Buried Secrets, page 9
part #2 of Jacqueline Frye Series
Evelyn’s gaze grew intensely focused. “So what you’re saying is I should be very worried.”
I met her eyes. “I’m saying you better be on your guard, especially if any more bridesmaids disappear.”
The following morning, I put on my private investigator pants—also known as my favorite pair of jeans—and set out to gather more information. The first part was easy: start local. I had no proof that Angelica had left the Saint Angel of her own accord, so I cornered a few of the bridesmaids to see if I could find some.
As a treat for agreeing to come to Chicago so far ahead of the wedding, Marie had booked the bridesmaids for a game of—heaven forbid—axe throwing. I tracked down the venue and stepped inside a bar themed with every Canadian cliche the designers could think of. It was all warped wood, buffalo plaid, and stuffed beavers. Country music blared over the speakers, though no one seemed to be enjoying it unless they were several beers in already… at eleven o’clock in the morning.
A chorus of raucous cheers went up from the last bay. I made my way to the end of the throwing stations and found Marie’s bridesmaids, sans Angelica, getting rowdy with their weapons. I watched from the back as Kelani stepped up to the line, raised the axe with both hands behind her head, and hurled it at the bullseye. The axe thudded against the painted wooden board and clattered to the floor.
Kelani let out a string of swears that could have made milk curdle. The rest of the bridesmaids roared with laughter. They shoved another axe into Kelani’s hands, urging her to try again.
“Plant your feet!”
“Don’t take your eye off the target!”
Kelani closed one eye and aimed again. The axe whirled down the bay. The blade slammed into the bullseye and stuck.
The bridesmaids went wild. They pounded Kelani’s back and slapped her butt like a bunch of drunk frat boys. As the server delivered another round of tequila shots, another woman stepped up to the throwing line.
“Hey, ladies,” I said, stepping into their midst. “Sorry to interrupt the fun, but can I—”
“Jacqueline!” Kelani tugged me against her side. The taller girl dwarfed me. My head barely came to her chest. “Did you see me throw? Did you?”
“I saw,” I said. “Great job. Can I ask you guys some questions?”
“You can ask,” another bridesmaid said, “but we’re sloshed. Don’t expect accurate answers.”
“It’s about Angelica.” Someone shoved a beer into my hands. For the hell of it, I drank some. “Has anyone heard from her?”
The bridesmaids moved as one entity, all shaking their heads at once.
“Damn,” I muttered. “What about her social media? Has she posted anything since she left?”
“Nope.” Casey tossed me her phone. “Have a look. Last thing on her Instagram are some pictures from the bachelorette party.”
I scrolled through Angelica’s feed, but there wasn’t much to look at. Like Megan Hollows, her Instagram page boasted selfies, exciting landscapes, and the view outside a plane window. She’d posted consistently, like most people our age, at least once every day until the night she disappeared.
“What about her family?” I asked. “Who does she live with?”
“Her boyfriend,” Casey said. “Carson. His number’s in there if you want to get a hold of him.”
I located Carson’s number, tapped his name, and put the phone to my ear. After several rings, a deep voice answered: “Yo, Case. What’s up?”
“Hi, Carson. This is Jacqueline Frye. I’m a friend of Angelica’s,” I said. “I was wondering if you’ve heard from her lately.”
“Nah, she said she was off the radar for the wedding,” Carson replied. “She wanted alone time with the girls. I respect that.”
“She hasn’t contacted you at all?”
“Nope.”
I chewed on my lower lip. “Listen, Carson. Something’s happened here in Chicago. Angelica supposedly left the hotel to go home.”
“What do you mean she left?”
“She’s gone, and so is all of her stuff. Are you sure she hasn’t come home?”
Carson’s voice pitched in panic. “No, she’s not here. Where’s Casey? Has she talked to Casey? We’ve been arguing, but she wouldn’t have left me—I don’t think. God, what if she left me?”
“Carson, calm down,” I said. “I don’t think Angelica has left you.”
“Then where is she?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I paced on the outer edge of the bridesmaids’ party, doing my best to avoid wayward axes. “What about her parents? Any friends or family she might have gone to see?”
“We don’t know anyone in Chicago,” Carson replied. “Her mom passed away, and she doesn’t speak to her dad. All her friends are there with her for the wedding.”
I scribbled the details in a small notepad. “Don’t worry, Carson. I’m going to find Angelica. I just needed to confirm she wasn’t with you.”
“Wait, who are you again?”
“My name’s Jack. I’m an investigator.”
“Whoever you are, please bring my girlfriend home safely.”
With my promise to Carson sealed, I did the one thing I usually never resorted to during one of my own investigations: I went to the police.
I sat in a waiting room for a good fifteen minutes before anyone bothered to glance at me. Being patient was so much harder than being pushy. My leg jiggled up and down. How did anyone ever get anything done by waiting all the time?
At the twenty-minute mark, the young rookie behind the front desk made eye contact with me for the second time and quickly looked back at his paperwork. Gritting my teeth, I stood up.
