My search was quick and revealed nothing. Sabrina, though, had better luck.
"Del, look at this. I found it in a pair of jeans."
It was a keycard. I looked at her expectantly.
She said, "I'll bet the police had the same reaction you did, and I'll bet nobody looked at it carefully."
I took another look. And then I saw it. It wasn't for the Residence Inn, it was for a Hyatt in downtown Chicago.
"Do you think she stayed there before coming here?" I asked. "Or maybe she had a 'friend'," I made quotations marks in the air, "who was staying there."
"Both of those are possible, although if she had a friend at the Hyatt, why didn't they just stay in the same hotel? Here's another theory. What if she had two rooms? Did she know someone was on her trail. What if she booked a second room to try to throw them off? It's an idea."
"Possible," I said, but I know I had a doubting look on my face. "It was here that she was staying, so if the other was a diversion, it's probably empty."
"Not necessarily," Sabrina replied. "What's odd about this room?"
I guess this was why she was the mystery author and not me. Nothing popped out at me. "I don't know. What's odd?"
"You can probably be forgiven," she said, "because you're not a woman. Men don't think along those lines. It's her lack of clothes. Look, she has a small carry-on with very few items in it. I count one pair of jeans, one piece of underwear, one pair of socks, a long-sleeve shirt, and in the closet, a jacket and a pair of shoes—which don't go with the jeans and sweater, by the way. For toiletries, she has the bare minimum. She checked in almost a week ago! No woman—and I bet no man either—would check in for four or five days with only a carry-on. She was only going to be in Boston for one night and only took another carry-on. I saw it. It was as empty as this. So where is all her stuff? There has to be a suitcase somewhere."
"You make a compelling argument."
"Want to take a ride over to the Hyatt?"
We took the Hyatt keycard and headed out to the parking lot, always on the lookout for suspicious people. On the drive over, I was mulling things over in my head when I heard in the background, "Earth to Del." Sabrina was looking at me.
"You were deep in thought," she said. "Care to share?"
"I was thinking about the guys who killed Izzy and tried to kill me. When did they come into the picture? I'd bet anything that Izzy knew them. So were they friends or hires who double-crossed her, like you suggested? There had to be a connection between them."
"And if so, did she meet them in Chicago? Maybe the Hyatt room will shed some light."
"How are we going to find out which room she has, assuming this isn't an old reservation?" I asked. "They won't just give it to us."
"I'm going to be honest," she replied.
A unique approach.
We arrived a few minutes later and parked in the check-in area. Once inside, she asked for the manager on duty.
"Hi, my name is Sabrina Spencer…"
"Are you the mystery author?" interrupted the clerk standing next to the manager. She had a really annoying squeaky voice.
"I am," replied Sabrina, giving the woman a warm smile, but subtly motioning the manager aside.
Now realizing he was dealing with someone important, the manager was more than happy to oblige and took us into his office. When we were seated, he asked, "What can I help you with?"
"I believe my sister, Isobel Worth, had a room here. She was killed in Boston on Saturday, and I'm trying to clean up loose ends. I found a keycard for your hotel in her belongings. If she was still registered here, I'd like to gather her things and pay her bill."
"Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss. Let me see if she was registered." He typed into his computer. "Yes, she was … is … currently registered."
"Would you mind telling me what room?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, this is where it gets a little problematic. I can't just give you access to her room. Please understand, I believe you, but since you are not registered, I'll need to speak to the authorities about it."
Sabrina pulled something from her wallet. "This is the business card for the detective who is handling the case in Boston. He can vouch for me."
She started to hand him the card, but let go just before he touched it. The card fluttered to the floor.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
"Not a problem," he answered, and they both reached down at once. As he picked it up, she now had a clear view of his computer screen and glanced over at it. The manager picked up the card and everyone settled back.
We waited while the manager called Detective Marsh. He said "okay" and "yes" about a dozen times before he finally hung up.
"Well, I'm afraid there is going to be a delay," he said apologetically. "The detective said that since it is still an open case, he needs to contact the Chicago PD to come by and go through the room first. I'm very sorry."
"That's not a problem at all," said Sabrina. "We'll wait out in the lobby for them. Thank you so much for your help."
We quickly excused ourselves and made our way back out to the main lobby. Out of sight of the manager Sabrina handed me the keycard.
"Room 1798. I don't want the police going through it first. I should stay here and meet them, since she was my sister. Plus, I've always treated the police well in my books, so I might be able to stall them by letting them know who I am—the one time I want to use my fame—giving you a few minutes up there. I'll text you when they are on their way up."
"Gotcha. I'll look as quickly as I can." I went through the side stairs exit, up to the next floor, and caught the elevator to the seventeenth floor. Time was not on my side. I didn't know how fast the Chicago cops would be. I figured I had a few minutes, but not many more than that.
