“Holy cow!” Clare whispered. She cleared her throat. “Does Russ know?”
“I left a message on his cell. He’s been hauling all over the North Country today, talking to Linda’s customers. If he hasn’t headed home already, he’s probably still at the Algonquin. Oops.” Harlene reverted to her normal voice. “Hold please.” There was a click.
“Reverend Fergusson?” The woman on the other end of the line didn’t sound happy.
“Hello, Investigator Jensen. What can I do for you?”
“You can stop blabbing police business to the press.”
Jensen must have finally read the Post-Star, which was more than Clare was going to do. “I never spoke to the paper. Whatever the reporter got he got from hanging around the police station.”
“I’m talking about Quinn Tracey,” Jensen snapped.
“What?”
“Officer Flynn went to his house to question him. The boy’s mother said a reporter had called and asked to talk to the kid. After the conversation, the kid took a powder.”
“He’s gone?”
“You have information or suspicions? Call us. And then trust that we’ll handle it. Don’t go yapping to the Post-Star.”
“I didn’t!”
“It was the same reporter who’s covering the Keane murder, Reverend. Do you want me to believe that’s a coincidence?”
“It-well, not exactly, but I didn’t-”
“Look, I don’t have time. I’m heading down to Loudonville. If we can’t turn the Tracey kid up, I’m holding you personally responsible. Have a nice day.”
Clare was left holding the receiver, her mouth open to ask another question. What do you want Quinn Tracey for? Jensen’s level of vitriol seemed way overblown for someone who had dismissed Clare’s findings as over-the-top pranks. Unless Jensen had decided there was something more to the string of animal killings. Something like…
Audrey Keane.
Where would Quinn run to? Almost before the question had formed itself in her mind, she knew the answer. She reached for the phone book and flipped through the pages until she found MACENTYRE, CRAIG AND VICKI.
She dialed the number. It rang, and rang, and rang, and when the answering machine picked up she wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “Aaron? This is Clare Fergusson. We spoke the other day about your friend Quinn. Would you-”
“Hello,” Aaron said.
“Oh.” Clare felt foolish. “You’re home.”
“My folks aren’t here. When I’m home alone, I’m supposed to listen to see who it is before I answer.” His voice was different. Flat.
“Um…” She didn’t want to alarm him with something out of a summer scream fest. Get out of the house now! “When are your parents getting home?”
“I don’t know. They and my sister went shopping in Albany. I can take care of myself if they have to stay, due to the weather.”
Aaron sounded as if he were far away, talking about someone else entirely.
“Are you okay?” Clare asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Is your friend Quinn there?”
“Quinn?”
She sighed. “Aaron, the police very much want to question him. If he’s there, or if he shows up, you need to call them and let them know right away.”
“Call the police and let them know. Okay.”
She was past exasperated and into worry. “Is he there right now?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if he was?”
“Yes.”
She couldn’t think of anything else. It wasn’t like she could crawl through the line to keep the boy safe. “It’s not a game. Call the police if he contacts you in any way.”
“I will. Good-bye, Reverend Fergusson.”
She hung up. Looked out the window at the snow. Now what? She picked up the phone and dialed the police station again.
“Millers Kill PD.”
“Harlene, it’s Clare. I’m sorry to bug you, but I have an idea where Quinn Tracey might be.”
“Is this official? Okay, hang on, I’m going to record it. Go on.”
Clare explained about the boy’s friendship with Aaron MacEntyre, and the phone call she had just had.
“So, you’re thinking because he seemed funny over the phone, that maybe the Tracey kid was already over there?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever talk to Aaron MacEntyre on the phone before?”
“No.”
Harlene made a noise. “Never mind, I trust your instincts. I’ll send someone over there as soon as I can, but I have to tell you, we’re real shorthanded right now.”
Clare hesitated. I have done all that I can reasonably do.
No, you haven’t.
“I’m going to head over there myself,” she said.
“Reverend, I don’t think-”
“I need to do it. I’ll have my cell phone with me.” She rattled off the number to the dispatcher.
“You know, the chief isn’t going to like this one bit.”
Clare paused for a moment, to make sure there was no trace of bitterness in her mouth. “I think the chief has more important things to worry about than me.”
FORTY-FIVE
By the time he stepped inside the last of the Algonquin’s three hundred rooms, Russ didn’t want to see another poofy quilted coverlet, mahogany armoire, or fringe-bedecked armchair in this lifetime. He and Barbara LeBlanc had worked their way from the Presidential and Honeymoon suites through the executive suites, junior suites, deluxe rooms, superior rooms, and standard rooms without finding any sign that his wife had ever been here.
He had gotten an eyeful of John Opperman’s current living quarters-in the Presidential Suite, of course-but the only thing that revealed about the president of BWI, Inc., was that he kept stacks of business magazines in the bathroom and that he had really dull tastes in music-unless the Three Tenors and Classical Light CDs stacked by the built-in stereo system came with the room.
As they descended the stairs-the elevators were still offline while the electricians worked on the system-he heard a woman’s voice yelling from the lobby.
“Hello! Anybody here? Russ?”
Barbara LeBlanc shot him a glance. “You’re certainly livening up the place today.”
He took the remaining stairs two at a time and emerged, knees twinging, into the canvas-and plastic-covered lobby.
He saw a blonde in a familiar red peacoat, and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest, but in the next moment, he recognized his sister-in-law, who must have appropriated one of Linda’s coats.
“Debbie?”
She turned. She actually looked relieved to see him, which meant she must have really been worried she was stuck up here in an empty hotel with a storm raging outside. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’ve come to help search for my sister.” Her defiant tone wobbled. It had probably been a bad drive up the mountain.
“You can help by staying put. The last thing I need is to be hauling you out of a snowbank.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It figures you’d say that. It’s a lot easier to claim you’ve been moving heaven and earth to find her if no one else is around as a witness, isn’t it?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he started.
“Hi.” Barbara glided up beside him and extended her hand to Debbie. “I’m Barbara LeBlanc, the manager.”
“Debbie Wolecski.” She bent her wrist and took the manager’s hand in the kind of grasp no guy would ever attempt. “Linda Van Alstyne’s sister.”
“Ah.”
“Has he told you that she’s missing?”
Barbara smiled crookedly. “We’ve just finished searching the hotel for her. I’ve seen parts of this place I didn’t even know existed.”
Debbie looked from the manager to Russ. “Nothing? No sign of her?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing from any of the places she worked at?”
“How did you know I was visiting her work sites?”