Was there anything she could have done? Should have done? Jane ducked behind the palms again, trying to look invisible, as a swarm of blue-uniformed police banged through the hotel’s front doors. Jane thought about that stop for gas and the turkey sandwich. How long it took. Thought about the Twizzlers for Gracie, now burning a hole in her tote bag. Thought about Robyn, who was not, Melissa reported, at home. Robyn, who could easily have gotten to the hotel before Jane did.
The arriving cops ran to Jake, and within seconds, in a clatter of footsteps and bristling radios, they’d trooped into the hotel, reassuring the still-nervous tourists and employees. A line of lobby refugees, some smiling, a few in tears, little kids gawking and clutching their parents’ hands, were escorted out to North Street, cops ahead and behind, shepherding. Lewis was not among them.
Through the expanse of the hotel’s front windows, Jane saw three news vans, lined up with their numbered logos on the side and precariously balanced satellite-dish uplinks on top. Her colleagues—former colleagues—would be clamoring for info. And here she was, inside. Exclusive. With exclusive video. Pretty soon they’d find out she was in here. Should she call Marsh Tyson?
Was she a reporter? Or a family member? How did she balance the two?
Now two cops were pointing her out to Jake, frowning. She smiled, nothing to see here.
“She’s fine,” Jake told them, waving away their question. “Press.”
Which she was and wasn’t, but at least the cops ignored her as they listened to Jake’s terse orders. Jane stood, no longer needing invisibility. She wasn’t the problem. Gracie was. Where was Gracie?
When Jane had approached her, the poor girl, obviously terrified, had called out, “Daddy!” That meant Lewis was here, and she wasn’t running away from him. So if Gracie hadn’t been waiting for Jane—which she clearly had not been—why had she been in the lobby?
Now four black-uniformed EMTs hustled through the door, then careened around the turn to the elevators, heads down, pushing a clanking metal stretcher. The concierge unfolded himself from beneath his desk and trotted to Jake, his gold-buttoned blazer rumpled and dust streaked, his hair askew.
“What can I do?” He raked his hand through his hair, making it worse, and surveyed his almost deserted lobby. The clanging fire alarm stopped. “You sure upstairs is safe? I can let the guests know? We’d broadcast a message to the guest room floors saying—”
“It’s safe,” Jake said. “But we’re looking for a missing little girl. How many exits in the building?”
“Ah, four,” the concierge said. He eyed Jane, concerned. “Hey. This woman’s the one who—”
Uh-oh. He’d seen what happened with Gracie. And the guards.
“She’s fine,” Jake said, cutting him off. “Exits?”
Jake, still glued to his now-constantly sputtering radio, assigned a lobby cop to each exit as the concierge explained. The main entrance went to North Street, the back door down a narrow alley past Dunkin’ and a hair salon. The kitchen and side doors opened to the same alley, and all exit routes eventually led to North Street.
“But unless she went out the front,” the concierge said, “we’d know.”
“How?” Jake said.
“How?” Jane said.
The concierge glared at her, then spoke to Jake. “The back and side doors have special alarms. Not like the fire doors. I’d recognize them. Didn’t hear them.”
“Good,” Jake said. “Thanks. You got an office? Stay there. Got it? Your employees, too. Out of the lobby. Out of the way. You can tell your guests the threat is now over, sir. But please ask them to stay in their rooms for now.”
“Gracie didn’t go out the front,” Jane said as the concierge left. “I’d have seen that.”
She had to be here somewhere. Hidden in the hotel.
Gracie had dashed toward the elevators, away from the entrance, Jane remembered. A second later, Jane was corralled by Beefy and friend. Had Gracie gotten on the elevator? Had she gone upstairs?
Gracie. Robyn. Lewis. Shooter. Domestic.
Jane could picture, all too well, one chilling possibility of how those words all came together.
What if, when Robyn arrived, maybe demanding Gracie back, Lewis had sent the girl to the lobby so she wouldn’t be involved? But then, terrified by Jane, she’d called out for Daddy and run back to the safety of her stepfather. Who at that very moment was shooting her mother, who’d come here only to protect her daughter.
What if Lewis had lured Robyn to the hotel? Told her not to tell Jane? Would anyone actually do such a thing?
What if Gracie had seen her stepfather shoot her mother?
“Jake,” she said. She felt tears well with the rightness of her idea.
“Hang on, Jane,” he said. He clicked his radio. “D? What’s your status? You got ID on the victim? The shooter?”
“Victim alive, awaiting transport,” D’s voice came back. “Shooter in custody, cuffed, in the supply room. Headed there now.”
“Gracie? Do they have Gracie?” Jane couldn’t help it. If something didn’t happen soon she would start looking for the girl herself. She was the only one in the building—besides Lewis—who knew exactly what the child looked like. And Gracie wouldn’t be afraid of her because—well wait. Yeah, she would. So maybe Jane wasn’t the best person to search. Melissa and Daniel were on the way, though. Maybe if they called out to her?
