Sixteen

A smart woman would have remembered the rude awakening
of the night before last, when the ironing board took a nosedive in the wee hours. Unfortunately, a smart woman was not staying in my room. I rubbed my elbow where I’d banged it during yet another frantic flight from the Ironing Board Monster.

I checked my phone for any calls or texts that had come in last night while I was sleeping. None. I turned the ringer back on.

That knot of unease returned.

I’d been sure that with Brad Pitt checking out, Hanna’s kidnapping, or whatever it was, was over. But still not getting any calls or texts from Viv made me waver. Perhaps Brad Pitt wasn’t involved after all? Perhaps I’d jumped the gun?

The Do Not Disturb sign remained on the outside of my suite door, and I contemplated removing it since it hadn’t previously prevented saRAH from coming in to clean. But when I left, my hands were full of T-shirts and in-room coffee, so I decided to leave the sign swinging on the door handle for all to see. Besides, I had plenty of towels and tiny soaps and shampoos, and I figured the maids had enough to do with all the canine guests.

Juggling the T-shirts piled in the crook of one arm, I was halfway to the elevator when I heard a noise in the hallway behind me. Worried I’d been shedding a trail of shirts, I turned to check. No path of shirts, but I saw a figure duck down behind a maid’s cart near my room. The noise I heard hadn’t seemed to be the rumble of the cart, but it must have been. I continued toward the elevator.

I pushed the button with my elbow, trying three times before lighting it up. In the process, I lost my tenuous hold on the wobbly pile of T-shirts and they fell into a dismal heap on the floor, blocking one of the doors to the elevator. I knelt and scooped to collect them, raising my head toward movement down the hall, ready to apologize for the mess. Instead, I saw a floral print headwrap duck into my room. saRAH!

Again going to clean my room despite the Do Not Disturb sign?

I kicked the T-shirts up against the wall and away from the elevator, then tiptoed back down the hall. My Do Not Disturb swung provocatively exactly where I’d left it, visible to everyone walking by. The cleaning cart was three rooms down and my door was shut tight.

I slid my key out of my back pocket and in one deft movement was in my room with the door closed behind me. I stood frozen in the alcove, assessing the situation. A bit too late I realized I could be in danger. That’s what happens when my curiosity leaps ahead of common sense.

saRAH was in the bedroom, and apparently hadn’t heard me because I heard her unzipping my suitcase. I looked around for a weapon, but the only thing I saw was the telephone on the desk. I tiptoed over and unplugged the handset from the cord. How I longed for my parents’ ancient rotary phone. That thing had some heft to it. When you angrily hung up our kitchen phone, the recipient of your ire felt it in their kidneys. This flimsy piece of plastic in my hand might squish a spider, but only if you were lucky and it was mostly dead already.

It was too late to seek out a new weapon, though, because suddenly saRAH came out of the bedroom. I raised the phone like a shield. She took a step back and gasped. I suspected it was because she saw me, not the toy phone.

“Why are you in here?” I waved the phone at her.

“I’m cleaning.”

“Then why is your cart not outside?”

“I’m trying to get my steps in.”

I checked her wrist. “No Fitbit.”

“I use an app on my phone.”

“Okay, then why don’t you have any cleaning supplies with you or an armful of wet towels or anything?”

“Because I brought in new shampoos and soaps for you.”

“Were you putting them in my suitcase?”

Our staring contest lasted either thirty seconds or fourteen years. Couldn’t be sure. But she blinked.

“Fine. I’m not here to clean your room.”

I waited for further explanation. And waited. “So what exactly are you doing in here?”

saRAH glided to the loveseat and folded her graceful legs under her. “Hanna has disappeared.”

“But I thought she—”

“And I’m sure it has something to do with the drugs that you and Michael Watanabe are dealing.”

I knew what every single one of those words meant, but strung together like that, the meaning stumped me. “Me? Drugs? Dealing?”

She stared through me until I almost believed that I was in the wrong here.

“I’m not dealing drugs!”

“Then what was in that bag he delivered to you on Thursday?”

“Food. From his restaurant.”

“Twice in one day?”

She was tracking my calories? Not cool. I didn’t want to admit that I’d had an ulterior reason for wanting to talk to Watanabe. Instead, I patted my belly. “It’s so good! I might already be addicted to—oh! You heard me say he got me hooked!”

saRAH nodded. “I was picking up the linens from the restaurant.”

“Well, he did get me hooked. On yakisoba.”

“Then why didn’t you eat it?”

