The chief came back into the squad room after saying goodbye to the one-hundred-year-old cop. Which wasn’t really fair, Hadley acknowledged; the man had been in good shape, kind of stocky and square, but holy God, if he’d been the chief when Van Alstyne was young he must be older than dirt.
“You said you had something?”
“Yeah.” She set her laptop on the table and flipped it up. “I’ve been following up on the call-in reports, and like you said, most of them are junk.” Wading through the voice messages and e-mails this morning had made organizing autopsy photos seem like a fun job. Psychics, heavy breathers, confession junkies—no wonder Noble had wanted a break. “However, there’s one that looked promising.” She enlarged the e-mail so the chief didn’t have to put on his reading glasses. “This guy’s the general manager of the Water View, a restaurant on Lake George near Bolton Landing. He said the missing girl resembled a waitress who’d been working for him. She had last Thursday and Friday off, and didn’t show up for work Saturday. He hasn’t seen her since. He attached a picture they took of the staff on the Fourth of July—see?” She switched to the photo and blew it up. “This is the girl.” She pointed to a smiling blonde. “What do you think?”
The chief frowned. “Did you talk to the manager personally?”
“He’s not in until three. The woman I spoke with over the phone did confirm one of their waitstaff had skipped out and hasn’t shown up yet.”
“Follow up. Take the good photos with you, and see if you can find out anything about a roommate, her background, whatever. See if anyone has more pictures of her. It’s hard to tell from one group shot.”
“Okay.” She folded up the laptop.
“And Knox?”
“Chief?”
“I didn’t say anything this morning, because we want to keep it on the QT, but thanks for putting Kevin up last night.”
She wondered if Kevin had said anything to Reverend Clare. “Happy to help, Chief.”
It was a beautiful day to drive north to Bolton Landing—the hills in falling waves of smoke and slate blue and green-black to her left and brilliant flashes of the lake to her right. Hadley tried to appreciate it—she had read an article on improving your life by improving your outlook—but mostly she watched her problems scuttle back and forth across her mental windshield. What to do about Flynn. Would the porn story get out? Where could she get a decent job if the department closed? How to get Granddad to pay attention to his health. Nasty little things with no solutions, breeding more and more worries in the dark.
It was noticeably cooler next to the lake than it had been in Millers Kill. The Water View was a rambling white clapboard building, with green shutters and wide porches facing Lake George. Hadley could see why she had never heard of it—even from the pea gravel parking lot, she could tell she couldn’t afford to eat here. Through a screen of balsam trees, she could glimpse another building, definitely without a water view—probably the staff dorm. Rental property was out of reach for most college students working in Lake George for the summer; many of the large hotels and restaurants solved the problem by providing housing. Which, Hadley supposed, had the added benefit of keeping them close at hand and accountable.
She headed for the restaurant first, walking past a few Beemers and Mercedes as well as several beat-up station wagons. In Lake George’s older-is-better culture, the wagon owners might have more in the bank than the folks with German imports. The sun-dazzled green and blue outside made the interior cave-dark for a moment, nothing but the clink of cutlery and the rising and falling of many conversations. She blinked her eyes, and was just adjusting to gleaming wood and brass when a voice hailed her.
“Good afternoon.” A professionally friendly young woman was looking at Hadley from behind a podium. “Do you have reservations”—her face changed as she registered Hadley’s uniform—“Officer?”
“I’m looking for the food manager.” It seemed like a silly title. Weren’t they all food managers in a restaurant?
“Of course.” The young woman gestured to an even younger girl, clearly still in her teens. “Tori, will you show this officer to Mrs. Beshir?”
The girl led Hadley past the kitchen entrance and opened an unmarked door onto a long, windowless hallway. Unlike the public areas, the floor was bare wood. No need to hush dozens of footsteps back here, Hadley guessed.
The girl knocked and opened another featureless door. “Mrs. Beshir? There’s a police officer to see you.”
The small room looked like a food product convention in miniature—a wall of shelves held cans, boxes, tins, binders, books, and measuring scales. The woman who rose from the tidy desk to greet Hadley looked a bit like something warm and comforting to eat—a raisin muffin, maybe, or a coffee bun, if those pastries were dressed in bright colors and a hijab.
“Hello.” She stretched out her hand. “You must be the officer I spoke with earlier.”
“Hadley Knox, yes, ma’am.”
“Sit, sit.” Mrs. Beshir gestured toward one of the chairs facing her desk. “What can I get you?” She picked up an old-fashioned phone receiver. “Have you had lunch?”
Hadley waved the offer away. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Okay. Just some tea, then.” She pressed a button on the phone. “Stefan? A tea tray and meze, please.”
“Really, I don’t—”
Mrs. Beshir sat. “As I said earlier, the general manager is technically in charge of the staff. He does all the hiring and firing—not that I’m saying that’s necessary! We usually get a good group of kids.”
“But you’d be able to identify one from a picture?”
“That’s why I said ‘technically.’ When their boyfriends break up with them or when they don’t know if they want to return to college in the fall, they tend to come talk with me. Probably because I’m not their supervisor.”