I found the room and used the keycard to get in. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and used it to open the door. I turned on the lights the same way. I figured just to be safe I shouldn't leave any fingerprints. I looked around. This was definitely where she was staying. A large suitcase still full of Izzy's stuff sat over by the window. Like me, Izzy was not one to make use of hotel room drawers. I went over to the suitcase and carefully pawed through it. Nothing of interest. Next, I checked the closet. There I found a thin leather briefcase full of papers—mostly notes on legal-size paper that she had probably made. There really wasn't much else to look through, so I grabbed the briefcase and was about to leave when I thought of the safe.
It was closed. She had something in it. But how could I open it? I didn't know her well enough to come up with any passwords, so I tried some simple ones: 1,2,3,4; the year in which I assumed she was born, as well as a couple near that, just in case; the numeric value for Izzy; and a few more. Nothing worked.
My phone pinged. It was Sabrina. The police were on their way up. Time to leave. Just for kicks, I tried one more code: 1933, the date of the art heist. The safe opened!
I looked inside. There was some money, which I ignored. There was also a thin book—an old log book of some sort. On the cover was a name: Ray Worth. The log of the last man to see my grandfather alive!
Chapter 10
I closed the safe and got out of there quickly. I found the stairs and went down one flight and caught the elevator on the 16th floor. If I had been waiting for the elevator on the 17th and the door opened revealing a car full of cops, I probably would have peed my pants.
I met Sabrina in the lobby, trying to conceal my excitement. We retreated to a remote corner, where I told her what I had found. As anxious as we both were to go through everything, we knew we had to wait. After they did their search, the police would be calling us up to the room, and I wanted to ditch the briefcase before then. I gave the log book to Sabrina, who put it in her purse, then I took the briefcase out and locked it in the trunk of the car. Then we waited.
An hour later, the lead detective sent for us and we made our way to the room. In the elevator I found myself a little nervous. Sup
pose they looked at security tapes and saw me go in. I mentioned it to Sabrina.
"I don't think so," she said. "She wasn't killed here, so I don't think they'd have any reason to. Even if they did," she added, "they would do it for the nights she was here, not for an hour ago."
That made me feel marginally better.
The meeting with the cops was quick and painless. They explained that they found nothing that would explain her death in Boston. Luckily, they didn't ask us if we had gone in before them. So they cleared out of the room—leaving the safe open so we could gather Izzy's belongings—and suddenly we were alone.
"I don't think we should go back to the Residence Inn. If this hotel was her secret hide-out," said Sabrina, after giving the room a once-over, "It should probably be ours too. We are probably safer here."
"I agree. Besides, I don't know about you, but I'm starving. It's dinner time and it looks like they have a decent restaurant here."
"I'll go down and reserve a room for the night." She hesitated. "I'd rather not stay in this room."
"I understand." Did I hear her say "reserve a room," and not "rooms?"
"I'll deal with this stuff later," she said. "Do you want to go move the car and bring in our things? I'll meet you in the lobby."
"Will do."
"And Del?" She had a look of concern. "Be careful."
A feeling of warmth spread through me. "I will. I'll let them valet the car. That'll keep me in public view the whole time."
I had the bellman take our bags—all except Izzy's briefcase—and I met up with Sabrina in the lobby.
"I hope you don't mind," she said, with a touch of color in her face, "I only got one room. We're probably going to be up late going through Izzy's stuff, and, to be honest, I'd feel more comfortable sharing the room."
"I think I can live with that," I said, trying hard not to smile too widely.
*****
We had a relaxing dinner, despite the fact that the log book was burning a hole in Sabrina's bag. We knew we had plenty of time to go through it, and after the events of the last few days, we needed the break.
We filled each other in on our lives. I first regaled her with the stories of some of my less fortunate ancestors, then got a bit more serious when I told her about my childhood, living with my mother and visiting my father far less frequently than I would have liked, despite him living only a mile away. He loved me in his own way, but he wasn't a father type. He was way too self-absorbed—and he knew it—to be an effective parent. A little effort on his part would have meant everything to me. My mother had confessed to me a few years earlier that she often pleaded with my father to show me some attention. He would give it a try for a few weeks, then lapse back into his old ways.
Sabrina asked me if I had ever married.
"Not even close," I answered.
I also explained that when I was in my mid-twenties my mother was diagnosed with leukemia, and I moved in with her to help her out. During those years I came to hate my father for abandoning my mother like that—although she later convinced me get rid of the hate and try to keep some sort of relationship with him. I spent three years living with her. My mother always felt that because of her my prime dating years had gone to waste, and she always felt guilty about it. I didn't though. As hard as it was, I felt I owed her at least that much. And to be perfectly frank, I wasn't sure if any years were my "prime" dating years.
Her cancer went into remission—and had never returned—and I got the job in Boston, a job that left little time for developing a real relationship with anyone.
"So there's been no one special?"
"No. I had a few relationships that lasted a number of months, but when it's not the right person, it's not the right person. You can fool yourself only so long. How about you?"