“How do you know I didn’t eat it?”

“There was no trash in your room afterward.”

“The front desk told me I couldn’t bring outside food into the hotel, so to bribe them, I gave it all to them.”

“After you took the drugs out.”

“No!”

She raised her smug eyebrows.

“That was a trick question,” I said. I realized I still held the phone in the air, so I slowly, perhaps even threateningly, lowered it to my side. “Let me ask you a question, and it’s not even a trick. Even if I did buy drugs along with my yakisoba, what in the world does that have to do with Hanna?” If saRAH was wrong about me dealing drugs, she was probably also wrong about Hanna still being gone.

saRAH thought for a moment, all the while keeping her gaze on my face. “Hanna’s been clean for eight months. You and Watanabe show up here at the same time she goes missing. He claims he’s delivering food for minimum wage and out of the business. You claim to be a friend of Hanna’s mom.”

“I am a friend of Hanna’s mom. But why would that be suspicious in any way?” This conversation seemed to have as much, if not more, to do with Michael Watanabe as it did with Hanna. Was all of this a jealous ruse to keep me away from Watanabe? Did saRAH think we had something going on? Well, two could play this game. “I saw you with Michael Watanabe by the pool. Does Jack know you’re stepping out on him?”

“I’m not!”

“Then what were you doing with him, all hidden out there?”

She burned me with her laser-like stare before answering. “I was asking him about Hanna.”

“What a coincidence. I asked him that, too. But I didn’t have to skulk around to do it.”

“Coincidences are never just coincidences,” she said.

“Yes they are,” I said.

A million examples raced through my mind. Identical twins, separated at birth, who go on to lead essentially the same lives. Norman Mailer, who wrote a novel about a Russian spy only to find out later that a real-life one lived upstairs from him. Mark Twain’s dates of birth and death, marked by the appearance of Haley’s Comet seventy-four years apart. Three of us on a panel at a writers’ conference having the same birthday. Running into my neighbor last year in Santa Fe while at my mom’s house for Christmas.

Or coming to Portland the same day that my friend’s daughter was kidnapped.

“Coincidences are always coincidences,” I said firmly. “And why are you all of a sudden so concerned about Hanna?”

“We’re friends,” she finally said.

I was unconvinced.

She kept staring at me.

“Did you find drugs in my room?”

She quirked her mouth as if the word was painful to say. “No.”

“So, by your logic, Watanabe and I are dealing drugs, but you didn’t find them. If there are no drugs, I would have had to sell them in, what, thirty-six hours?”

“That’s how it’s done.”

“So maybe you’re looking for wads of cash?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find any?”

“No. But you interrupted me.”

“By all means, continue your search. I’ll even help.” I waved a magnanimous arm, offering her the living area. I moved to the coffee table, right in front of her, and unscrewed the mouth and ear pieces of the phone’s handset. I held it out for her inspection. “No drugs. No cash.” She didn’t move. “Go ahead. I’m waiting.” I stepped toward the bedroom. “Did you finish in my suitcase? Although you must not think too highly of my drug dealer skills if you assume I’d toss everything in there on top of my undies.”

We had another staring contest. I lost.

“I didn’t buy drugs from Watanabe,” I said flatly. “And I can’t prove a negative. Ask him.” I screwed the phone back together.

“I did.”

I didn’t look at her. “What did he say?”

“That you ordered Japanese food.”

“See? Another coincidence. Now get out of here before I tell your boss.”

I ushered saRAH out of my room and watched her leave the hallway, ignoring the cleaning cart. A uniformed maid stepped out of the room two doors down and gave me a cheery greeting as she grabbed two drinking glasses and a roll of toilet paper. I sighed and tossed the Do Not Disturb sign on the floor inside my suite before heading back to the elevator and my discarded T-shirts.

I saw Jack at the far end of the hall, wheeling a large suitcase for a man carrying a Boston terrier. Jack was performing his concierge routine, just like he’d done for me when I checked in. He set the guest’s suitcase down, stepped forward to unlock the door, gave a gentlemanly sweep of his arm to usher the guest in first, and picked up the suitcase to follow. Odd, then, to see him pocket the room key instead of handing it over to the guest, as he’d made a show of doing with me.

It wasn’t my room, or my key, but it made me uneasy all the same. First, saRAH’s odd beliefs and overwhelming need to search my room, and now Jack acting odd while doing his job. I fought the impulse to crawl into bed and tremble under the covers.

