by Mary Maxwell
When I glanced up, Bach held one finger to his lips.
“I know you want to say something,” he told me, lowering his voice. “But right now is the time for you to simply listen.”
I felt my pulse quicken and spikes of adrenaline ricochet through my body. A dull pounding had suddenly started in my ears, a persistent and steady drumbeat of fear and rage and helplessness.
“Very good,” Bach whispered. “Like I said, you’re a smart woman. And a quick study. If you want to see your friend again…” He leaned closer, finishing the threat in a hoarse whisper. “…you’ll stop looking for Pia Lincoln and Vito Marclay. To do otherwise would possibly put your life at risk and ensure that your friend won’t be seen again.”
CHAPTER 32
After a few more tense minutes of conversation with Desmond Bach, I walked outside, got into my car and called Trent. When it landed in voicemail on the third ring, I left a message and explained that I had something to tell him about Pia and Vito.
“Come on, big guy,” I’d muttered, staring at the idle phone in my hand. “Call me back.”
After ten minutes of silence, I dialed Dina Kincaid, hoping that she’d answer and feeling my heart grow a little heavier when I heard her outgoing greeting begin.
“You’ve reached Detective Dina Kincaid with the Crescent Creek Police Department,” she announced in her clear, immaculate voice. “I’m sorry that I can’t take—”
I dropped the call and put the phone on the seat. Then I drove home through the empty streets, thinking about Pia and Vito and Desmond Bach. He’d warned me not to alert the CCPD, but I was hardly going to play by his rules. Despite asking several times, he’d refused to divulge anything meaningful about himself or the reason for his visit to Crescent Creek.
After I arrived home around ten-thirty, I made a cup of tea, grabbed my laptop and climbed into bed to record notes about the case and my conversation with Bach.
I documented everything from the past two days: the original call from Pia, the scene at Vito Marclay’s house, the second call from Pia and her subsequent disappearance.
Then I started a separate list about Desmond Bach. I knew that he had rented an Aston Martin and Range Rover from the luxury car outfit near the Denver airport. Based on Pia’s Instagram post, I was aware that the Aston Martin was parked in front of Vito’s house when she arrived the other day. And I also knew that Bach’s language, demeanor and obvious knowledge about my work as a PI in Chicago suggested that he was skilled at conducting these sorts of cloak and dagger campaigns.
“What else do we know?” I whispered, thinking of my friend’s terrified expression in the photo on Desmond Bach’s phone. “We know Pia’s being held somewhere. And we know it’s about Vito. And there’s the—”
My mind skittered back to the photograph of Pia with her wrists and ankles bound. There was something strangely familiar about the fabric beneath her, the floral pattern and aquamarine tones and—
“The Moonlight!” I suddenly blurted. “She’s at the Moonlight!”
I’d never stayed at the local motel before, but I’d been inside the rooms once or twice to visit friends. The décor was dated and scruffy: nicked furniture, worn carpeting, inexpensive framed prints featuring landscapes and still life paintings.
But the most important thing was the floral bedspread in the picture of Pia. It was definitely the same bedding used at the Moonlight. Since my friend from high school managed the family-owned motel, I decided to see if he was working at the front desk.
“Thank you for calling the Moonlight Motel,” Earl Dodd said after answering. “How can—”
“Earl!” I blurted. “It’s Kate Reed. I need your help.”
He hesitated for a moment before snickering and asking why I sounded so frantic.
“Because my friend’s life is in danger,” I said breathlessly. “And I think she’s being held at the Moonlight.”
While I waited for him to respond, I noticed someone else jabbering in the background. It took me two seconds to identify the voice: it was Julia Child, warbling away about roast suckling pig. I’d watched the same classic episode of The French Chef enough times to know exactly what she was saying at any given moment.
“Earl?” I said. “Can you please turn that off?”
The famous chef’s voice stopped in mid-sentence.
“I thought you liked Julia Child,” Earl said. “Did you know her old stuff is on YouTube? I’m trying to learn how to—”
“Earl!” My voice was high-pitched and aggressive. “Would you please stop talking about Julia Child?”
He offered a hushed apology and then asked why I sounded so hysterical.
“Have you seen Pia?” I asked.
“The caterer?”
“Yes, Pia Lincoln. I can’t go into the details right now, but I suspect she’s being held against her will in one of the rooms at your motel.”
He chuckled softly. “Heck, Katie. I’m being held against my will here, too. So I don’t—”
“It’s not a joke!” I yelled. “She’s in trouble, Earl.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I answered.
“Did you call the cops?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I have reason to suspect that she’s being detained at the motel. I wanted to talk with you and have a look around before I call it in.”
“I haven’t seen Pia in a long while,” Earl said. “And I know what she drives and it’s not in the lot.”
“Well, maybe someone else drove her there.”
Earl sighed. “I can’t go knocking on every door, Katie. It’s almost midnight. Lucky for you that I’m working the graveyard shift. Our new guy took off this week to—”
“Is there someone registered by the name of Desmond Bach?” I interrupted. “He probably would’ve checked in a couple of days ago.”
