52

 

THE RITZ-CARLTON HOTEL, HALF MOON BAY, SATURDAY

After a fractured, frustrated night with little sleep, Gwen woke late. She stretched, slipped from her king-size Egyptian-cottoned bed and wandered through to the marble bathroom. Pure luxury, everywhere she looked. She pulled on the heavy cotton-toweling robe and padded across the thick carpet to the minibar. Knocking back a bottle of pineapple and mango juice, she saw a piece of paper protruding under her door.

“Boudy, got back at four. Dirty and p’d off. Didn’t want to contaminate you. I’ll knock on your door at eleven thirty.”

*   *   *

“You’re punctual,” said Gwen as she opened her door two hours later.

“Military habits die hard.”

He looked tired, thought Gwen and weary. “Bad night?” she asked.

“A young woman, buried in a deep grave, dug up by a mountain lion then found by a hiker and his Weimaraner. And I’m tasked with grubbing round, getting the story.”

“And?”

“Nothing yet. There’ll be a press con when the cops figure out who she is. No one’s been reported missing, which means she’s one of life’s forgotten people, few or loose bonds, not missed.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Not much of a life. Worse death.”

Gwen didn’t ask more.

Dan’s cell phone trilled. He frowned at it. “Rochelle. Please don’t cancel,” he said to the ringing phone. He answered it.

“Daniel here.” His frown faded. “No. No problem. Early’s great. We’ll be right down.”