As I passed the open door of the suite, Jack bent down to pet the Boston terrier and didn’t see me. I was glad, because I probably would have blurted something about saRAH, and I hadn’t quite processed everything yet.

saRAH said that Hanna was still missing. Surely she would have heard if her friend was found. Wouldn’t she? And now Viv being AWOL—on the very day the kidnapper had threatened to start whacking attendees?

Perhaps Viv and Hanna were debriefing, or celebrating now that the crisis—whatever it was—was over. But surely she’d call to let me know? Wouldn’t she? Viv knew I was worried.

I was glad the pile of T-shirts remained heaped on the floor near the elevator where I’d kicked them. I didn’t need an extra dose of Clementine’s wrath if I had to tell her the shirts had disappeared. I loaded them into my arms.

Nothing made much sense. Not only were my old questions not answered but it seemed I collected new ones like T-shirts. By the armful.

I pushed the elevator button, not sure if I wanted Jack to finish his business with the guest and join me or not. I couldn’t form an opinion as to whether Jack was behaving mysteriously or normally. Moot point. The elevator door opened. I rode down alone.

When it deposited me in the lobby, I turned toward the restaurant, but a single bark drew my attention. Scout and Scott held court with a handful of people. I recognized some of the writers from yesterday. He was explaining something to them while Scout performed her repertoire of tricks. After each one, he gave her some of the lobby trail mix I’d been snacking on the last few days.

Jack’s look of disgust as I’d crunched it that day—and every day since—made more sense now. I placed a hand protectively on my belly. I didn’t think anyone had ever died from eating doggie kibble. It was probably healthier for me than most snacks I ate.

I continued on to get some breakfast but had to step aside for a large crowd emerging from a different elevator. As they passed, I yelped and stumbled, gawking as I watched Brad Pitt trailing behind them. He veered toward Scott and Scout when they greeted him.

Dropping my armload of T-shirts on a nearby table, I hurried over.

“Charlee, good morning,” Brad Pitt said.

“I thought you—”

“Shh. You’re just in time to see Scout’s new trick.”

Scott pulled a six-foot-tall rolling luggage rack close to our small group. It matched the one in the alcove of my room upstairs: shiny gold rails curved over the top, a carpeted base, and many convenient hooks.

Scout quivered with anticipation.

Scott snapped his fingers and the dog hopped onto the cart. I maneuvered for a better view. Scott waved at Scout and she waved one paw back at him, eliciting laughs from the crowd. Then he said, “Sing, Scout.”

And she did. A gloriously goofy cross between howling and bugling.

The watching crowd laughed and cheered, as did people all across the lobby.

But three hotel employees race-walked over, clearly not as charmed by Scout’s performance as we were. One was the bow-tied manager.

“Quiet,” one of them scolded.

“That’s enough,” said another.

The manager adjusted his bow tie, turned to Scott, and spoke sternly. “While the Pacific Portland Hotel loves all God’s creatures, we cannot tolerate this type of disruption. All my employees have orders to report any noise infraction. We’ve been more than generous to our four-legged guests, but we must draw the line somewhere.” He reached a conciliatory hand to pat Scout on the head, but she ducked him.

Good for you, Scout. Just because he wears a spiffy bow tie doesn’t make him any less of a meany.

“You’re absolutely right,” Scott said. “I’m so sorry.” To the crowd he said, “We didn’t mean to disturb anyone. Forgive us.”

Someone nearby said loudly, “Sing, Scout!”

And she did. Still loud, still funny.

I looked around to see who’d pranked the manager and saw Brad Pitt laughing behind his hand.

Scott attached Scout’s leash to her collar and commanded, “Quiet,” but you could see his attempt at keeping a straight face wasn’t completely working. “On that note”—he paused to let the pun sink in—“we’ll be off to the morning competition. Wish Scout luck today!”

He led her through the lobby, where everyone wanted to stop and pet her. Most everyone. A couple of handlers stood off to the side with their dogs, conspicuously withholding their love. Jealousy is an ugly creature, whether in man or beast.

The crowd dispersed, leaving me with Brad Pitt. He offered me the bowl of kibble. “Hungry?”

“I can’t believe you let me eat that.”

“You seemed to enjoy it. Who am I to judge?”

I took the bowl from him and walked across to a nearby table to set it down. It gave me the few moments I needed to decide to re-launch my plan. I had to ask him if he was the B. Pitt who wrote that comment on the Strength in Numbers website, and, if so, in what way did Viveka Lundquist ruin his life.

“They told me at the desk you checked out,” I said.

