Normally, he wasn’t so conspicuous. But at this moment he stood out as only a rough, tattooed biker in a sea of casually-dressed tourists could in an upscale hotel lobby.
He took a seat on one of the couches just off to the right and pulled out his phone and tried to become another clueless scroller while he formulated a plan.
What he needed was to figure out which room Maureen was in if she was even still here. Phineous hadn’t been able to decipher much more out of the picture but the name of the hotel on the toiletries. Crome needed a friendly face he could drag into this mess.
None of the pretty people serving the guests had friendly faces. They all had pleasant but professional faces without blemishes. And they’d call the police.
Then he remembered that Blu had befriended a Latina woman who cleaned rooms in one of the other hotels. She’d helped him out by searching a room for him after the guests had checked out and found a tube of lipstick they’d later linked to a victim by the fingerprints still on it. Since then, she’d been brought into the Blu Carraway Investigations fold as a contractor and Crome had made sure to introduce himself to her.
Realizing that since he couldn’t identify the kidnapper but the kidnapper could identify him, Crome got up and left. He found Juanita’s number in his phone as he walked out and gave her a call.
“Buenos días, señorita,” he said.
“Hola, Mr. Crome.”
Just like Gladys and her access to the limitless DMV database, Juanita Moralles, the hotel housekeeper, could provide a unique service.
In Spanish he said, “Do you know anyone who works at The Palmetto Inn?”
After a pause, in Spanish, she replied, “I think so. Let me make a call. What do you need?”
“I’ve got a picture that I think was taken in one of the rooms there but I want to see if they can narrow my search a bit.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few hours.”
He didn’t really have a few hours, but wasn’t about to push the housekeeper like he did Phineous. He could rebuild that bridge by hooking the poor sap up with loose women. If he pushed Juanita the wrong way, she’d clam up and make sure neither he nor Blu could get any information out of her or any of her friends in the Latin community—a really bad idea.
He walked to a local restaurant, sat at a table, and ordered lunch. America was great for a lot of reasons—one of them being that no one really knew how much money anyone else had. Guys driving Bentleys couldn’t afford to fill up their gas tanks. The little old lady in the rusted-out Chevy had ten million in gold. And a biker with worn jeans and a scruffy leather vest like himself could be sitting on several hundred thousand dollars in the Caymans that no one else, including the U.S. government, knew about.
He drank black coffee at a local watering hole and thought about Maureen and how scared she must be. It was how he kept his edge. He couldn’t afford to let himself relax until she was safe and her kidnapper was dead.
Juanita called Crome within the hour. She did have a friend who worked there. And she started her shift at five.
Chapter Seven
Blu’s phone chirped while he trolled the streets of Charleston looking for Crome’s bike. He pulled over to the curb in an open parking spot by a meter, mentally kicking himself for not sneaking a LoJack tracker on his partner’s modified Harley. He checked his texts and found a message from Tess.
It read, Phin is at the Pirate’s Cove.
Why in the hell would the geek be there, unless Crome set him up with an unlimited tab or something.
At the moment, the reason wasn’t as important as getting to the Isle of Palms as soon as possible. He sent a “thanks” text to Tess, put his truck in gear, and accelerated away.
Juanita’s friend met Crome in the parking lot of the Charleston Visitor’s Center located at the intersection of Meeting and Ann Streets. Her name was Fabiana. Juanita had said Fabiana was a single mother working to provide for her family. Crome took that to mean she expected him to pay her friend for any information she provided.
With about a grand in cash on him, he leaned on his bike in a parking spot and waited. A fifteen-year-old Dodge Neon pulled to a stop in the spot beside him. A Latina woman Crome would peg at a hard-working thirty got out. She wore the uniform of someone who performed housekeeping duties in any number of hotels.
When he straightened up, he realized he was a good foot taller than this woman. To not intimidate her like he did Phineous, he said, in Spanish, “I’m Mick Crome. Are you Juanita’s friend, Fabiana?” It helped to have the U.S. Army teach him the language and a bi-lingual business partner to keep the skill up.
She looked him over, probably judging the biker boots, worn jeans, weathered leather vest, mustache and week-old beard, aviator shades, and long hair sticking out below a do-rag that was his usual attire. After a moment, she said, “Si.”
“Can you look at a picture and see if you can tell me which room it could be?”
She nodded.
He said, “I have to warn you. It is not a pleasant picture. But I could really use your help to find the woman in it.”
Her eyes were big and brown and the lines around them showed a lot of tough years. He got the sense that she had already seen more in this life than many ever would. She said, “I understand.”
Crome slid a folded piece of paper out from the inside pocket of his vest. It was a copy of the picture the sick son-of-a-bitch with a death wish had sent him. Crome unfolded it and handed it to her.
Fabiana looked at the picture of Maureen with her scared eyes and the pistol aimed at her head, blinked, and put her free hand to her mouth.
He waited for her to get past the shock and look at the surrounding details. The speed at which she adjusted would tell him how much violence she’d seen in her short life—his guess was a lot.