“Dexter what?”
“No, it’s Desmond Bach,” I said, carefully enunciating every syllable. “Like the composer.”
“Can you give me a sec?” Earl asked. “My dad’s been working afternoons. I know that at least three people checked in two days ago before I came on duty.”
The computer keys clicked softly in the background as Earl searched through the registration details on the motel’s guests.
“I don’t have anybody by that first name,” he said, coming back to the phone. “But there is someone with the last name Bach in Room 108.”
“Are they from New York?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” Earl said. “They showed my dad a New York driver’s license when they checked in.” He whistled into the phone. “And they used a Palladium Card to charge the room.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A Palladium Card?”
“Yes, Earl. What is it?”
“It’s a Visa,” he answered. “But not the regular kind. You need to have liquid assets of more than, like, twenty-five million bucks before they give you one.”
“I guess that’s something I won’t have to worry about in the near future,” I said.
Earl laughed. “That makes two of us, Katie.”
“Do you know what the person in that room is driving?” I asked.
“Um…”
“It’s okay if you don’t know,” I said.
“No, that’s cool,” Earl said. “I’m sure my dad made a note. Let me see if…” I heard the keyboard clicking again. “Aha! I’ve got it for you right here. My dad’s note says that the person was driving a silver sedan with a rental agency sticker on the windshield.”
“Did he make a note of the agency name?” I asked.
“No, sorry. Do you want me to go outside in the parking lot and look?”
“That’s okay, Earl,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that’s our guy. And my guess is he has Pia in that room.”
“Should I call 911 or something?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m going to drive over. I’ll be there in l
ess than fifteen.”
“Got it, Katie,” Earl said. “I’ll watch for you.”
As soon as I hung up, I jumped out of bed, hurriedly changed my clothes and raced for the kitchen. My heart was pounding as I scooped up my purse and keys from the counter where I’d left them earlier. I had a hunch that Pia was at the Moonlight and Desmond Bach was holding her there while he tried to find Vito Marclay.
On the drive across town, I considered sending a quick text to Trent and Dina. But then I decided to wait until I’d reached the motel and assessed the situation.
“Just keep your eyes open,” I said repeatedly as I raced through the night. “And stay calm.”
CHAPTER 33
“No lights,” Earl Dodd whispered a few minutes later as we approached Room 108. “And the curtains are drawn.”
Our footsteps and hushed voices were the only sounds in the silent night until a speeding truck roared by on Lone Elk Road.
“They’re probably sleeping,” Earl added as we moved along the sidewalk in front of the motel.
“I don’t care,” I said. “I have a hunch that Pia’s in there.”
When we reached the door, Earl glanced at me, winced briefly and then knocked.
“Mr. Bach?” His voice trembled and he anxiously rubbed his hands together in midair. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. But there’s an emergency situation with the…” He looked at me and leaned closer. “What should I say, Katie? Like, a gas leak or something?”
I reached out and pounded on the door. “Who cares what we say,” I told Earl. “We just need to find out if Pia’s in there.”
We waited, listening for an answer from inside the room. When it didn’t come within a minute or two, I knocked again.
“They could be in the shower,” Earl suggested, shifting from one foot to the other in a dance of nervous anticipation.
I held out my hand. Earl looked at it and frowned.
“Give me the pass key,” I said.
He flinched. “That’s against my father’s policy, Katie.”
The yellow plastic card was attached to a black cord coiled around Earl’s wrist. I reached over, grabbed the card and slipped it into the slot on the brass door plate. The light flashed green, the locking mechanism clicked and my hand found the knob.
“You ready?” I asked.
“No,” Earl said.
I gave him a withering glance and turned the handle. When the door squeaked open, my nose caught the aroma of cigarette smoke and bleach. I found the switch on the wall, flicked it with one finger and lamps beside the carved oak headboard flared to life. A pair of ashtrays on the nightstand overflowed with blackened cigarette butts and a six-pack of beer waited on the credenza beside a large bottle of Clorox.
“This is a no smoking room,” Earl muttered behind me.
I ignored the remark and stepped through the door. The beds were a tangle of rumpled sheets, pillows and the familiar floral coverlet. Styrofoam cups sat on the small round table near the windows along with two KFC boxes overflowing with bones and crumpled, grease-stained white napkins.
“Hello?” I called. “Anyone here?”
My voice bounced around the quiet space. I repeated the question twice more before walking deeper into the room. Earl quickly propped open the door with a chair and followed me to the end of the bed.
“What a mess,” he said, studying the small plastic wastebasket. “There’s more fried chicken bones in here with some—”
He lurched back, pointing at the narrow space between the bed and the wall.
“Is that blood, Katie?”
I hurried over and looked down at the floor. There was a dark brown stain on the beige carpet about the size of a basketball. A bucket filled with dirty water sat nearby along with a stained sponge and crumpled rubber gloves.
“Is it?” Earl demanded, tugging on my sleeve. “Because if it is, then I’m calling the police.”
I was already pulling my phone from my purse.
