Fifteen

W ith every step, my energy surged.

My plan had become more focused by the time I jabbed the key card in my door. All those places Viv volunteered for—reading to the blind, teaching Sunday School, tutoring—they should be thrilled for a chance to help her.

And that nonprofit. I racked my brain to remember what Clementine had called it. SIN was the acronym. I searched until I found the notepad I’d written the information on. Strength in Numbers. It taught groups to fundraise and organize letter-writing campaigns.

That’s where I’d start. All those groups that Strength in Numbers had helped should be happy to return the favor, and those people probably had more disposable income than the blind or Sunday School kids did. It would be a modern-day It’s a Wonderful Life moment, like when all of Bedford Falls turned out to help George Bailey.

I got a little teary-eyed with the memory, and with the possibility of re-creating such a feel-good moment in real life.

While waiting for my computer to fire up, I saw a stunning sunset spreading sherbet hues across the sky. A bit of sky peeked through the clouds here and there. The rain had stopped, but the furniture on my balcony glistened with droplets. I grabbed a towel and my laptop and headed out there, thrilled to leave the hotel even if it was just three steps onto my balcony. I wiped off the filigree of the wrought-iron bistro table and one chair, opened my computer, and found the website for Strength in Numbers.

As I began to read, mist fell on my head, and I glanced across the balcony to the dry spot in the corner. I grabbed my chair to move out of the rain, which was picking up in intensity now. I tried to lift my chair twice before I remembered that everything was bolted down. Luckily I didn’t have a sudden urge to hurl a bistro table through my balcony door.

I reassembled myself back inside the suite, at the desk. I scrolled through the comments and testimonials on all the posts on the SIN website, listing names on my notepad of everyone who had complimented and thanked Viv for her help with their various causes. I put an asterisk by the names of people who’d commented how they couldn’t have reached their goals without Viv’s help.

One of the project summaries caught my eye when it mentioned the name Greg Pitt. A quick image flashed in my mind of the actor Brad Pitt’s less-famous, less-handsome, less-everything brother standing next to him.

I read that a little over three years ago, Greg Pitt, an attorney, had instigated a small-town neighborhood annexation fight. He wanted his neighborhood annexed into the town and finagled a vote on it, costing the town $15,000 that it couldn’t afford. Nobody else wanted the annexation because their taxes would have gone up and the quality of their services down. But Greg wanted to live within the town limits so he could run for mayor. A group of neighbors asked if SIN could help them organize their fight to stop Greg and his proposal. With Viv’s help, the annexation was ultimately voted down by a huge majority. Greg was made a laughingstock, and during his campaign for annexation he had pulled some stunts and made some claims that got him disbarred. The most egregious of his activities was a series of frivolous lawsuits against his neighbors, presumably to intimidate and shut them up.

According to a comment thread on the website, Greg had to move out of his neighborhood. The specifics were unclear, but I could certainly see how it would be beyond uncomfortable to run into the very people you’d sued, lied to, and tried to hoodwink whenever you met them at the mailboxes or out walking your dog.

Do unto others, like Mom used to say. Or what goes around comes around to bite you in the ass, like Grandma used to say.

The last comment in the thread read, “Always remember, for every group SIN and Viveka Lundquist help, there’s someone on the other side whose life is ruined. Like mine.” It was signed B. Pitt.

Brad Pitt?

My brain buzzed.

It wasn’t far-fetched to think the Brad Pitt I’d met here knew Viv. He was hanging around enough. He said he wasn’t here for the conference, and he certainly wasn’t here with an agility dog. But he’d never actually explained to me why he would be staying at a hotel near his home.

I reread the project summary, thinking about everything Brad Pitt had said over the last few days. I kept circling back to him telling me that his brother had moved in with him and was “cramping his style.”

Did Brad’s style have anything to do with holding young women for ransom?

The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that it was the only answer. The Brad Pitt staying here at the Pacific Portland Hotel—the charming man who kept flirting with me—was a kidnapper.

Otherwise, it was too coincidental. Again I read the pertinent parts of the Strength in Numbers website, taking screenshots of the pages, solidifying my theory with each click.

Brad Pitt was a kidnapper. He said right there in his online comment that Viv had ruined his life, which must be why he targeted Hanna.

I called Viv and cursed loudly when it went straight to voicemail. I left a message that sounded at least 27 percent more hysterical than I wanted. “Call me as soon as you get this.”