That profile of her was confirmed when the surprise in her eyes quickly turned to focus as she analyzed the fringes of the photo.
“I’m sorry for this woman,” Fabiana said. “I understand now and want to help her as best I can.”
Crome said, “Gracias.”
“You found out which hotel it was by the bottles of shampoo and conditioner.”
“Si.”
She looked up from the picture. “Most of the rooms in the hotel are similar. One difference is that they can be exact opposites of each other. Like right-handed or left-handed.”
He nodded. “Can you tell that from the picture?”
“No,” she said. “The bathrooms are arranged the same.”
“Damn.”
“But this isn’t one of our regular rooms. This is a suite. I can tell by the bathtub and shower in the background.”
“How many suites you got there?”
“Twenty.”
She’d just narrowed his search from several hundred rooms to twenty. He had to refrain from picking Fabiana up and kissing her.
She asked, “Does that help you?”
In as calm a voice as he could muster, given this new intel, he said, “It does. Any chance I can get the names of the guests who stayed in those rooms over the last week?”
“They don’t give me that information.”
What he understood her to mean was that she didn’t have access to it. He pulled out a fold of hundred-dollar bills and handed her three of them. “This is for what you’ve given me. If you can get me a list of who the guests were, I’ll give you the rest of it.” He held the fold up for her to see. “And if you can get it to me tonight, I’ll double it.”
“Juanita told me you were an honorable but hard man,” she said, her dark eyes staring into his. “I believe her. But I have two children to take care of. That is a lot of money but it won’t be enough if I lose my job.”
Deflated, he said, “I understand.”
She gave him a look, one filled
with pity and empathy. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He again had to restrain himself from kissing the woman.
Blu found Phineous sitting at one of the tables inside the Pirate’s Cove bar. With him were two women of questionable morals. Strippers, if Blu had to guess. In fact, he didn’t have to guess. When Crome wasn’t spending time with Maureen or Tess and Harmony, he could be found in the presence of such acquaintances. And these were two of his favorites.
As he walked up to the table behind Phineous, Blu struggled to keep his eyes on their faces and off their cleavage.
The women, artificial blondes the both of them, said, “Hey Blu!”
Mid-thirties, they’d seen more than their fair share of degenerate men and had done more than their fair share of white powder and other chemicals. Yet, somehow they’d survived the life this long.
Blu said, “Hey Krystal. Hey Amber,” using their stage names, the only names he knew them by.
Phineous turned around, saw Blu, and started to get up as if to bolt.
Blu gently but firmly pushed him back into his seat. “Don’t get up on my account, Phineous.”
“I-I was—”
“Save it.”
So Crome had scared the bejesus out of Phineous and then compensated him with a fun-filled evening consisting of Krystal and Amber. For a guy like Phineous, there were always worse things that could happen. But there were probably fewer chances for something better. Phineous looked like a wet pack of noodles with his pale skin and thin neck, arms and legs.
Blu slid the empty chair out and sat facing Phineous. “Your shop was closed when I came by. I thought you were working on the photo for me.”
Phineous’ cheeks reddened. “I gave what I had to Crome. He’s your partner, isn’t he?”
It sounded to Blu like Phineous actually had a backbone, even if his torso said otherwise. Blu said, “Why don’t you give what you have to me?”
Phineous sighed. “Samples of shampoo on the sink counter were from The Palmetto Inn.”
“Thank you.”
Krystal said, “Oh. I’ve never stayed there. Why don’t the four of us get a room?”
Before anyone else could reply, Blu leaned over to her.
She let him kiss her cheek.
“Maybe some other time,” Blu said. “But I’ve got to get to work. I’m sure Phineous’ll get a room for you all.”
Krystal dropped her chin in an exaggerated form of disappointment. But the truth was Crome probably already paid her and Amber well for this job. And Phineous, if he didn’t have any bad habits Blu didn’t know about, most likely had quite a bit of money squirreled away. He could afford a nice room for the three of them to close out the evening.
Blu got up from the chair and found Brack Pelton, the owner of the Pirate’s Cove, in his office. Pelton looked up from the desk where he was reading some papers when Blu rapped on the door. Shelby, Pelton’s dog, had been sleeping on the couch and jumped up ready to attack until he realized he knew Blu already.
Instead, the dog leapt off the couch and ran up to him.
Blu knelt and greeted Shelby with a pat on the head and a long scratch behind his ears. “How’s it going?
“I’m thinking of taking up drinking again,” Pelton said, with a smile.
“That good, huh?”
Leaning back in his chair, he said, “It’s better than you look.”
Blu didn’t reply.
“Crome was here when he got the voicemail from Maureen.” He then pointed to the dining area. “And he set up your photo guy with the strippers out there.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Looks to me like Crome did him a favor.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Blu said. “Someone else might not appreciate the gesture.”
“They’re attracting all the Yankee husbands in the vicinity. And all of them are spending an awful lot of money in my bar while they gape.”
Blu nodded.
Pelton asked, “How can I help?”