“Excuse me,” I said to the rookie. “I’ve been waiting to file a missing persons’ report for almost a half hour. Do you have anyone I can talk to?”
“All the officers are busy right now,” the rookie replied. His eye twitched. Liar.
“Aren’t you an officer?”
He stammered. “Uh, yeah, but I’m not, like, a fully-fledged—I’m supposed to man the front desk.”
“Time is of the essence here, stud,” I said. “You’ve got a whole set of files sitting on a desk back there about the women who have gone missing from this city in the last few months. And you’ve got a murder case you haven’t solved yet. If my missing girl is linked to the others, I’d like to know sooner rather than later.”
“Sorry, miss. I don’t have access—”
“Jones!”
The rookie jumped, squared his shoulders, and straightened the collar of his uniform as a tall woman with familiar features came around the corner. She patted the rookie on the back with a little too much force.
“Make yourself useful, Jones,” she ordered. “Get us some coffee. What do you like?” she added to me. “Latte? Or green tea? Jones, here, makes a decent matcha latte.”
Jones blushed deeply.
“Matcha sounds good.”
The woman smacked Jones’s shoulder. “Off you go then.” As Jones scurried off, the woman turned to me. “I know you. You were at the crime scene outside the Saint Angel a few nights ago.”
Her face clicked in my memory. “Kate, right?”
“Detective Kate Arnold.”
As she shook my hand, we sized each other up. In stature, she reminded me of Evelyn: tall, broad, and well-muscled. That was where the similarities ended. Kate had dark hair, brown eyes, and thick browns. She didn’t quite exude the same “don’t mess with me or I’ll punch you” vibe that Evelyn toted around most days.
“I overheard you talking to Jones,” Kate said. “You got a missing person?”
“Angelica Taylor,” I confirmed. “She disappeared the night after Megan Hollows died.”
Immediately, Kate drew her notepad out and began writing. “Got a time frame?”
“Between midnight and seven a.m.”
“What was she wearing?”
“No idea. Pajamas maybe? All the bridesmaids got matching silk robes that day.” I took out my phone and showed Kate a picture of Angelica from the spa day. Her vacant smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Pink. Embroidered with their names.”
Kate studied the picture. “Did you contact any of her friends or relatives?”
“I called her boyfriend. He said she never came home, and she doesn’t have any other family to go to.” I leaned on the front desk. “When I went to Angelica’s room, it was spotless, like someone went in and cleaned up a crime scene. Megan Hollows disappeared the same way. The hotel thought she’d wanted to ditch her bill, but she ended up dead in the alleyway outside. That can’t happen to Angelica.”
Kate regarded me with such deep intensity that I wondered if I had said something wrong or offensive. Then she said, “I’ve seen your blog.”
My face burned bright red. “I don’t really update that anymore. I don’t want to be accused of fear-mongering.”
“Some of your earlier stuff was bizarre and hard to follow,” Kate admitted. “But I read about the case you cracked in London last year. Jack the Ripper copycat, eh? What made you so sure you could catch the guy?”
“Audacity, guesswork, and a little luck.”
“I’d add brains in there too.” With a wink, she turned on her heel and headed out of the waiting room. At the doorway, she looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming or what?”
Bewildered, I hurried after her. She led me deeper into the police station, walking with an authoritative sway to her hips. As she power-walked, she filled me in.
“If your friend is gone, that’s four women who have disappeared from downtown Chicago in the last three months,” Kate said. “Not including Megan, who might have been considered missing if we hadn’t found her body.”
“Do you think the missing girls are linked to Megan’s death?” I asked. “I don’t think the killer intended to leave her body in that alleyway. It was an accident that she ended up there. What if the other girls are—?” My voice caught in my throat. “What if they’re already—?”
“Dead?” Kate finished for me. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that too.”
She pushed open a door and led me into a small office. Her case—the missing women of Chicago—was plastered all over a big corkboard. She had the details of each woman who had disappeared, sticky notes, pictures, and possible connections pinned to the board. Megan Hollows’s information was set slightly away from the others, but Kate had included it nonetheless.
Kate sat in one office chair and rolled the other over to me with her foot. She propped her feet up on the desk and faced the corkboard. “Britney Fielden, Bianca Mitchell, Hannah Peterson, Megan Hollows, and now…” She gestured to me.
“Angelica Taylor.”
“Angelica Taylor,” she repeated, as if committing the name to memory. “Not a whole lot to connect them. They were all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-two. All relatively active on social media. All tourists to the Chicago area.” Kate twirled a pen around her thumb. “These are important things to consider, but they don’t give us a solid enough link. We can’t pin the disappearances on one person without more.”
“What does your boss think? Royce?”
Kate’s eyes rolled. “Royce isn’t making this case his top priority. He’s more concerned with the drug-related homicides. Not to mention, the whole department is stumped on this. No one can make any connections. That’s why Royce gave me the case, so he can blame it on me if we never solve it.”
“But there are connections,” I said. “You just listed them. You said all the girls disappeared from the downtown area, right? That means the person who took them is probably local.”