He waggled his eyebrows at me. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes.” Seeing his grin, I quickly added, “No. Not like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“I’m sure it’s not like that.” I felt my face burn.

“Charlee, I’m sorry. I was just teasing.”

I took a breath. He looked fairly adorable standing there like a scolded puppy. My conviction last night that he was somehow tied to Hanna’s disappearance seemed so ridiculous this morning. My original assessment that he was a completely harmless flirt made much more sense.

“I’d love to spend the day with you, lovely Charlemagne, but I have things to do.” Brad Pitt performed an exaggerated Shakespearean bow. “Love, peace, and bacon grease.”

I wrinkled my brow. “Oh, like your brother always says.”

I stopped myself from asking what his name really was. I wanted desperately to know, but if he said Greg, I might lose my mind. I needed to form a plan before losing my mind. And if I needed a plan, I needed some time. I couldn’t just blurt things. AmyJo would be so proud of me.

“Hey, you want to have breakfast?” I asked.

“I just told you I had things to do.” Brad Pitt gave a melodramatic pout. “You never listen to me.”

“How about lunch?”

“I won’t be back for a while. I have some business to attend to. Might be done around two. Late lunch?”

“Sure. I’ll … um … look for you.”

With a wave, he trotted to the revolving door.

I stared after him for a long time. He was using a false name, I felt certain. But he’d shown me his driver’s license! I kicked myself for not asking his brother’s name. I could have done it in a conversational manner. Did it matter to him if I knew things? Especially if things were clues? Were they clues? Was the charming guy act simply an act? Sociopaths were charming. Narrators could be unreliable. But Brad Pitt wasn’t acting unreliable.

Still. That comment on the website. Viv ruined B. Pitt’s life? Lost in thought, I chewed my lip until it hurt. He’d said he had important business to attend to this morning … right when the ransom was due. Was Brad Pitt the kidnapper after all? The enforcer? Some kind of hit man? Why else would he be hanging around the hotel under an assumed name? And if Brad Pitt was an assumed name, perhaps it had nothing to do with the B. Pitt on the website and the whole Greg Pitt annexation situation. Just a coincidence, right?

My litany of what-ifs had spun me up into such a state, it wasn’t surprising that I jumped like one of the agility dogs when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Clementine.

“Do you have those T-shirts?”

I pointed at the pile on the table, then raced for the door to the pool area. The sky was still overcast and drizzly, so I stuck to the covered portico near the building. I called Viv again to find out if Hanna was back. Still no answer. I fumbled through my caller history until I found the number for the Portland Police. I was glad that the desk sergeant from last night didn’t answer. I asked for Detective Kelly’s direct number, entered it into my contacts, and immediately called him.

“Detective Kelly here.”

“Remember when I called the other day about a kidnapping?”

“Sure. The crime with no proof.”

“Yes. I guess. But I think I have some now.”

“Remind me of your name again?”

“Charlemagne Russo.”

“Okay, Ms. Russo. Dazzle me.”

“Brad Pitt isn’t using his real name at the hotel.”

I heard his long exhale and realized I sounded like a complete nutjob.

“Wait. Let me start over.”

“Ms. Russo, I don’t know much about the Hollywood scene, but I do know that celebrities never use their real names at hotels. It’s how they keep on the down-low.”

“Somebody going by the name Brad Pitt is at this hotel, but not using his real name.”

I heard Detective Kelly sigh again.

I was just as frustrated. Which made me veer off topic and stamp my foot. “Why do parents name their kids after celebrities?” Way off topic, since Brad Pitt told me he was born before the actor was. Which probably wasn’t true anyway.

“Maybe their mom was a fan?”

“This Brad Pitt isn’t a celebrity.”

“Now, you may not like his work, but that doesn’t make him less of a celebrity. I really enjoyed those Jack Reacher movies.”

“That was Tom Cruise. But you’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“Brad Pitt isn’t using his real name at my hotel!”

After ten seconds of silence, Detective Kelly said, “Ms. Russo. Are you calling to report a crime?”

“Yes. I guess. Maybe.”

“Do you have any sort of evidence of a crime?”

I started to speak but he interrupted.

“That doesn’t involve Brad Pitt?”

I went through a mental checklist of all the strange behavior over the last few days. “No.”

“Then you have a good day now.” Click.

I stared at my “call ended” screen. Really? Nobody was the least bit curious that there might be a kidnapping happening right under their noses? Wasn’t that their job? It certainly wasn’t mine. In fact, none of this was, and yet….

