Chapter twenty-seven

Sam backed Lee’s Mustang out of the short driveway and headed to Kure Beach in search of a phone. He parked near congested bungalows a few blocks inland of the beach, and he walked the remaining distance in as slouchy a stroll as he could manage to disguise his height. The late afternoon sun cast his shadow long on the pavement before him, and he slouched further until his back ached. As casually as he could, Sam stood in line for his turn at a phone booth. When the kid wearing baggy shorts in front of him finished his call, Sam took his place at the exposed booth, dialed Eddie Sherman’s number, and held his breath.

“Sherman here.”

“Eddie, this is Sam. Did you find anything in the computer from the hotel file?”

“Where have you been? I heard you were suspended! I’ve been looking for you for two days now.”

“I really can’t go into it right now, Eddie, but if you have something on this, I could use your help.”

“Well, yeah. I guess you could. I did find out something that seemed out of sync. There were calls from one particular hotel room to two local numbers that turned up repeatedly on the hotel’s automated operator system exactly two months apart. Same room, same numbers. See, all the numbers are stored on the computer’s hard drive for billing purposes, and they are kept on file on the server for a period of two months after guests leave in case someone tries to skip out of the hotel without paying. Then collection agencies are enlisted and they challenge the people on the receiving end of calls made to try to find the whereabouts of the person who skipped.”

“A tracing mechanism?”

“That’s right. It’s something a lot of hotels still use, though most won’t accept calls this way. They want guests to pay on their own dime, their own calling card.”

Sam was puzzled. “So someone has a favorite pizza joint and wanted it delivered when here on business. Or a girlfriend. What’s so unusual about that?”

“Well, they weren’t calls to a pizza joint. And it wasn’t just one call to order a pizza. It was a bunch of calls made on consecutive days—sometimes five calls a day—over the course of a weeklong visit. There weren’t any other calls recorded from this room, either,” explained Paul.

“Who were the calls to?”

“Do you know the Blue Moon Gallery?”

“Yes, so it must be a buyer or an artist calling?” Sam didn’t wait to hear a response. “Where was the other place?”

“Johnson’s Fish Company down in Southport,” reported Paul. “Seems like an odd combination, art and fish.”

“Sounds more like fishy art,” muttered Sam.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Eddie. When were the calls made?”

“As I said, two months apart. The last batch of calls was made just last week.”

“Last week? You mean like Monday?” Sam was shaking.

“No, the night before your partner got it,” Eddie whispered. “I am sorry to bring that up.”

“Thanks, Eddie.” Sam realized he was standing tall at the phone booth and slouched again. “Did you figure out who the room was registered to on those occasions?”

“The room was paid for with cash, and I already checked out the name of the guy the desk clerk was given. It was a phony. Sorry; that’s a dead-end.”

“Thanks. You’ve helped me tremendously. Would you do me one more favor? Please don’t mention this to anyone else.”

“I started the report, but I haven’t turned it in yet. I’ll hold on to it for a few days, if that’ll help.”

“Yeah, it’ll help. Thanks. I owe you a beer.”

“No sweat, man. And I like Budweiser just fine,” Eddie replied.