six feet under.”
Beach boy’s eyes widened. “So you want a copy of the bill?”
“Please. I contacted the contest company, and they said it would take months to get it from the accounting department. The woman said to get it from here instead, that it would be faster.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ellen Myers. Miss Ellen Myers.”
Casey held her breath as beach boy tapped away at the reception computer’s keyboard and gazed at the screen. “You stayed in the Dawnlight Suite. Wow, that was some prize. Normally contest winners get one of our lower priced suites.”
“I absolutely loved it,” Ellen said. “But now I’m nervous. How much tax is this going to cost me?”
“I’ll print a copy of the bill for you.” He pressed a key and disappeared through a doorway behind the desk. Casey heard the familiar hum of a laser printer producing a page.
“How am I doing?” Ellen whispered.
“Not now. You’ll give yourself away.”
Ellen covered her mouth and turned back to the counter.
Casey nudged her. “Don’t forget to ask about Trudy,” she whispered.
Hmm, the printer had fallen silent, but beach boy hadn’t returned. Seconds stretched to minutes. Casey resisted the urge to dig her fingernails into Ellen’s arm. Was beach boy consulting with a superior? Was he calling the contact person on the bill, which would be disastrous? Was he combing his hair? She almost fainted with relief when he returned to the counter and handed a paper to Ellen.
“I had to blacken out some details—you know, the credit card number, that sort of thing,” he said, explaining the dark lines on the page.
“No problem.” Ellen folded the paper and slipped it into her purse’s side pocket. “Thank you. This will help get my accountant off my back.” She sighed. “Maybe you could do me one more teeny-tiny favour.”
“Lay it on me.”
“I met someone while I was here. Trudy Michaels. Unfortunately I lost her phone number and email address. Could you—”
Beach boy shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t give out information about other guests.”
Oh well, it had been worth a try.
He smiled at Ellen and leaned over the counter. “Are you sure you don’t want a massage while you’re here?”
Ellen simpered. “Will you be giving it?”
Wanting to get out of there already, Casey fought the urge to kick Ellen.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Too bad. I’ll have to say no this time, then.”
“Thanks for helping us.” Casey moved away from the counter and hoped that Ellen would follow.
Once outside, she wanted to snatch the copied bill from Ellen’s purse, but she restrained herself until they were in the car. “Can I see it?”
A grin split Ellen’s face. “Did you see that? He didn’t even blink. He just made the copy and handed it over.” She touched Casey’s arm. “That was fun. Maybe we can work together on other cases.”
“Maybe,” Casey said. “Can I see it?”
“What?”
“The bill.”
Ellen’s mouth formed an O. She pulled the bill from her purse’s pocket and handed it to Casey, who eagerly unfolded it. Excitement surged through her. Beach boy had crossed out everything, but she could still make out a name and phone number. “Do you know an Aaron Street?”
“Where is it? In this town?”
“No, Aaron Street is the name of the guy who booked your weekend.”
“Oh.” Ellen’s brow furrowed. She shook her head. “Never heard of him. What now?”
“Leave this with me,” Casey said, refolding the paper and slipping it into her back pocket. Finally, a break in the case—assuming Aaron Street didn’t work for a company that ran contests for its clients.
*****
Casey typed Aaron Street’s phone number into the appropriate field and did a reverse lookup. Hmm…B. Gardner, with a local address. Was Aaron Street a partner, a roommate, a boarder, or a fake name? Searching the Net and social networks turned up plenty of hits, but none with his address. The guy was an online ghost. Fake name, then? But how had he obtained a credit card tied to the address? Maybe he was a Luddite. Gran couldn’t be found online, and she certainly existed.
Rather than calling the number to see who answered, Casey decided to scope out the address. The next day, she got off the bus and strolled up Pine Avenue, which led to Maple Drive, where Aaron Street supposedly lived. Maple Drive turned out to be a fo
ur-lane road, though parked cars meant only two could be used for driving. Casey wouldn’t be conspicuous; too many people walked, jogged, and pushed strollers for her to stand out. Gardner’s house was number 562. She slowed her pace when she passed number 558, then 560, then 562. A house, not a store or empty lot. She kept going until she reached a traffic light, then crossed the road, doubled back, and tied her shoelace across from number 562. Nothing set the house apart from its neighbours, and she could pretend to tie her shoelace all day and not see anyone enter or leave the residence. Now that she knew it was a house, she’d call.
