Page 106

CHAPTER 104

RICH CONKLIN AND I parked our squad car across from the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, then walked through the lobby to the dining room. Maurice the ma?tre d’—Cindy’s source—wasn’t at his post. Someone else was running restaurant traffic. He was thirtysomething, a genuine redhead whose name tag read RYAN MCCALL .

I badged him, introduced Conklin, and asked, “Is Maurice around?”

Ryan told us that Maurice was off today and asked if he could help.

Conklin told Ryan, “We’re actually waiting for Mr. Brett Palmer.”

“Oh, he was just here,” Ryan said. “Was he expecting you?”

I said, “Oh, boy. I must have gotten the time wrong.”

Ryan seemed eager to have a conversation that didn’t involve seating and menus.

“Maybe I can help you,” he said. “I’ve been working here for a year and I see Mr. Palmer a lot.”

I said, “Do you have a couple of minutes? We’ve got some questions.”

Ryan offered us seating in the little waiting area ten feet from his post, and I said fine to that and set my phone down on the end table. I asked, “Ryan. May I call you Ryan?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Ryan, by chance did Mr. Palmer say where he was going?”

“No, but after breakfast usually he’s in a hurry to get to a meeting somewhere, and then I don’t see him until late afternoon, or after dinner in the lounge. Let me call his room for you.”

A few seconds later, Ryan shrugged and said, “No answer. If you don’t mind me asking, is Mr. Palmer in some kind of trouble?”

Conklin said, “No, no. To be clear, we think Mr. Palmer may be able to help us with one of our open investigations.”

Ryan said, “Good to hear. Would you like me to give him a message if I see him later?”

I gave Ryan my card and Richie’s.

“If you see Mr. Palmer, give him our contact information, and if he asks what this is about, just say that you don’t know. Then call me or Inspector Conklin and one of us will take it from there.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” said McCall. “You know, I might have something for you.”

My head snapped around. I said, “And that would be what?”

Just then a group of four hotel guests arrived at the ma?tre d’s station asking to be seated. McCall led them to a table that suited them, and when he returned, he stood with his back to incoming guests.

He said, “I wonder. Just between us, would you be interested in knowing about the woman Mr. Palmer was seeing earlier this week?”

Conklin said, “Well, yes, we would. What can you tell us?”

“All I know is what I see,” Ryan said. “The lady has been staying with us since last Tuesday. I overheard her and Mr. Palmer talking …”

I saw another party of four heading our way. Ryan did a one-eighty away from them.

He said, “I don’t know if she’s checked out of the hotel, but I haven’t seen her in a couple or three days.”

A thought cut through my brand-new splitting headache. I picked up my phone and scrolled through the photo library.

“I want you to look at a picture, Ryan. If you recognize this person, you’ll be helping us a lot.”

I stood up and showed him an image of the “dumpster victim” prior to her autopsy at the morgue two days ago. Her body was draped in a blue sheet from her shoulders down and over her feet, but her face was exposed and mostly unbruised.

“Ryan? Do you recognize her?”

He staggered back a bit, reached out for something to grab on to and, failing that, regained his balance.

“That’s, that’s her. Caroline Ford.”