A rustling of bushes made me glance over in time to see saRAH and Michael Watanabe walking past the hot tub, away from me. What was going on with them? She had to be two-timing Jack. I considered a second possibility. What if saRAH was dealing drugs with Watanabe and participated in getting Hanna hooked again? If her suspicion that I was working with him was just a cover story, what was she really doing in my room?

I gasped.

I raced through the lobby and stabbed the elevator button continuously until the doors opened. Why, when you’re in a hurry, do elevator doors take an eternity to close? When they released me on the eighth floor, I flew down the hall to my room. Housekeeping had cleaned it already, but I tore it apart.

If saRAH had planted evidence, I was going to find it.

Searching every inch of the room and my belongings turned up nothing unexpected. Except eighty-nine cents in the couch cushions, a pair of sunglasses in the room safe, and a pizza flyer wedged way behind the extra pillows on a shelf in the closet.

No drugs, no wads of cash, no fake ransom note in my handwriting. I had to believe there was no evidence planted in my room. Because the alternative was impossible.

Back downstairs, I made my way toward the Clackamas Room. At least I could check in to see if there were any last conference-related emergencies.

Volunteers manned the registration desk checking in last-minute Saturday morning attendees. Clementine stood ready to hand them their T-shirts. All seemed calm. Same in the workroom, assuming the locked door meant all was well. Hopefully the volunteers had finished their work and were off attending the workshops.

I stared at Clementine calmly distributing the T-shirts. If it was true she’d lit up a joint after she and Billy the PI were in the basement, was it possible she was involved in harder drugs? Was she working with Michael Watanabe to deal drugs? Did she get Hanna hooked again? Maybe Clementine had a vendetta of some kind against Viv. Wasn’t it Clementine who’d told me Viv made a lot of people mad? The surly hipster persona would be excellent cover if someone wanted to be inscrutable.

I thought harder about Clementine’s story about looking into my dad’s history to write some true crime article. Did that even make sense? Was that how writers researched for true crime? I racked my brain to conjure up someone I knew who wrote in that genre but came up empty. I couldn’t think who to ask.

In the old days, a couple of months ago, I would have asked my agent. But with Melinda dead and her husband taking over the literary agency, my options were nil there too. I’d gotten off on the wrong foot with her husband and didn’t have any confidence in his literary acumen. There was no way he would have developed contacts like that already, and he probably wouldn’t tell me if I asked.

Clementine saw me staring at her and cocked her head. If it was anyone else, I would have thought it was an unspoken way to ask if I needed something. Instead it looked more like a challenge. Keep staring and I will cut you into tiny pieces to put in my Hello Kitty purse, she was probably thinking.

I turned away, unnerved. Still hadn’t even made her smile yet. I was fairly certain I could make her cut me, but what would it take to make her smile?

There was still some time before I had to teach my workshop on dialogue, but I couldn’t get that feeling of a ticking clock out of my head. If there really had been a kidnapping, and if Viv didn’t get the ransom paid in the next couple of hours and the kidnappers weren’t bluffing about killing someone every hour starting at one o’clock, then one of these poor writers was going to get killed.

And all I could do was teach them how to write compelling dialogue.

I meandered in the vague direction of the room where my workshop was to be held. Halfway there I stopped short, the pit of my stomach dropping. I hadn’t called any of those people from Viv’s SIN website! Last night, when I’d assumed everything was over and done with, I’d abandoned my entire ransom fundraising plan. And now, the day the ransom was due, I wasn’t even sure Viv had raised it, and was equally uncertain about Hanna’s situation. Viv would have told me by now if they’d been reunited. And she would be here to micromanage what was left of the conference.

The lobby held one more chance to determine if Brad Pitt was somehow involved in all this. I had a rudimentary plan that began with calmly asking him to tell me more about his brother. Beyond that, it was a bit fuzzier. Even though I’d seen Brad leave earlier, I searched his usual places and didn’t find him. He must not have been lying about having business to attend to. As I stood in the bar area contemplating my next move, I saw Bernice, the front desk clerk on duty, pull down the cuffs of her blue blazer and leave her post. The minute she did, Jack jumped up from his desk and hurried toward the meeting rooms.

The way he kept glancing over his shoulder made it seem like he’d been waiting for her to disappear.

He ducked down the hallway.

I followed him. When I got to the start of the hallway, I peeked around the corner. Dammit. He’d disappeared. I didn’t think he would have had time to get all the way to the hidden door to the basement, but maybe he sprinted. Although with all these people milling about, wouldn’t that seem weird? Especially when it seemed he wanted to keep his activities on the down-low?