Around the corner, she pulled out her phone and dialed Street’s—Gardner’s—number. “Hello?” a female voice said.
“Can I speak to Mr. Street, please?” Casey said.
A pause, then, “Let me guess. You’ll also want to speak to Mr. Boulevard, or Mr. Avenue. And yes, my fridge is running, and no, I’m not going to catch it. Bugger off.”
“Wait! I’m not—” The line went dead.
Great. She redialed the number, but this time it went through to voice mail. Freaking call display. She’d hoped to avoid knocking on the door, but now she had no choice. Two minutes later, she rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened. A woman in a t-shirt and sweats gave Casey the once-over. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Aaron Street. I tried calling, but…”
“That was you? Why the hell didn’t you just say Aaron Street in the first place?”
“You know him?”
“No, I just think it was stupid to call up and ask for Mr. Street.” The woman’s hand went to her hip. “Didn’t you ever make prank phone calls when you were a kid?”
“Uh, not really.”
“Oh. Well, not that I’d know much about it. There’s the fridge one, and the running nose variation.” The woman’s eyes grew distant. “Oh, and the one where you call and ask for Mr. Smith, and after doing that a few times, you have someone call and say, ‘This is Mr. Smith. Are there any messages for me?’” She slapped her thigh and laughed.
Casey faked a chuckle. “Do you know Aaron Street?”
“Aaron…Street, did you say?”
“Yeah.”
The woman shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m damn sure. Does he owe someone money or something? Are you a debt collector?” Her eyes narrowed. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re all cold-blooded, cold-hearted bastards—or bitches, as the case may be.”
“No, I’m not.” And she wasn’t about to tell the woman that she was a private investigator. “Aaron is, uh, my ex. He used to live here, or at least he told me he did. We weren’t together very long. It’s really important that I find him.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, honey, did he knock you up? That bastard! I wish you’d told me right away. I know him, okay? We’re not close friends or anything. I even forgot his damn last name. He’s my hubby’s brother-in-law’s sister-in-law’s brother. He stayed with us for a couple of months.” She pointed to the ground. “In the basement. Moved out a couple of weeks ago, but I don’t know where. Hubby dealt with him, not me. I can find out, though. The bastard. Never liked him. I don’t even know why hubby wanted to help him. It’s not like Aaron is related to us or anything. Give me your name and number. He needs to do right by you.”
“Sure,” Casey said, uncomfortable with the idea of the woman thinking she was pregnant, but elated that she was willing to help. She pulled out her notebook, scribbled her name and number, and tore off the page. “Here.” She handed it to the woman. “I really appreciate your help.”
“I’ll call you.” The door closed.
Casey walked back to the bus stop. The afternoon hadn’t been a total loss. The woman might come through, or she might speak to Street and figure out that there was no pregnant girlfriend. If that happened, maybe Detective Walker could help find Street, or maybe she’d tell Casey to buzz off. All Casey could do was bide her time and hope for a call.
*****
Casey groaned when she emerged from the grocery store, her knapsack packed with milk, cat food, and soup. The weather channel had said a thirty percent chance of showers, but the sky said a ninety-five percent chance. Muttering under her breath about inaccurate weather reports, she unlocked her bike. Maybe she should have taken the bus, but come on; thirty percent usually meant it wouldn’t rain.
She was about to pedal when her phone rang. “Hello.”
“Hey, it’s Sissy. Sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday. I was at Kenny’s and, uh, by the time I left it was, um, too late to call.”
Too early, more like. “No problem. Did he tell you that he mentioned a security guard?”
“No,” Sissy drawled.
“He mentioned a new guard who didn’t stay around long. You mentioned Jackie visiting security a couple of times. I was just wondering if you saw who she was speaking with, and whether it was that guard.”
Sissy snorted. “Casey, I just happened to see her go into the security office a couple of times. I wasn’t spying on her. I didn’t rush up to the window and watch. Especially since…”
“Since what?” Casey prompted.
“Well, I thought maybe she was going in there because she was interested in someone, which, believe me, would have been the first time in a while. I didn’t want to spook her by breathing down her neck. I figured she’d tell me in her own time.”
“But you don’t know that for sure.”
“No.”
“Does security have a high turnover?”
