“We’re trying to track a shipment McNabb would have made from Balad back to the States.” Russ’s voice was as coplike as ever.
“Anything more specific?” Drago let the dogs down on the floor. They immediately scuttled over and began exploring Russ’s boots. “Wyler was in charge of ordering matériel. He was usually pretty accurate, but he did overestimate at times.”
Russ reached down and scratched a tiny head. “This would have been a pallet, maybe a couple meters square, shrink-wrapped. It would have been marked for transit beyond your Plattsburgh depot.”
“The bedding!” Drago nodded. “It’s gotta be the bedding. Everything else stayed in Plattsburgh.”
Clare and Russ looked at each other.
“It was a big, dumb mistake. We got sent a load of the sheets they order for the resort. They’re all fancy and stuff, Egyptian cotton and a zillion thread count.” His eyes, which had been lit with pleasure at being able to answer their questions, clouded over. “What’s this got to do with Tally? We kept it on the q.t. so’s not to get the clerk on the other side of the operation in trouble. But Tally couldn’tuv been responsible. She didn’t work for BWI until this summer.”
“Drago”-Clare tried to keep her voice neutral-“do you have any idea of the final destination of the, um, sheets?”
He looked at her as if she were cracked. “Where do you think they went? The resort.”
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 15
“I don’t like this,” Lyle said.
Russ didn’t pause in his march up the stone steps from the parking lot to the Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort. There wasn’t a leaf to be seen on the stairs or the flower beds beside them. The staff probably vacuumed them up when no one was looking. “There’s nothing illegal in stopping by the resort to give our regards to the manager. We’re off duty.”
“Who are you kidding? If we’re not made as plainclothes thirty seconds after we hit the lobby, I’ll eat my shorts. I bet you’re even carrying under that coat.”
Russ glanced down at his navy jacket. “Can you tell?”
Lyle made a noise.
“How ’bout you?”
“Hell, yeah.”
“You?” Russ looked across Lyle to where Quentan Nichols climbed in lockstep with the two Millers Kill police.
“I always carry. I figure it’s like an American Express card. Don’t leave home without it.”
Lyle was right. With phone instructions to look “well dressed, but casual,” they had all turned out in coats and ties. Too dressed up to be end-of-the-season golfers, not spiffy enough to be businessmen.
“And him. I don’t see why he’s gotta be here. You don’t think they’ll remember his face?”
“I’m not trying to sneak us in, Lyle. We just need to not be here in our official capacity. Now can it.” They crossed the portico, Russ and Nichols smiling at the bellhops and the valets, Lyle scowling.
Inside, Russ steered them to the far edge of the reception desk, the one closest to the door leading into the offices. A quick glance reassured him that Ethan Stoner’s child bride wasn’t working this morning. No loud greetings of “Hi there, Chief Van Alstyne.” He leaned on the gleaming rosewood counter. “Good morning. I’d like to speak to Barbara LeBlanc, please.”
The young woman across from him looked at the three of them, stricken. “Is there anything wrong, sir?”
“No. We just want to speak to her. If she’s in.” He had assumed she would be. Saturday at 9:00 A.M. had to be one of the busiest times of the week.
The girl looked doubtful. “May I say who’s asking?”
Lyle sidled up to the counter and gave her a smile to charm the birds out of the trees. “Just tell her Lyle MacAuley’s back. With a… special request.”
“Oh!” The girl blinked rapidly. “I’ll go get her right away.” She vanished through the door.
Russ glanced at his second in command. “It never gets old for you, does it?”
“Nope.”
Barbara LeBlanc emerged from the office, her expression half welcoming, half wary. “Deputy Chief MacAuley? And-” Her gaze slid past Russ to Nichols. “Good heavens.”
Russ stepped forward. “Can we talk in private, Ms. LeBlanc?”
The manager nodded, her eyes still on Nichols. She led the way back into her office. She was in a silk blouse and form-fitting skirt, just like the last time they had been here, and just like the last time, Lyle kept his eyes on her posterior, jerking his gaze up to a respectable height a scant second before she turned and gestured for them to seat themselves.
“First,” Russ said, “let me explain that when Chief Warrant Officer Nichols was here at the end of August, he was working as an undercover investigator.” That was sort of true.
“But-”
“I know. We hadn’t been notified by the army.” Definitely true. “We’ve sorted out the mix-up. We’re here because we’re assisting with the inquiry in an informal capacity.”
“What does that mean?”
What did it mean? He was a terrible liar. He was getting spun in his own gobbledygook.
“Chief Nichols hasn’t yet been authorized to involve civilian law enforcement.” Lyle propped an arm against the edge of LeBlanc’s desk and leaned closer. “I always thought we had it bad. You can imagine what army bureaucracy is like.” He smiled. “He thinks there may be contraband, stolen from the U.S. Army, hidden right here in your hotel.”
Barbara LeBlanc shook her head. “Impossible.”
“I know, I know. He wanted to come in here with a warrant and a bunch of MPs.” Before the expression of horror could settle on the manager’s face, Lyle went on. “Now, the chief and I know BWI Opperman is the largest employer in town. We want to handle things discreetly.”
LeBlanc nodded. She gave Russ a look of melting gratitude.
“So what we’d like to do is this. You allow us behind the scenes in the basement. We’ll take a quiet, low-key look around the shipping dock and the storage areas and that big corridor.”
“Broadway.”
“Broadway, right. If we find anything, we’ll consult with you about the best way to deal with it without kicking up a fuss and scaring off the trade. If we don’t find anything”-he shrugged-“no one’s the wiser.”
Three minutes later, Barbara LeBlanc was opening the heavy door labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY that divided the hotel into above and below stairs.
“He’s good,” Nichols said to Russ.
“Uh-huh.”
“I have to get back to reception,” LeBlanc said, “but if you need me for anything, you have my cell number.” More specifically, Lyle had her number. He ran a finger along one bushy eyebrow as she shut the door behind her, leaving them in the spottily lit concrete corridor.
“Let’s start with the shipping dock and work inward,” Russ said.
So they began the job of pushing and pulling and lifting and opening every box, carton, canister, and cart they could find. Russ discarded his jacket in the first five minutes and his tie in the next five. They cleared the shipping dock quickly. Its echoing, oil-stained interior had a few piles of boxes and several heaping laundry carts, but the efficient staff had obviously been moving goods in and out of the area as soon as they arrived.
The storage rooms were fast work as well-they were smaller spaces with industrial shelving up to the ceiling. Two were for the kitchen, stacked with ten-gallon jugs of mayonnaise and garbage cans loaded with cornmeal and flour. Three more looked like the staging room Russ had seen last summer-towers of toilet paper and tubloads of shampoo.
“Anything?” Russ emerged from the last supply closet with the smell of Lysol clogging his nose.
“Nothing.” Lyle sounded personally offended.
They all gazed down the length of Broadway. It ran from one end of the hotel to another. Empty, it would have been as wide as a two-lane road, but the stacks and shelves and dollies crowding either side narrowed it to a concrete gulch just wide enough for a golf cart or a loader.