“The girl?” Jake asked.
“Stand by one,” DeLuca said.
Jane fiddled with the shiny fake leaves of the palm tree, feeling helpless. Powerless. All her fancy equipment, camera and phone and Internet, all worthless. Was there anything she could do to help find Gracie?
“Jake.” Jane touched his arm. She had to interrupt. Of course there was something she could do. “The security guards.”
Jake frowned. “What about them?”
“They’re upstairs, they followed the cops. But listen, they’ve got monitors, security monitors. That’s how they saw me and—anyway.” Jane pointed at the metal door. “The hotel’s surveillance equipment is in there. Maybe we could rewind the video. We’d see Gracie, I bet, where she went, or who took her. I mean, if the guards saw me—”
“Jake!” DeLuca’s voice, tense, on the radio. “Get up here. Floor three. Now. We’re sending the elevator.”
“What?” Jane couldn’t stand it. “What is it?”
“I’ll tell you the instant I can. I’ve got to go.” He turned, headed across the lobby.
She grabbed his arm, stopping him. “I’m coming with you.”
He pivoted. Jabbed a finger at her. “Hell, no. Forget that. You’re staying here, Jane. You’re not coming upstairs. You go outside, you cannot come back. You move from that plant, you’re under arrest. Call me on my cell when you hear from anyone.”
“Jake!” She felt like crying, in frustration and fear and bone-chilling dread. She couldn’t let go of his arm, clutched it like it might give her strength, or knowledge, or reassurance. “Jake. You don’t think someone shot Gracie. Do you? Where is she?”
“They’re looking, Jane.”
“I know.”
“We’ll find her.”
“I know.” She hoped, with all her soul and being, he was right. She would never look at a news story the same way again. Let Gracie be okay.
Jane watched Jake’s back as he dashed across the lobby, watched the elevator doors open and close, taking him away.
She waited two seconds. Three.
Then she headed for the unmarked metal door.
* * *
The blaring alarm was the first thing Jake heard, a piercing insistent robovoiced repetition of instructions—the danger is over, please stay in your room until given the all clear—followed by earsplitting beeps and a rasping buzz. That’s what must have kept interrupting the incident team’s transmissions. Before the elevator even shut behind him, he ran past numbered doors, all closed as instructed, toward the open one at the end of the narrow corridor. A triangle of light played on the ugly gray hall carpeting, its apex pointing to whatever was inside.
“D, I’m here.” Jake keyed the radio as he ran.
“Room three fifty-four,” D’s voice came back. “Last door on the right. It’s open.”
By that time, Jake was there. He stood in the wedge of light, cataloging the scene. Framed photos of Boston statues hung on the walls. Sun pouring through one wide window slashed light and shadow on the furniture. Red-streaked sheets and a flowered spread lay tangled across the unmade oversize bed. Red-streaked once-white towels were piled on the once-gray wall-to-wall. Three toppled water glasses had landed on the floor. Water dripped from a quart-size bottle tipped precariously on the edge of a desk.
Classic struggle, textbook. Who won and who lost?
The loser was clearly on the metal gurney parked awkwardly in the only possible area of the room, a two-yard space between the bed and the mirror-covered wall. A crush of EMTs surrounded it, heads down. One protected the IV drip bag hanging from a thin metal pole, while another leaned close to the patient’s face, monitoring the transparent plastic oxygen bag attached to a bright green metal canister next to the motionless body. All the action, mirrored, reflected into twice the disaster.
Two uniformed cops, weapons holstered, stood sentry inside the hotel room door. DeLuca was not in the room. “DeLuca?” Jake keyed his radio again.
“Stand by,” D’s voice came back.
“Where’s D?” Jake asked. “Do we have identification on this victim?”
Taking two steps toward the stretcher, he recognized the graying ponytail of Deb Kratky. Yesterday the veteran EMT had handled the Curley Park victims. Now this. But she was blocking his view. He turned. Checked in the mirror. Still blocked.
Jake touched Deb on one pale-blue shoulder, needing her to move. “Kratky. You make a better door. I gotta get ID.”
“We’re stabilizing now, Jake.” Kratky didn’t move, still bent over the victim. She turned her head, raised her eyes from her patient, flipped a palm up, then down. Fifty-fifty. She managed a tentative half smile. “One shot, upper right chest. Vitals getting there. We’ll transport ASAP, maybe two more minutes.”
“Lobby clear?” Another EMT asked him. “Mass General is expecting.”
“All clear,” Jake said. “Deb, I gotta get ID. And where’s DeLuca? Did he get it?”
“With the shooter, he says to tell you.” Kratky stepped away from her charge, gesturing Jake to take a look.
A thin white blanket covered the body. Jake didn’t need to approach any nearer to get his first bearings. White. Male.
Brown hair, curly, clean-shaven, forty-something, Jake cataloged. But he was hearing Jane’s voice saying the words.
Lewis Wilhoite.