“I have no idea,” Sissy said. “When I smoked, I used to chat with the guards. Now I hardly notice them. I couldn’t even tell you most of their names. Why?”
She was trying to put two and two together, connect the dots, tie some random guard’s start and end dates with Jackie’s disappearance. It was called “being desperate.” “It doesn’t matter,” she said to Sissy, then glanced up at the sky and quietly swore. “I have to go. Thanks for calling back.”
She slid her phone into her pocket and pushed into motion. Ten minutes. Please, rain, hold off for ten minutes…
Two minutes later, the skies opened. Rain dripping from her nose, Casey waited for a light to change while trying to look as if sitting on her bike, drenched, was perfectly okay with her. Yep, all those dry motorists were staring out their windshields, thinking, Thank god it’s not me, as they listened to the windshield wipers thump back and forth. At least her helmet was keeping her hair dry.
The light changed. Casey had just cleared the intersection when a van slowed next to her. Shit. She hated it when drivers wouldn’t pass, even though they had plenty of room. A horn sounded, making her jump. Hey, I’m practically scraping the curb, here! When the driver honked again, Casey twisted to look, hoping she wouldn’t stare into the eyes of a deranged anti-cyclist determined to take back the road for motorists. The driver waved and motioned for Casey to stop. She squinted through the rain. Emily?
Casey braked, then cautiously rolled up to the driver’s side door after Emily pulled over in front of her. The window whirred down. Emily smiled up at her. “I thought it was you. Didn’t you see me waving at the light?”
“Uh, no.”
“Want a lift?”
Casey glanced down at her bike.
“It’ll fit in the back.”
“I’m soaked.”
“Who cares? It’s my father’s van. Come on, put your bike in the back and get in.”
Casey opened her mouth to protest, then inwardly shrugged and dismounted. Emily had unlocked the side door. After laying her bike down in the back next to stacks of unmarked boxes, Casey climbed into the passenger seat and plunked her knapsack on her lap, but kept her helmet on. No way was she removing her helmet. When Emily glanced at her, Casey cleared her throat. “Do you usually ride in torrential rain?” Emily asked as she waited to merge into traffic.
“Not intentionally. The weather report
said there was only a thirty percent chance of showers.”
Emily grunted.
“The sky looked fine when I left.”
“The storm blew in quickly.”
She silently thanked Emily for not making her feel like an idiot. “So this is your father’s van?” she said, wanting to avoid awkward silence and unwanted personal questions.
“Yeah. I should have known he wanted me to do something when he asked me to drop by the shop. Though it’s not his fault. Someone booked off sick, so I’m playing delivery girl.” They turned a corner. “You’re in that complex on the corner of Second, right?”
“Yeah.” Gran must have told her.
“Where do you keep your bike?”
“There’s a storage room in the basement.”
“I see.”
“Where do you live?” Casey asked.
“Near the university. Since I work the early morning shift, it would make more sense for me to live near the shop. But when I found the apartment, things were different.”
“You worked the later shift.”
Emily was silent for a moment, then said, “Yes.”
Was there more? She didn’t want to pry, and Emily was already pulling up in front of her apartment building. They hadn’t been that far away when Emily had picked her up, a gesture she’d probably regret when she saw the wet seat. “Thanks for the ride.”
Emily turned to her. “Any time.” She paused. “Maybe I’ll see you in the shop soon.”
“Maybe you will,” Casey said, figuring the chances she’d be in the shop that early in the morning were nil. But she appreciated Emily’s willingness to shuttle a drowned rat home. “Your shop has the best server in town. You’re sweeter than the Danishes.” She froze when Emily’s face flushed a deep red. Oh my god. She hadn’t meant—she never flirted with straight women. “Thanks again,” she mumbled, and scrambled out of the van. Despite wanting to get away, she couldn’t help but look at the seat. “Sorry,” she said, wincing.
Emily chuckled. “It’s just water. And it’s still raining. You’d better go.”
Especially since it was raining into the van. Casey slammed the door shut and slung her knapsack over her shoulder. She pulled her bike from the back of the van, then peered into the passenger window and waved. Emily returned the gesture and pulled away, probably glad to be rid of her wet, flirty passenger. Next time she saw Casey in the rain, she’d drive by, making sure to hit a deep puddle for good measure.
The Missing Comatose Woman Page 6