After about ninety seconds of holding my face in my hands, pressing my fingers into my forehead, I called the Portland Police. A desk sergeant answered. I asked for Detective Kelly, the one I’d spoken to earlier.

“Gone for the day. Can I help?”

“I really need to speak to him.”

“And still, he’s not here.”

“Can you page him?”

“What’s this about?”

The commanding tone of voice worked on me and I blurted, “I think Brad Pitt is a kidnapper!”

“And Tom Cruise is an axe murderer. I think I saw that one.”

“I’m serious.”

“What’s your name?”

“Charlemagne Russo.”

“Charlemagne?”

“Charlee. Two E’s. But—”

“Listen, Charlee with two E’s.” His voice was less commanding now, and more soothing. “I need you to go look at your TV or your computer or whatever it is you’re watching. Press pause. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

“I’m not watching TV and you’re wasting time. Didn’t you hear me say there’s a kidnapping?”

“Humor me. When you press pause—have you pressed it?—you’ll see everything stops. Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise and everyone else will stop moving and talking. That’s how you know it’s pretend.”

The hypnotic, dulcet tones of his voice made me reach for the TV remote until I realized the TV wasn’t even on. It became clear to me that this officer had recently been through some de-escalation training and was practicing his skills on me.

“No, no, no, no, no. I’m not crazy! This is not a movie.” My chest heaved and I tried to control my huffing and puffing since I was sure it would not move things in the direction I intended. I held the phone out to my right side and turned my head to the left. I took a huge breath and slowly released it.

“Let me start over.” I explained the situation to him as I’d explained to Detective Kelly earlier, but this time I used names. “And please don’t tell me there’s been no evidence of a crime.”

“But there’s not.”

“But isn’t it weird that someone with the same name as that guy in the comments is staying at the very hotel where Viv is having her conference?”

“I thought you said that comment was signed with just the initial B.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Hang on.”

I heard typing in the background. Finally. Someone was taking a police report. Unless he truly thought I was a nut and had decided to trace this call. Could they trace my cell phone? Here, to the hotel? I heard my heartbeat pulsing in my ears and glanced at the door, expecting a SWAT team to break it down. Exactly like a movie with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise.

I almost hung up, but then the officer spoke again. “There are 10,376 people in the United States with the last name Pitt.”

“But how many in Oregon? Or Portland? Or this hotel? With the first initial B?” My voice fetched up at the end and I knew I sounded crazed.

“Ma’am? Charlee with two E’s? I think your imagination is running away with you. Tell you what. Why don’t you take a nice hot bath and get a good night’s sleep. And in the morning, if you still think Brad Pitt has kidnapped someone, you come on in to the station and we’ll get someone to talk to you about it.”

“Look, mister. I am not crazy.” Although I was beginning to doubt it the teensiest bit. “My imagination has not taken over my brain. I know what I know and—”

“And I know that nothing you’ve said constitutes evidence of any kind of crime. Quit wasting our time. Brad Pitt. Sheesh.” The desk sergeant’s dulcet tone and de-escalation training had disappeared. He hung up.

I tossed my phone to the loveseat with a bit more fury than planned and stomped back and forth in front of it. A few minutes of cardio raised my heart rate but lowered my resolve.

Was the cop right? Was this all my imagination?

I jumped when I heard voices outside my door. I tiptoed over and put my eye to the peephole in time to see the backs of two men pass by.

When my heart stopped racing, I decided to go about things systematically and pulled out my yellow tablet. Plopping into the desk chair, I listed all the facts I absolutely knew.

Hanna missing.

Hanna’s voicemail. Was it really her? I didn’t even know what she sounded like.

Viv in debt. I tapped my pen, then added, I think.

Jack and saRAH lied about knowing Hanna at first.

saRAH in my room even though Do Not Disturb sign out.

Hanna disappears a lot.

Hanna dating Michael Watanabe.

Watanabe was—perhaps is—a drug dealer.

Roz somehow linked to Hanna’s rehab facility.

Chef mysteriously fired.

Garth is Hanna’s father. I tapped my pen. But does he know?

Photo of me and Garth on Hanna’s Symwyf page. Why?

Garth wasn’t traveling the world.

Brad Pitt staying in this hotel.

Greg Pitt lost everything due to Viv helping those fighting against him.

B. Pitt’s comment that Viv ruined this life.

Then I got stuck. Seriously? That was all I knew?

I drew an angry line bisecting the page. As I read each fact, I wrote a new list underneath it.

