“I’M GOING TO CALL HIM,” Ned said.
“Good idea,” I said as I put down the box of equipment and stepped into the room to get a better look, my detective Spidey-sense taking over. I might not officially be on a case, but this trashed room was definitely a mystery. Something had happened in this room, and I felt compelled to find out as much about it as I could. I carefully stepped over the scattered clothing, broken glass, and ripped paper, not wanting to disturb anything in case the police came to investigate later. A laptop was poking out from underneath a sweater. Brady was on a twelve-city tour. His laptop was likely one of the most valuable items he had with him while he was traveling. If the culprit hadn’t taken that, this wouldn’t be a random theft. It wasn’t just someone looking for valuables. At the same time, I didn’t see a note. If it was a saboteur, they would want their victim to know why they’d been targeted. In other words, I had no idea what had happened here.
“He’s not answering,” Ned called from the hallway. “I’m really getting worried. You don’t think he was kidnapped, do you?”
I studied the room. I felt my stomach sink as I realized that this mess definitely could have been caused by a struggle.
“I don’t know,” I said to Ned. “Let’s go down to the front desk and notify security. They probably have security cameras that caught what happened.”
“Let’s go,” Ned said, charging back toward the elevators.
I hurried after him, grabbing my box of equipment on the way. Ned was standing at the elevator, pushing the down button over and over again.
“I don’t think pushing the button more makes the elevator come any faster,” I teased.
Ned gave me a wry smile. “I know. Sorry. I’m just really freaked out.”
“I get it,” I said. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll figure this out.”
The elevator arrived and Ned and I hopped on. As soon as the doors opened at the lobby, we raced toward the front desk.
“Nancy Drew? Is that you?” the clerk asked. I immediately recognized the freckled face waving at me.
“Pete DeHaro!” I exclaimed.
“Yeah, it’s me!” said Pete.
“How’s Jake?” I asked.
Pete lit up. “He’s great! We just got him a new chew toy that he loves. He carries it with him all over the house.” Jake was Pete’s beloved German shepherd–golden retriever mix. I had helped Pete track him down a little over a year ago. It was no simple missing-dog case, though—we’d ended up uncovering a ring of dog thieves!
“I still owe you one, Nancy. You totally saved Jake,” Pete told me.
“Thanks, Pete,” I said. “But it was no trouble. I was happy to help!”
I felt Ned nudge me. We didn’t have any time to waste.
“What’s going on?” Pete asked. He leaned in to whisper. “Is there a case going on at the hotel?”
“Maybe,” I said. I explained how we had found Brady’s room and that we were concerned for the comedian’s safety. “Do you think we could check the security cameras?” I asked.
Pete grimaced. “Well, as part of the renovation, they actually got rid of the cameras in the hallways,” he said. “We only have them in the lobby now.”
“Why?” I asked. That seemed odd.
Pete shrugged. “They did a survey, and guests said they valued privacy over every other category. I guess they figured cameras in the lobby were enough.”
I paused for a moment, feeling stymied on how to move forward at this point. It felt premature to call the police, but I wasn’t sure what else to do.
“Did you say it was room 823?” asked Pete. “The guest, Brady Owens, he’s that comedian who yelled at the heckler, right?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Ned said.
“I think I saw him going into our restaurant a little while ago,” Pete said.
“Really?” Ned asked.
“Yeah,” Pete said. “It’s right down that hallway.”
“Thanks, Pete!” I said, turning to go. “Give Jake a pat on the head for me.”
“Will do,” Pete said to our backs as Ned and I hurried toward the restaurant.
Like the rest of the hotel, the restaurant had changed a lot since the last time I had been there. Instead of the geometric-patterned carpet and pink vinyl booths, they had completely altered the look. It now had dark floors and dark walls with exposed beams in the ceiling. In the corner was another piano, providing the restaurant with its own music. It was the kind of place where you could imagine people having a romantic dinner or closing a business deal.
“Over there,” Ned said, pointing to a table in the back corner. Brady was sitting with another man around the same age. It was odd to see Brady in person after watching his video online so many times with Ned. He wore black jeans, a black sweater, and chunky glasses, just as he had in the video, but he looked smaller, more delicate in real life. In the video, under the lights and being so angry, he’d seemed intimidating, but sitting there in the restaurant, he seemed almost vulnerable. I wondered if he’d been a kid who had been bullied a lot and who had learned how to be quick-witted and funny as a defense mechanism.
Ned led the way to the table.
“Mr. Owens?” he asked, his voice a little too loud for the environment. A number of heads turned in our direction.