He must have gone to the basement, though, because everything else in these hallways was related to the conference. I edged around the corner, trying to be invisible so nobody would stop me to chat or ask questions about writing or books or the publishing industry. I kept close to the wall farthest from the meeting rooms, watching my feet, letting my hair fall loose across the right side of my face to hide me. Past the Columbia Room. Past Mount Hood.

“Miss Russo? Charlee?”

I pretended I didn’t hear the woman’s voice behind me as I neared the door of the Deschutes Room.

“Miss Russo? Can I ask you a quick question?”

Someone tapped me on the shoulder at the same time that Jack scurried out of the Clackamas Room and disappeared around the far corner. Now he carried a plastic grocery bag.

I turned. “I’m so sorry, I can’t talk right now. Come to my dialogue workshop and we can chat for a bit then.”

The woman fumbled with unfolding her schedule, then grabbed me by the upper arm before I could follow Jack. “Is this it? Here? In the Tualatin Room? I wasn’t going to go to that one. I was planning on attending Garth’s poetry writing workshop.” She looked accusingly at me. “Your workshop is at the same time as Garth’s.”

I shook free of her grasp. Jack was getting away and I was being made second fiddle to Garth. As I hurried around the corner past the workroom, I called back to her, “I’ll be around. Find me later.”

Of course, Jack was nowhere in sight by now. I pretended to tie my shoe until a group of three conference attendees passed, then grabbed the handle of the hidden door. Tentatively opening it, I saw the short hallway was empty and slipped in, closing the door quietly behind me. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the low light while listening for Jack descending the stairs. Why was there no switch for the fluorescent lights?

I heard nothing but the hum of the behind-the-scenes workings of the hotel. Descending the stairs, I wondered what Jack had taken from the Clackamas Room. Was he a thief? Did he steal one of the volunteer’s purses or something? Was it a bag he’d stashed in there earlier? Were plastic bags even legal in ultra-environmentally conscious Portland? I didn’t think so.

Everything about Jack’s behavior was suspicious. Add this disappearance to what I’d seen with the duffle bag in the parking lot on Thursday and the way he’d pocketed that man’s room key this morning, and my spidey senses were tingling.

My knee buckled on the stairs. I wobbled but grabbed the railing before I fell. Was Jack’s plastic bag full of ransom money? That would explain his hurry and the worried look on his face as he left his desk. I knew I was almost to the bottom of the stairs because the hallway darkened. Ahead of me lurked Jack and perhaps the solution to this kidnapping. Perhaps even the kidnapper. I clutched the railing.

Behind me was safety.

Before me, a kidnapper.

Kidnapper. Safety. Kidnapper. Safety.

Whenever I watched one of those awful women-in-danger TV movies I invariably yelled at the screen, “Don’t be dumb! Why would you go in there? Run! Call for help!” And now here I was, being dumb.

I pressed my hip against the railing for balance and fished out my phone. I opened up my contact list, but there was nobody I could call. They’d all tell me the same thing: “Get out of there.”

Detective Kelly wouldn’t do anything, especially if he knew it was me. But what if I called 911? I could make an anonymous call and tell them something so they’d come down this stairway. I pushed the three numbers and my phone lit up. A bright red FAILED TO CONNECT filled my screen.

I checked for service and had none today either. Clearly it was a sign for me to get out of there, and I almost made the move back upstairs. Until I heard voices ahead of me. Was it Jack? Who was he talking to?

Suddenly I felt a blush creep up from my toes. Jack was down here to meet saRAH. He’d grabbed some munchies from the workroom and hurried away for a quick tryst. He had to sneak because it wasn’t his break time. I pivoted and had my foot on the step when I heard another voice. A man’s voice. Deep. Definitely not saRAH’s. I pivoted again. They kept talking, so I tiptoed down the steps, thinking I’d stop when I got close enough to hear their conversation. Their murmur was low. I couldn’t make out any words.

The stairs ended and I continued down the dim hallway toward the indistinguishable voices. I followed the maze with an ear toward the murmur. Even though I couldn’t hear what he was saying, I felt certain that one of the voices belonged to Jack. I continued toward it, formulating a lie if he caught me.

As I passed the storage rooms deep in the bowels of the hotel, the sounds from the voices echoed and bounced above my head. I passed the small room I’d ducked into on my first visit. I glanced inside at the boxes. The skillet I’d thrown at Billy was still on the ground. I picked it up.