Hanna—disappeared herself.

Viv—faked the kidnapping with or without Hanna’s help. To raise money?

Jack—angry with Hanna meddling in his love life

saRAH—ditto.

Michael Watanabe—got Hanna hooked again? Faked her kidnapping? Drug deal gone bad?

Roz—involved in drug deal and rehab?

Chef—??

Brad Pitt—same as B. Pitt? Grudge against Viv?

Greg Pitt—Grudge against Viv?

Garth—found out Viv lied to him all these years about Hanna?

This new list didn’t clarify anything for me. In fact, it made everything fuzzier. But one thing was still as crystal clear as the fish tank in my dentist’s swanky office.

I called Viv again. Voicemail. I wanted to call Ozzi and Lance, but I knew they’d both try to talk me out of what I knew I had to do.

I stepped out of the elevator in the lobby and searched the area. The bar was crowded and the dogs and handlers were either performing their tricks or standing around in clumps chatting or sniffing butts. I made a circuit of the lobby, ending on the side near the conference rooms. I didn’t see who I was looking for.

I peeked into the ballroom, which had been created by the opening of accordion doors in the Willamette, Columbia, Mount Hood, and Multnomah Rooms. The opening night banquet was well underway. Round tables seating eight were piled high with mostly empty do-it-yourself bowls that once held toppings of bacon, shredded cheddar cheese, chili, chives, and sour cream. The majority of plates were scraped clean of their loaded baked potatoes. Seemed everyone had been pleased with Jerry’s culinary offering.

The writers stared raptly at Garth, who was giving his banquet speech in a dressier kaftan than he’d worn earlier. It was midnight blue, imprinted with grinning gold suns and half-moons wearing spectacles, but this kaftan was knee-length. The angled side seams pointed toward his bare feet like two arrows.

I walked the perimeter of the room but still didn’t see any sign of Brad Pitt. He wasn’t in the lobby or the bar area, nor was he in the banquet room.

Garth rearranged the pointy arrow sleeves of his kaftan before leaning into the microphone. “Let me leave you with an original sonnet and interpretive dance I’ve written to mark this occasion—”

I was curious but feared I’d carry eternal scars from witnessing such a performance. I hurried for the exit and ran smack into Clementine.

“Did you finish those shirts yet?” she whispered loudly.

“Not yet.” I tried to step around her but she planted one lime green stiletto in purple-striped stockings in front of me.

“You promised. We need them.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go right back upstairs and finish.”

“You better.”

I hurried away and hoped she wasn’t watching as I veered to the front desk.

The name tag of the man working was crooked and I tilted my head to read it. “Good evening, Paul.” I smiled what I hoped was a friendly looking smile and not something that screamed UP TO NO GOOD. “I’ve forgotten the room number of my friend, Brad Pitt. Can you please refresh my memory?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t give out guests’ room numbers. But let me connect you to his room with the house phone.” Paul clattered on his keyboard for a moment, then looked up and said, “We don’t have anyone here by that name. You said it was Brad … Pitt?”

“Yes.” I showed him my teeth again. “Are you sure?”

He checked again, then looked up, apologetic. “I’m sorry. No Brad Pitt here. No Pitts of any kind, in fact.”

This time I grinned wide and meant it. “Thanks so much!”

Brad had checked out of the hotel. Either he’d never been involved in the kidnapping or, if he had been, he’d already collected the ransom Viv cobbled together and disappeared with it. I didn’t know how she’d raised the money, but however she did it, that was a bridge I could help her cross later. I only knew that Hanna was safe and that I didn’t have to go upstairs and call all those people George Bailey–style tonight. I could actually do that ironing I promised Clementine.

I stepped away from the front desk and tried Viv’s number again. Still no answer. A knot of unease formed, but just as quickly dissipated. Viv was probably reuniting with Hanna and didn’t want to be disturbed.

The crowd surged out of the ballroom and into the lobby, signaling the end of Garth’s banquet speech. I hoped everyone would recover from his interpretive dance. Please, dear God, for the love of all that is holy, let him have been wearing undies. Protect those fine, unsuspecting writers.

Clementine saw me standing there and gave me the stink-eye again, so I raced for the elevator to beat the hordes of people wanting to go to their rooms.

I made it to the eighth floor on the first elevator and felt lighter than I’d felt since leaving Colorado. Light enough that even wrestling the ironing board from where it had collapsed between the bed and the wall couldn’t even make me cranky.