One of the reasons Blu liked his job was the periodic action it provided. His Army Ranger days were over, but any combat was like blood to a canine. Once they had the taste, they always wanted more of it. Blu wanted the action, needed the action.
And Pelton had gotten the same taste in Afghanistan. He was ten years younger than Blu and Crome, and a Marine, but he’d chewed similar sand and tasted the same blood.
Chapter Eight
From his truck while still parked in the Pirate’s Cove parking lot, Blu called Patricia Voyels, Pelton’s aunt, and asked her about the hotel.
She said, “What would you or my nephew do without me?”
Blu laughed. “I guess we’d have to find real jobs.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” she said. “I know the Palmetto Inn owner. He owes me a favor. And tell Harmony and Tess that I want the exclusive on this. They owe me, too.” She ended the call.
He walked back inside the bar to Pelton’s office. Pelton was still at his messy desk. Shelby came up to Blu again.
Blu petted the fifty pound lady killer. “Your aunt is cashing in her chips, isn’t she?”
Pelton sat back in his seat again. “Why do you ask?”
“She’s been nothing but helpful to me since I met her. But now she seems even more so.”
Pelton reclined and put his hands behind his head. “Don’t forget she’s got a crush on you.”
“She needs someone a little more mature than me,” Blu said. “And I’m not trying to crack an age joke here.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ve got twenty-year-old waitresses more mature than either of us. So’s my dog.”
From behind Blu, a female voice said, “He’s the reason we’re still in business.”
It was Paige, Pelton’s business manager.
Blu said, “Ah, the brains of the operation.”
“Don’t forget looks too. Next to Shelby, of course.”
She wasn’t kidding, either. Long, brown hair with sun-bleached highlights, tanned skin, and a personal trainer figure, Paige was tough. About ten years older than Blu’s daughter and married with a son. None of that stopped Crome from taking a run at her, except that she shut him down with a smile and a pat on the head.
Blu’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he excused himself from the room.
It was Patricia and he answered.
“The owner wasn’t real happy about the picture,” She said. “I told him we’d do everything we could to keep it out of the media, but it required him to stretch a few of the hotel policies.”
“Did he bite?”
“He’s a good business man,” she said. “It’s usually not a hard decision if the choice is a nuclear explosion or an air raid. He went with the air raid.”
“Meaning he’ll play ball on the list of guests?”
“Affirmative. In fact, I’ve already got it in front of me. Most of the rooms have turned over since yesterday. All of them have been cleaned and none of the women who clean the rooms reported seeing anything suspicious.”
“Okay. I’m on my way to you.”
With more than a hint of something not quite business-oriented in her voice, she said, “I was hoping you’d say that.”
He ended the call, in awe at the expression of true power she’d just wielded. Blu had a carte blanche connection in Adam Kincaid, Jennifer’s father, because he’d once had to go to Mexico to rescue the man’s daughter. But he never abused it. With one phone call, Patricia got him something he would have had to work days to get, maybe even have Josie hack into the hotel database if his own sleuthing didn’t do the trick.
Tuesday evening
Fabiana came through again for Crome. He now held in his hands several sheets of paper—copies of the housekeeping log from The Palmetto Inn. The names of the guests we
re printed along with each room. She had provided him with everyone from the last week.
The first thing he noticed was that the rooms had all changed occupants, meaning Maureen wasn’t there anymore.
Sitting in a McDonald’s in Mount Pleasant, his favorite type of coffee house—one that served an inexpensive yet good cup of Joe along with all the food he could want—Crome held one of the sheets of paper with his right hand while his left hand kept his mouth busy with a Big Mac.
None of the names rang a bell. He’d have to run down each one of them, and he didn’t have time to do that.
His phone buzzed. He looked at the display, saw Harmony’s name, and answered.
She said, “What the hell, Crome?”
“Howdy to you, too.”
“You scare Phineous half to death and then bribe him with your hooker friends.”
The volume of his phone was such that everyone around him in the restaurant could hear her, and it was about half full of people at the time.
“They were strippers, not hookers.”
“Strippers dance around poles and take their clothes off in a club. The two ladies you hired got him drunk and took him to a hotel room.”
Crome didn’t have a quick response to that one. He just hoped Phineous had protection.
“What was that?” she asked. “No snappy comeback? I didn’t think so.”
“Are you going to help me or are you going to run your mouth?”
Apparently it was her turn to be quiet.
He really didn’t have the patience for this. He needed to find Maureen. Why couldn’t Harmony or Blu or Phineous or who-the-hell-ever see what was at stake?
“You know,” Harmony said, “if it weren’t Maureen’s life on the line, I really wouldn’t give a flip what happened to you. But she’s an innocent. And frankly she deserves a medal for putting up with you. So, to answer your question, I’m going to help you, and I’m going to run my mouth. And if you’re not careful, I’m going to bring those two body builders Blu works out with and let them pinch your sorry head off your sorry neck and stick it on a post in my front yard.”
BAD TIME TO BE IN IT Page 4