“Let’s check the bathroom first,” I said, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Just so we can give them—”
I stopped when I heard a muffled sound behind the closet doors across from the bathroom.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Earl.
He frowned. “Huh?”
“A sound,” I said, taking a few tentative steps.
I paused, holding my breath to listen.
“What was it?” whispered Earl. “Do you think—”
And then a weak moan came from the closet.
“Help me,” called a faint voice. “Please…somebody help me.”
CHAPTER 34
The ambulance and two patrol cars arrived within five minutes, screeching through the night with lights pulsing and sirens howling. As they angled to a stop outside of Room 108, I rushed out onto the sidewalk. The first officer to emerge was Mac Seaforth, a CCPD veteran who came to Sky High Pies nearly every Saturday with his wife and two toddlers.
“He’s inside,” I said as Mac headed toward the open doorway. “Looks like somebody used him as a punching bag, but he’s lucid and talking.”
Mac stopped in mid-stride to ask if I knew the victim’s name.
“Phil Bickerton,” I said. “He owns the art gallery on Tremont Street. His wallet was still in his back pocket.”
“Cash and cards intact or missing?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t count it,” I said, “but there’s a fairly hefty stack of bills and a few credit cards.”
“Okay, thanks,” Mac said. “Doesn’t sound like a robbery then.”
As the paramedics and another CCPD officer followed Mac inside, I heard Dina Kincaid’s voice somewhere in the distance. I turned and looked down the sidewalk. She was making her way through a small crowd of guests that had gathered at the far end of the paved walkway near the motel office.
“Hey, detective,” I called, waving at Dina. “Where’s Deputy Chief Walsh?”
She shook her head. “Dispatch told me that he’s on the way,” she said. “But they didn’t give an ETA.”
She pulled a notebook and pen from her jacket and glanced at a few scribbled words.
“You called this in,” she said. “Is that right?”
I nodded.
“Busy week for you, Katie.” She smiled, but the result was far from jovial. “First, the thing at Vito Marclay’s. Then the incident at Pia’s house. And now this.”
“What can I tell you?” I said. “Just doing my part to be a good citizen.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, pausing to squint at the notebook. “The guy’s name is…” She was having trouble deciphering the information on the page. “You know things are bad,” she continued after a weary sigh, “when you can barely read your own handwriting. Is it Bitterman?”
“No, it’s Bickerton. His first name is Phil. He owns the contemporary art gallery in town. The one that’s right next to the pet store.”
Dina jotted something in her notebook and then asked why I was at the motel in the middle of the night.
“Looking for Pia Lincoln,” I said. “I met a guy earlier at the Lodge, a guy called Desmond Bach. He showed me a picture of Pia with her hands bound and tape on her mouth. When I got home later, I realized—”
Dina stopped me with one raised hand. “Wait a sec. Who’s Desmond Bach?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I answered. “But I’m pretty sure this is all related somehow to Vito Marclay. And I’m starting to suspect that he’s been forging paintings that someone is selling outside of normal channels.”
“Okay,” Dina said, connecting the name to the earlier incident. “Vito’s the artist with the home invasion or robbery or whatever. Is that right?”
“Yes. Pia went over to his place and walked into what looked like the aftermath of a pretty intense fight.”
“I’m familiar,” Dina told me. “But can you skip ahead and tell me how you happened to find Mr. Bickerton in the closet of a motel room at midnight?”
I shrugged. “I already told you,” I said. “Desmond Bach. He had a picture on his phone of Pia that I believe was taken here at the Moonlight.”
“Did he take the picture?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that he’s involved in this somehow. He’s been telling people around town that he’s a journalist, but that was just a ruse to try and get information about Vito Marclay.”
She made a few notes and asked me again if I knew anything about the guy.
“I know he’s pretty full of himself,” I said. “He likes scotch on the rocks, American Spirit cigarettes and tight polo shirts that draw attention to his big, bad muscles. I’m also pretty sure he’s not in Crescent Creek for a tour of our local hot spots.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Katie? This isn’t the time for that.”
“Sorry. I’m kind of feverish from the lack of sleep.”
“Join the club,” Dina said. “I got to bed at ten. Then I tossed and turned for the longest time. And then, cross my heart this is the gospel truth, the very second that I fell asleep, the call came in from dispatch.”
I shrugged. “Hazards of the job, right?”
She grumbled.
“You probably want to get in there?” I asked, nodding at Room 108. “Take a look at the scene?”
“In a minute,” she said. “I wanted to ask a couple of questions about your friend.”
“You mean Pia?”
Dina smiled. “If there’s a connection between Pia Lincoln, the incident at Vito Marclay’s and now this…” She tapped one cheek with the end of her pen. “…what should we call it? Motel room assault?”
I nodded, but didn’t comment.
“Does Pia know Vito well?” Dina asked. “Or was he one of her catering clients?”
“All of the above. She told me that he’d proposed and they’re getting married.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You don’t say? Well, that’s always a nice thing to hear, isn’t it? I had a brief conversation with her last week at the dry cleaner. She told me that she was happy and things were going well, but I just figured business was good. I had no idea it involved love and marriage.”