Brady’s head shot up, his eyes wide. He looked genuinely afraid, as if he was worried that Ned might accost him. Ned noticed too. He took a deep breath and spoke more slowly and calmly.
“I’m Ned Nickerson. We had an interview scheduled for my podcast—”
“NED Talks!” Brady yelped. Now he was the one speaking a little too loudly. He looked at his phone. “I am so sorry! I didn’t hear my phone ring over the music. I lost track of time, getting caught up with Joe Archer here.” He indicated the man sitting across from him. “Do you know Joe Archer?” he asked, finally taking a breath.
Ned shook his head. “Not personally,” he said. “Of course, I know who you are.” I did too. Joe Archer was the director of the new Arts Complex. There had been a lot of articles about him since the complex opened last month. He was a River Heights native who had gone to college here. He had spent the last several years managing a famous arts space in San Francisco, and it was considered a huge deal that he had come back to River Heights to manage our Arts Complex. The town had high hopes that the connections he had built in San Francisco would allow him to bring world-class talent to River Heights.
“But—” Ned tried to continue, but Brady just spoke over him.
“Joe, this is Ned Nickerson, and this is . . .” He turned to me. “And who is this young lady?”
“I’m Nancy Drew,” I said.
“Nancy Drew!” Brady exclaimed. “Dare I ask if you are Carson Drew’s daughter?”
“I am,” I confirmed.
“Joe was in the same fraternity with Carson and me,” he explained. “How is Carson? We invited him to join us, but he said he had a brief due to a judge.”
“He’s well,” I said. “But, yes, busy. I know he’s looking forward to your show, though.”
“Here, here. Have a seat. We can order you some sodas while Joe and I finish eating and then we can do the interview.”
“That’s a really nice offer,” I said, “but I’m afraid we have some bad news.”
“Bad news?” Brady asked. “What are you talking about?”
“We went up to your room before we found you here. . . .” Ned faltered. I could tell he wasn’t sure how exactly to break it to him.
“The room was destroyed,” I said, bailing Ned out.
“What?” said Brady, confused.
“It looked like someone had gone through all your stuff. Your clothes were everywhere. The art was off the wall.”
Brady looked back and forth between us. I could see him processing what we had just told him.
“That’s outrageous. How would anyone even know where you’re staying?” Joe asked.
Brady sighed. “Probably has something to do with my tweet this morning. Thought I was giving this hotel some good publicity.”
Brady pulled out his phone to show us a photo of him opening his hotel room door to reveal the fancy room. He captioned it, “Just checked into the amazing Towering Heights Resort for my show tonight!” His hotel room number was clearly visible over his shoulder.
“Brady!” Joe admonished. “You’ll have to change rooms; we have to call the police.”
Brady shook his head. “No, not yet. I want to see it.” He turned to me. “This is very important. Did you see if there was a little black leather notebook with an elastic band around it in there?”
I thought back to the room, trying to remember if I had seen the notebook, but it didn’t come to mind.
“I don’t know . . . I’m sorry. I saw your laptop. They didn’t take that.”
Brady stood up, almost knocking his chair down in the process. He threw his napkin on the table.
“I don’t care about the laptop. I only care about the notebook.”
He raced toward the door. Not knowing what else to do, Ned, Joe Archer, and I all followed behind him. Brady passed a waitress.
“Your bill, Mr. Owens?” she asked.
Brady stopped, pulled out his wallet, and handed her two twenty-dollar bills. “Just charge the meal to room 823. These are for you. Thanks for everything,” he said, not giving her a chance to respond.
Brady picked up the pace, so that he was moving at closer to a jog than a walk. As we made our way through the lobby, slaloming through the overstuffed chairs and dodging rolling suitcases, I could feel the eyes of all the guests on us. I couldn’t blame them. From the outside, we probably looked ridiculous. Two grown men, Ned, and me sprinting through the elevator lobby, Ned and I still lugging our boxes of recording equipment.
We got to the elevator and Brady was finally forced to stop. He hit the button over and over again, just like Ned had a few minutes earlier.
“What’s so important about the notebook?” I asked.
Brady paced back and forth. He was so distracted he hadn’t heard me.
“What’s so important about the notebook?” I repeated. Brady turned and looked at me. I saw the same flash of anger I had seen right before he’d cut into the heckler. I physically took a step back, wanting to put a little more space between us. I realized that Brady was the type of person whose emotions could turn on a dime.
“Oh, nothing,” he snapped. “Just all the material I’ve spent the past year writing.” He looked at us, waiting a beat for dramatic effect. Even in a moment of crisis, he maintained his performer instinct. “So, you know, just my entire life!”