I came to a room with the door closed, while all the other doors were wide open. I stopped and had a quick conversation with my gut. It told me Hanna could be hidden in this room. My head told me to run far and fast, to get back upstairs to civilization.

Without permission from my brain, my hand slowly reached for the doorknob. Grabbed. Pushed forward. I listened. Nothing. I stuck my head in. Just a bunch of broken banquet tables and stained chairs. But what was behind the stack of tables? I gripped the skillet tighter.

“Hanna,” I whispered.

Nothing.

“Are you in here? I’m a friend of your mom’s.” I stood frozen, straining to hear the smallest movement.

She wasn’t there. I backed out of the room. Jack and the man were still conversing in low tones. I crept toward them. I came to a T intersection and peeked right. Empty.

I peeked left in time to see Jack give the bag to someone in an open doorway. He pulled the door shut and it clicked. He turned my way, and his mouth became thinner and straighter than the blade of a knife. In three strides he was in my face. I didn’t even have time to raise the skillet. He stood so close my skin buzzed.

“Charlee.” He spoke quietly. “What are you doing down here?”

This time my story bubbled up, unbidden and so speedy I wondered if it was actually true. “I thought I might want to set a scene in my next novel in a place like this. When you brought me down here before, I—”

“What are you doing with that?” He gestured at the pan in my hand.

“Um. Nothing. Just found it by one of the rooms.”

He took it from me. “You shouldn’t be here.” He grabbed my arm and spun me back the way I’d come. “It’s not safe.”

When I wavered as to which direction to go, he stepped in front of me to lead the way. I had trouble keeping up with him.

“Why isn’t it safe?”

He didn’t answer right away and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. But then he said, “Homeless people sometimes find their way in here and camp out in the dark corners.” We reached the room with the kitchen storage. He stepped in and placed the skillet on top of one of the boxes, then glanced around the room, studying it like he was taking inventory.

Suddenly he whirled to face me. I could smell the detergent he used to wash his clothes. “People can be violent if they’re spooked or cornered.”

It sounded more like a threat than a warning. And the rough way he propelled me through the rest of the maze and up the stairs didn’t seem like concern for my safety. In fact, he shoved me around a corner, where I ran smack-dab into saRAH coming down the stairs.

Even in the dim light I could tell she was flustered. She didn’t look excited to see her boyfriend, like I would expect. Of course, she probably also didn’t expect her boyfriend to be with me in the dark basement.

“What are you doing down here?” Jack asked.

“I was … looking for you.”

I’d heard many lies in my day, and told my share too, so I felt confident this was hogwash. And I’d had enough.

“Were you coming down here to meet Watanabe?” I asked. When saRAH didn’t respond, I turned back to Jack. “I think they’ve got a little hanky-panky going on.” Deflecting from any mention of drug dealing seemed prudent in this unnerving passageway.

“How dare you!” saRAH said.

Jack pushed ahead of me on the stairs. “What’s she talking about?” he asked saRAH.

“I don’t know, Jack.”

“You don’t know? Really?” I elbowed Jack to the side so I could stand on the same step to confront her. “You don’t know why you’ve been huddled with Michael Watanabe down by the pool area?” I sighed. “Just yank that boyfriend Band-aid off. If Jack’s not the right guy for you, then call it quits. Better for both of you.”

saRAH took Jack’s hand. “Jack, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Have you been meeting him in secret?” Jack’s voice was low and quiet.

I was surprised when she immediately admitted she had been. The implication dawned on me. “You ARE dealing drugs with him! Did you get Hanna using again?”

“What? What’s she saying, saRAH?”

saRAH glared at me. “Why don’t you shut up?”

“Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” I wished I still had the skillet. It was wobbly, but it was something. Plus it had worked with Billy the PI, although he was a bit of a sissy. saRAH was no sissy.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Michael and I have been trying to find Hanna.”

Jack started to speak but she cut him off.

“You and I both know one of us should have heard from her by now. Michael has been checking his contacts and I’ve been checking with everyone I know.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jack asked.

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Even in the bad lighting, I knew she was crying by the way her voice hitched. Jack moved up the stairs to hug her.

I took the opportunity to flee upstairs, mind whirring. Was saRAH that good of an actress? Was she telling the truth? Jack sure seemed to believe her. Had she been on the way downstairs to meet someone? Watanabe?

Reversing my steps, I returned to where they still embraced on the stairs. “saRAH, who were you meeting down here?”

