I walked past her without a sideward glance, then paused closer to the door. Whipping out my cell phone, I pretended to be consulting it while using the self-portrait feature to keep an eye on Skylar. I’d no sooner focused than she rose, at which point I continued my exit.
Pacing my strides to coincide with her footfalls, I walked straight for the Brown Pelican Inn. Reaching the door a few steps in the lead, I held it open.
“Thank you.”
I felt an electric jolt as our eyes met for the first time. “You’re welcome.”
I followed her up the stairs to the second floor, then down the east hallway. As we approached the second-to-last room, I stopped to make a show of patting my pockets while noting the number, then reversed course while she keyed into the corner room.
Returning to Berret’s parking lot, I hopped into my twelve-year-old blue BMW 335i and pulled across the street to park it at the inn. Then I popped the trunk, grabbed my roller bag and backpack, and headed for check-in.
24
Gaining Insight
A PERKY RED-HEADED RECEPTIONIST greeted me with a caffeinated, “Good evening.”
I gave her a friendly smile, knowing what the night shift was like. “I’m hoping you have room 21 available for two nights.”
“A man who knows what he wants. Clearly you’ve been with us before Mister—”
“Chase. Zachary Chase. Blackjack’s my thing.”
She pecked away with a puzzled look, then smiled and said, “I get it. Blackjack, twenty-one. Yes, that room is available. Both nights. But I don’t see your name in our system.”
Ignoring her last remark, I presented my credit card and hoped it was still working. When the charge for the totaled Harley posted, I’d be over my limit. Given that credit card applications always asked for current income and employment status, getting another was probably out of the question. I was stuck with what I had. “What time’s breakfast?”
The receptionist smiled and rewarded me with a card key. “Breakfast is from 6:00 to 10:30 a.m.”
In room 21, I immediately put ear to wall. I hoped to hear the TV, but Skylar was playing music instead. Spa music. Not perfect for concealment purposes, but much better than nothing.
Playing a hunch, I went to the bathroom, where I hoped to hear the sound or feel the vibe of running water. No such luck. Thinking about it, I decided that didn’t mean anything. The placement of her door indicated that her room layout paralleled mine, rather than mirroring it. That was very good news. It meant that her desk would rest against the opposite wall, and that her laptop screen would also face my direction if she worked on it in bed.
I unzipped my backpack and extracted a small electric drill with a foot-long 4mm bit. After a minute of analyzing angles and accoutrements, I selected a spot on the wall and marked it with the hotel pen. Ready to roll, I turned on Sports Center and adjusted the volume to the maximum allowed. Satisfied with the setup, I wrapped a bath towel around the hand holding the drill, pulled the trigger and pushed. I stopped the instant I felt the second sheet of drywall start to give.
I retracted the drill and put my eye to the fresh hole. The light spot was immediately visible—and unobstructed, meaning both that I’d calculated correctly and that Skylar wasn’t staring back.
I withdrew a slim fiber-optic camera from my backpack. Not a bit of secret CIA kit, but rather a similar industrial tooclass="underline" $49 on Amazon. I connected it to my cell phone and used the optics to guide it to the opposite hole. After poking through, I could see the whole bedroom.
Skylar was nowhere to be seen.
Either she was in the bathroom, or she had left the room. The bathroom door was open, but the light did not appear to be on. Since I’d given her very little opportunity to leave undetected, my money was on the bathtub. Dim lighting, soft music, and a stress-relieving soak.
I used the remote to mute the television volume. With my hearing thus restored, I pressed the camera far enough into Skylar’s room to allow it to articulate, then began searching for inanimate objects. I didn’t spot a laptop or a cell phone on her desk. The bed and nightstand were also unadorned. Perhaps she’d taken her electronics to the tub.
I switched the phone screen over to the feed from the Mercedes. It was only a mile away at the moment, and it wasn’t moving. I felt a chill as the obvious conclusion kicked in. The tracker had come off Tom’s car. Zooming in, I read the location and relaxed. He’d parked at The Williamsburg Inn.
Google gave the hotel a five-star rating and a $379 nightly rate. Definitely not on Uncle Sam’s approved list for anyone ranking below agency head or three-star general.
I switched back to the camera feed while contemplating that development. Nothing had changed, but the bathroom light flipped on after a few minutes.
I retracted the camera so its eye was flush with the face of the wall. There was a slim chance that she’d notice the dark spot, but given the texturing and the fact that my hole was just two-thirds the diameter of a pencil eraser, I wasn’t worried.
Skylar eventually emerged wearing light pink pajamas that hugged her extraordinarily athletic build in a way that required little imagination and left me feeling a bit inadequate. Her feet were bare and her short sun-bleached hair was only towel dried. She was carrying neither cell phone nor laptop.
Did anyone of our generation travel without an internet interface? Not likely. Perhaps she’d pull one or the other out of a drawer. Unless—
Playing a hunch, I looked at my room then surveyed her desk again. Next, I slowly eased the camera back into her room so that I could see the nightstands. Neither held a phone. Both of her landlines had been removed.
Tom had isolated her.
I switched back to the GPS tracker. The Mercedes was still in the parking lot, a mere mile northeast of my current location.
Certain that Skylar was in for the night, I lost the do-rag, shaved the handlebars off my mustache, changed into a business suit, transferred my tools to my roller bag, and headed for The Williamsburg Inn.
25
Just a Number
THE WILLIAMSBURG INN looked like a converted colonial mansion. Its grand three-story central brick building was embraced by shorter wings and topped with a slate roof sporting multiple chimneys. I did a quick window count and estimated that there were about forty-eight rooms in total. That was a good size for my purposes, small enough that locating Tom shouldn’t be too challenging, large enough that I might find a vacancy to one side or the other, given that luxury hotels attempted to separate their guests.
Like all five-star hotels, this one had a bellhop, although, given the colonial atmosphere, I guessed they might call him a valet. I appraised the uniformed assistant while approaching from the self-parking lot. Late thirties and fit but not fastidious. The crease in his pants was far from crisp, and his tie was a notch too loose. I put on a friendly smile, read the nametag, and met his eye as he said, “Can I help you, sir?”
“I believe so. I need your help in selecting the right room.” I pulled a $100 bill from my pocket to set the hook. Dressed as I was in a suit and tie, I figured I fit the typical tipping-client mold.
“Absolutely, sir,” Vincent said, pupils dilating. “It would be my pleasure. What amenities are you hoping to find? The quietest location? The best view?”
“The right number,” I corrected.
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
I pulled out my cellphone and swiped until it displayed a close-up photo of Tom enjoying his Fierce beer. “Do you recognize my buddy, Tom?”