"I was married for five years back in my early twenties. It seemed like the real thing. I thought it was a storybook marriage. After a couple of years we tried to get pregnant, but couldn't. That's when I noticed a change in Kevin. Sex lost its enjoyment and instead became a mission, a mission to have a baby. The more obsessed he got about it, the less I wanted to have a child with him—or even sex, for that matter. Finally, the doctors determined that I couldn't bear children. That sent him over the edge. Our last year of marriage was a nightmare, and when I finally took out a restraining order on him, he left. I promptly filed for divorce. We were living in a small town in Pennsylvania, near where he grew up. I moved to New York, got a job as an editorial assistant with a small publisher, and shared an apartment with two other women who were also struggling to survive. After my experience with Kevin, I vowed I'd never get married again. Like you, I date, but nothing serious has ever resulted."
"And Kevin?"
"Never heard from him again and never want to."
She didn't seem to want to say any more on the subject, so I changed it.
"Do you like life as a successful author?"
She perked up. "I love it! Writing is my passion. As I said, the fame that has greeted me over the last year or so can be a little overwhelming—even embarrassing—but I love my life. I love traveling for research, and I love writing. I also can't complain about the money that has suddenly started to enter my life over the last year, but I would do this even if I was just scraping by."
"You said you like traveling for research. How about for author signings?"
"They can be good sometimes." There was no further explanation, so I decided to move on. I noticed that here seemed to be certain subjects that bothered her. A couple of times she had glossed over the subject of book signings. I was curious, but said nothing.
"Why mysteries?"
"I think it's because I have an adventurous side to me that I've never been able to act upon. Deep down I'm Indiana Jones. Writing mysteries allows me to act on some of that, in an armchair sort of way. It's also why I wanted to join you in your search. It's a real adventure, one that I can actually live. Even if it turns out to be a dead end, it will have been worth it."
It was after eight, so we headed back to the room. We took turns showering, washing off the day of airports, rental cars, and Izzy's rooms. Sabrina had asked for two double beds, which was okay with me. I was still crazy about her and was hoping something could develop, but over dinner I had formed a different kind of bond with her—something of a deeper nature. I was willing to let our relationship—whatever it turned out to be—take its own course. Not that it wouldn't be difficult sleeping knowing that she wasn't much more than six feet away.
I was also happy to see that Ms. World-Famous Writer seemed a little unsure of what to do. I sensed some very real sexual tension in the air, but there was something refreshing about not acting on it. And I think she thought so too.
We were both exhausted. It suddenly occurred to me that I had had practically no sleep the night before—or the night before that, for that matter—so we decided to table the log book and papers until the morning, when we would be fresh. Our weariness had dampened the urgency to go through everything. I think we were both asleep in minutes.
*****
I heard Sabrina stirring at about seven, as she got up to use the bathroom and take a shower. While she was in the bathroom, I checked emails on my phone. I had two from my former boss letting me know—in his usual unsubtle, obscenity-laden way—that the way I left was unprofessional. No argument there. It was. However, as I read his threats of blackballing me from ever working in that industry again, I had to smile. First, I had no intention of ever joining that industry again, and second, he was a jerk and an idiot. I had no regrets.
I also had a short email from Mo, wishing me well on my search, and telling me to be careful. I sent my mother an email just to let her know that I was out of town and that things were going well, and that I was staying safe.
Sabrina emerged from the bathroom a half hour later, hair back in a ponytail, and once again taking my breath away. If she kept doing that, I was going to suffocate. She apologized for t
aking so long, and I made some stupid comment about the result being worth it, which made us both blush a bit. Then I took my turn in there, spending only a fraction of the time Sabrina did. Of course, the results were nowhere near as successful, either.
We ordered room service and Sabrina finally pulled out the diary.
"I can't believe we had the willpower to resist looking at this last night," she said.
"I'm glad we waited," I responded. "We are both much more awake today."
We sat next to each other at the table by the window and started to read. At first we were a little disappointed, as it seemed to be only a log of his missions during the war. But the more we read, the more we were hooked. The first entry was dated December 14, 1943, the target Bremen, and it was a fairly dry account of his first mission:
We took off at 0830. Left the coast at 12,000 and climbed on course. Our bombing altitude was 22,000, so we had to use oxygen. Our course took us over the North Sea. We made a 90o turn to the South and attacked the target from a Northerly direction. There was a 10/10 cloud coverage, going and coming. We didn't meet any enemy fighters due to the fact that the cloud cover was so low. It prevented them from taking off. It didn't prevent the flak from coming up however. The flak was extremely heavy and very accurate, and although we didn't lose any planes from our group, most of us came home with damaged planes. Some of the other groups weren't as fortunate.
Honeycutt's oxygen mask was leaking and he passed out a couple of times. I had to wake him up just two minutes from "bombs away."
It went on like that for another page, describing their return home and some of the damage they received. Frankly, I found it fascinating, and was almost a little jealous. I had thought about joining the service when I graduated high school, but since my father worked at the college, I was able to go at no cost, so there was no way I could turn that down. But I envied the camaraderie that people like my grandfather experienced during the war. Obviously it was dangerous, but that made it even more exciting.
All Lies Page 6