She didn’t lift her face from Jack’s shoulder so her words were muffled. It sounded like she said, “Trombone Bill.” I didn’t pursue it because the look Jack shot me felt like it left a mark.

I made my way up the stairs and opened the camouflaged door into the hallway near the Clackamas Room.

“There you are!” Lily squealed when she saw me. “You’re late for your dialogue workshop! Hurry!”

All through my presentation about dialogue, my mind wandered to Jack and saRAH, to Clementine and Watanabe, to Brad and Greg Pitt. My workshop notes were not only useful but absolutely necessary. During the question-and-answer time at the end, I had to ask them to repeat every single question. My brain refused to focus. Who was that man with Jack in the basement? What was in that bag Jack carried? Was saRAH telling the truth about Watanabe? Who was Trombone Bill? A real person or the kidnapper’s code name?

By the time the workshop ended, I’d convinced myself that the man Jack met, and who saRAH was on her way to meet, must have been Brad Pitt.

As soon as I’d answered last-minute questions from the attendees, I claimed starvation and ditched the hallway for the restaurant, ignoring the fact that the conference lunch was in the opposite direction. Halfway across the lobby, I spied Brad talking to one of the dog handlers and hurried over. I checked the time: 11:35. Brad wasn’t supposed to be back until 2:00.

“Hi, Charlee,” he said. “Have you met Mr. Sparkles?”

I looked from the terrier to the handler, not sure which one he meant. But I recognized them as the hotel guests from my hallway this morning.

“Mr. Sparkles is my dog,” the handler said. “I’m Carl. And Brad here was trying to put a positive spin on the fact that we’re already out of the agility contest.” He nuzzled the terrier in his arms and spoke in baby talk that insulted every baby, every canine, every dog-lover, and most cats. “Poor widdle Sparky-poo snapped at the judge during the walk-through before our competition even began.”

Brad Pitt turned to me. “I offered to buy them both a drink, but they refused.”

“Enough liquor to drown my sorrows would cost you a pretty penny, my fine sir.”

“No worries. I foresee a windfall in my future. Besides, I’d like the company.”

Brad Pitt was coming into some money? Like a plastic bag full of cash? But if he did have it, where was it? And if he didn’t have the money, then—ohmygosh. He wasn’t Trombone Bill. He was the muscle. The hit man. The one getting his hands dirty.

But he looked nothing like a hit man. Not that I knew any, except fictional ones. But still. He wasn’t a muscle-bound goon. All that charm would be wasted as a hit man.

If Brad was the kidnapper, he needed the ransom paid soon or he’d make the call to start having people whacked. If he was the kidnapper’s hit man, the one doing the whacking, he’d have to receive that call. And if I was completely wrong and he was neither, then I had nothing to worry about. I swallowed hard. Was the business he had to attend to—which supposedly would keep him away until 2:00—delivering the ransom Jack had given him in the basement? Was it over? Had the ransom been paid and Hanna freed? I checked my phone. Nothing from Viv. I had to know which scenario was real. I couldn’t wait much longer if the clock was still ticking.

“I’m afraid I’d be bad company, Brad, and Mr. Sparkles can’t be trusted to hold his liquor.” Carl nuzzled the dog again. “Isn’t that right, Sparky-poo? We came back with the other handlers on lunch break. We might have recovered enough to go back for the rest of the competition later this afternoon.” He booped noses with Mr. Sparkles.

The dog, clearly embarrassed by the fuss, growled at him. When that didn’t keep Carl out of his face, Mr. Sparkles turned and growled at me. He must have thought as an outsider I’d have special abilities to terminate such outrages.

I took a half-step closer to Brad Pitt. “I’ll have a drink with you.” Before he could respond, I turned toward Mr. Sparkles and said in a singsong voice, “You shouldn’t growl at me. Don’t you know who I am? I’m the famous mystery writer, Charlemagne Russo.” I figured if this went very, very badly, maybe Carl would remember my name and that he was the last person to see me alive. Just before I went to have a drink with Brad Pitt, kidnapper or hit man.

“You two enjoy yourselves. Mr. Sparkles and I will be revisiting his obedience training.” Carl lowered the terrier to the floor.

“We’ll be in the bar if you change your mind,” Brad Pitt called.

Carl gave a wave and Mr. Sparkles snarled at me as they walked toward the patio area.

Brad Pitt moved in the direction of the bar, but stopped when he realized I wasn’t with him. He circled back to where I stood. “Coming?” he asked.

“I have some nice wine in my minibar.”