There was a knock and the door opened. A man in a stained chef’s tunic entered, balancing a huge tray laden with a complete tea set and at least a half-dozen dishes of finger food. The cook flipped open a tray stand, set the tray down, and with a flourish, left, shutting the door behind him. Mrs. Bashir took a small plate and began filling it with items. “Gabrielle—she’s the girl who is missing—I would describe as ‘work hard, play hard.’ This is her second summer with us. She very much enjoys the nightlife around the lake, but she always shows up in time for her shift and does her best. I think this year she’s hoping to be part of the winter crew in Florida. The owner of the Water View has a large restaurant in Sanibel.” She handed the plate and a white napkin to Hadley.
“Oh, I can’t really—”
“How do you like your tea?” Mrs. Bashir was already pouring.
Hadley knew when she was beaten. “Milk, no sugar.”
The cup and saucer were placed on the desk in front of her. “Eat,” Mrs. Bashir commanded. “Try the koumus, the little puff pastry. And the stuffed grape leaves. They’re delicious.”
Hadley dutifully popped the pastry into her mouth. It was delicious. She wiped her fingers on her napkin and opened the folder she had brought. “Would you mind taking a look?”
Mrs. Beshir held out a hand. She examined one photo, then another. She laid them on the desk, all the animation drained from her face. “Oh, dear.”
“Is it Gabrielle?”
The food manager sighed. “You know, I persuaded my manager to contact your office after I saw the news on TV. We had called the Lake George Police when she didn’t show up for her weekend shift, but they said a young adult at a seasonal job…” She shook her head. “They don’t consider her a missing person for at least three days.”
Which explained why the girl wasn’t flagged in their initial lists of MPRs. “When did you last see her?”
“She was scheduled Wednesday, and I saw her in the restaurant that night. She had Thursday and Friday off, due back for Saturday lunch. It’s not unusual for a staff member to be away during their days off. I didn’t think she would actually be … hurt.” Mrs. Beshir looked at the pictures again. “She was a lovely girl.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Oh, goodness.” The older woman took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “Let’s see. Her name is—was Gabrielle Yates. I’ll get her personnel file to you before you leave.”
“Family?”
“Not to speak of. She came out of some foster-home situation in Kentucky—I think her parents, if they’re alive, are drug addicts. She had been working in the hospitality industry since she was sixteen. We hired her last summer, she did a good job, we rehired her this year. She was twenty-two. So young.”
“Did she know anyone here in New York? Did she have a boyfriend or people she was close to?”
“She might have met some people last year. Generally speaking, the summer employees tend to flock together, though, so I’d be surprised if she had made any friends among the locals. A boyfriend? I never heard of one.”
“Could she have been”—Hadley searched for a term that wouldn’t sound offensive—“entertaining men?”
“Prostitution? No, don’t apologize. Believe me, thirty years working in restaurants and you see everything at least once. I don’t think so. Not necessarily for moral reasons, but Gabrielle was starting to think of her future.”
“Wanting to continue working for the same company in Florida?”
“Most people don’t realize it, but the hospitality industry offers a great deal to disadvantaged workers. Someone like Gabrielle, without a high school diploma, can wind up earning more than a typical high school teacher. Or for immigrants, like me. I started out as a cleaner with barely a dozen words of English.”
“I see your point.” Hadley took a sip of tea, letting the picture of Gabrielle Yates coalesce in her mind. “She was starting to think about getting ahead in life, rather than just living in the moment.”
“A very good summation, yes.”
“May I see her room?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Beshir picked up the phone, asked for Tori. The same girl who had escorted Hadley down the hallway appeared, carrying a cardboard container for leftovers. Hadley deduced no one left the food manager’s office empty-handed. When she handed Hadley the box, it weighed at least ten pounds. “Please keep us informed. If her relatives don’t … claim her, we’d like to take care of her.”
“I will.”
Walking over to the staff dorm, Hadley questioned her escort, but Tori, at eighteen, was not part of the older, legal-drinking group Gabrielle had hung out with. “I know she liked to party. And I heard she was DTF.” She saw Hadley’s puzzled expression. “Down to—”
“Got it. Guys, or girls?”
“Guys, I think.”
“Did she ever bring somebody back to the dorm?”
Tori shook her head. “We’re not allowed to have guests in the dorm. They say it’s a liability thing.” She rolled her eyes.
The staff dorm itself was whitewashed and airy, plank walls and creaking wooden floors, with high ceilings to draw the summer heat up and away. Hadley imagined it was what cabins in sleepaway camps were like. Gabrielle’s room was simple: an iron bed, unmade, a narrow desk and chair beneath the screened window, a painted bureau and pegs head-height along the wall instead of a closet.
Hadley searched the drawers. A lot of tops and shorts from Walmart, which Hadley recognized because it, along with Goodwill, was where she did most of her own clothes shopping. Floaty short dresses and skirts hung from some of the pegs. The footwear in the corner was all flip-flops and sneakers.
There were condoms in the desk drawer, as well as a full array of makeup and nail polish. No phone. No bills, no paperwork—like most of her generation, her life was probably online, accessed through the missing phone.
Hadley turned around, trying to wring something more from the small room. Not much to show for twenty-two years. “Where did she like to go? When she went out?”
Tori blew out a breath. “I don’t know. There are a lot of bars in Lake George. Some of the girls like to go to brunch at the yacht club place. You know, maybe they could meet a rich guy?” She rolled her eyes again. “She was supposed to go to the fair with us this past Monday.”
“Yeah?”
“She had gone last year. She told me it was a lot of fun.” Tori paused. “I guess we know why she missed it now.”