The strip of highway near the Emerald Queen Casino boasted seven motels. Even the run-down flops with their antiquated neon signs had modernized the check-in process, requiring credit cards and photo ID. We drew nothing on Dana Essex’s name and another nothing on her photograph.
I wondered if she’d changed her appearance. If your natural look is nondescript, what do you change it to?
The sixth place we visited was especially run-down, and had the look of being stalled in mid-renovation. The neon letters on the roof spelled out U N K I N. A half-dozen canary-yellow Town Cars were parked near the front door. Police auction specials. It looked as if the owners were starting a taxi company, too, their ambition outrunning repairs.
The lobby was a tiny box stuffed with cab paraphernalia, meters, and roof lights. The clerk had spread a newspaper across the front desk and held a soldering iron in one hand. He looked up and smiled. “Welcome to the Sun King,” he said. “A single?”
I told him I was looking for a woman named Dana Essex. He consulted his ancient computer and said there was no one registered by that name, now, yesterday, ever.
I sidled up to the desk, held up my cell phone with her photo displayed. The shot from the Surrey Polytech faculty website. “She’s maybe not using her real name,” I said. “You insist on credit card?”
He shrugged. “Slow economy,” he said. “But I did not see her today. My son works the mornings. I can ask him.”
He picked up the phone, pressed a single digit, and had a quick back and forth with someone in Hindi. A moment later a drowsy younger man in a checked shirt entered from the front door.
“Sanjay,” he said. We shook hands.
I showed Sanjay the picture. He squinted and pawed sleep dust out of his eyes, looked again and nodded. “What’s this for?”
“She’s in danger,” I said. “She might’ve been using a different name.”
Moving behind his father Sanjay tapped the mouse and scrolled down. “Darby Robinson,” he said. “She booked a room early this morning. Paid up front in cash.”
“She still here?”
He shook his head.
“Any idea where she went?”
“I drove her,” Sanjay said. “Train station, other end of the city.” He checked his watch. “Eleven fifteen I dropped her, right before I went to sleep.”
“Did she have a train ticket? Did she talk about her destination?”
“Nothing like that. I had to wake my pops to cover the desk while I drove.” Gesturing to include the motel and cab service, he said, “We’re just starting out. Things are slow. Have to take business as it comes. You’re not police, are you?”
“Vancouver PD,” Sonia said. “It’s important that we find her. Do you remember if anyone visited with her, or maybe asked about her?”
Father and son conferred, both shaking their heads.
“Anything else weird about her stay here?” I asked.
Sanjay thought it over. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Anything helps.”
“It’s just, she gave me an address to drive to, originally. Then when we got there she changed her mind, told me the train station instead. That’s where I dropped her.”
“This first place was a residence?”
“Restaurant, I think. Close to the water. Not all that far from the train.”
“Any chance you can recall that address?”
Sanjay looked at the stacks of gear on the shelves opposite the desk. He picked up a GPS unit and fished a cable out of a margarine tub full of stray wires. Plugging the device into the wall, he tapped down, retrieving the last few addresses. His father had gone back to soldering.
“Here.” Sanjay held out the device. 416 Eldridge. I copied it down.
“If she comes back, let us know immediately,” Sonia said.
“We don’t like to get involved,” Sanjay’s father said. But his son nodded to us above the older man’s head.
We headed to the train station to show around her picture, to no result. The ticket agents had no record of a Dana Essex or Darby Robinson. The earliest train left at one, an hour after she was supposed to call us. It was past that now, almost three o’clock.
“Maybe she picked up something from that address,” I said.
“Or met someone there. Crowhurst, maybe.”
Sonia punched the address into her cell. A picture of a restaurant with a purple awning appeared on the screen.
“Could be she skipped out before meeting him,” I said. “Had second thoughts.”
“It’s worth checking out, at least.”
We called Farraday from the parking lot to let him know where we were headed. Before I could speak, he cut me off.
“I might have something here,” he said. I could hear dogs barking on his end.
“Where are you?”
The phone burped static. I repeated the question.
“Sammamish,” Farraday said. “Near Redmond. Just drove up to Crowhurst’s place, and it looks like there’s a woman inside.”