“I got that already.” She tapped the pen against a handwritten sticky note on the corkboard: Dick’s probably local.
“You mentioned their social media,” I said. “Any chance any of them are still posting from their accounts?”
“All three of them posted after their supposed disappearance,” Kate answered. “That’s another reason we haven’t been noticing them sooner.”
“Someone posted from Megan Hollows’s account too,” I said. “Whoever’s doing this is purposely trying to buy themselves some time.”
“They succeeded,” Kate said. “Trail’s practically cold. What do you got?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you gotta give me something,” she urged. “Why else would I have brought you back here?”
I rolled closer to the corkboard. “Sorry, police officers don’t ask me to work with them often. Usually, they’re telling me to mind my own business.”
“I could use all the help I can get. Got a hunch?”
“You might think I’m crazy.”
Kate smirked. “Girl, if crazy solves cases, I don’t care if you’re certifiably nuts.”
“So you won’t arrest me if I admit I stole something from the crime scene?”
Her eyebrows hit the ceiling. “You did what?”
“I found a journal in that alley,” I said. “Whoever wrote it was obsessed with H.H. Holmes. He was—”
“Murder Castle guy. I’m familiar. What about this journal?”
“I think it belongs to whoever is kidnapping these women,” I guessed. “And I’m pretty sure he’s mimicking Holmes’s crimes, if his diary is any indication.”
Kate wrote something on a sticky note, rolled over to the corkboard, and planted the note alongside the others: Dick’s a Holmes fan.
“Well, I guess we gotta find a murder castle,” Kate declared.
8
With Kate’s blessing and copies of the other missing girls’ files, I returned to the Saint Angel with fresh confidence. As I stepped out of the Lyft, which had dropped me off across the street from the hotel, something caught my eye. Fletcher Stevens, the investor, lingered around the entrance of the Saint Angel, his gaze fixed on the ground. He made even strides back and forth, scanning the pavement for something. He rounded the corner and continued his methodical sweep in the alleyway where Megan Hollows had died.
He did a double-take then quickly knelt down and plucked something off the ground. He tucked the object into the breast pocket of his black bomber jacket, brushed his hands off, and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. With practiced nonchalance, he sauntered into the hotel.
I jogged across the street and tracked him inside. He waited outside the elevator, whistling a cheerful tune. I fanned myself, hoping for the pink flush to subside from my cheeks, and stepped beside him.
“Whew!” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Cold out, isn’t it?”
“Quite,” he replied politely. He glanced at me, one eyebrow lifting in recognition. “You’re Wolf’s friend. From Rodolfo’s.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” I admitted. “I ran into him, and he offered me lunch.”
A twinkle lit up Fletcher’s blue eyes. “He’s generous like that.”
“I’m Jack,” I said. “Wolf told me you were trying to buy the hotel.”
He patted his chest, as if to make sure whatever item he’d picked up in the alleyway outside was still there. “That remains to be seen. There’s quite a bit of competition.”
“Why do you want to buy this place anyway?” I asked. “Business doesn’t seem to be doing particularly well.”
“That’s why I want it,” he answered. “This place used to be Chicago’s prime destination. People practically begged to stay here. If I buy it, I can rebrand and redesign. Make it into the sort of place people post about on Instagram.”
“Social media junkie, huh?”
Fletcher chuckled. “Not quite, but I do know that stuff matters if you want to run a successful business. The company who owns the Saint Angel isn’t keeping up with the times. The only people who book this hotel anymore are the regulars who’ve been coming here for twenty years. We need fresh blood if we want to succeed.”
“We?” I asked.
“A premature pronoun,” he admitted. “I can’t help but think I have a future with this place. Is that presumptuous of me?”
I shrugged. “You would know better than me.”
“All I want is for the Saint Angel to live on,” Fletcher said. “I’m the best man to resuscitate it.”
“How does one get into the investing business?” I questioned. “Was your childhood dream to throw money at stuff?”
Fletcher’s answering grin lifted his cheeks into cute wrinkles around his eyes. “I did play a lot of Monopoly. Ironically, I didn’t win much. My brother—”
The elevator finally opened, spilling Marie and Ned into the lobby. Marie launched herself at me, yanking me away from Fletcher.
“Thank goodness,” she panted. Over her shoulder, Fletcher winked at me as he stepped into the elevator. “I need you to do me a huge favor, Jack. I’ll pay you. I’ll buy you a pony. I’ll—”
“Take back what you said about ruining your wedding?”
“She said what?” Ned asked, bewildered.
“I’m hormonal,” Marie shot back. “I didn’t mean it. Please, Jack. I’m sorry. I know it’s not your fault Angelica left—”
I opened my mouth to tell her that Angelica didn’t leave, that she had most likely been kidnapped by the same person who murdered Megan Hollows, but Ned’s phone buzzed. He checked his texts and made a “hurry up” gesture.
“Greg says they’re in the elevator,” he reported. “We gotta move!”
Marie grasped my forearms and locked eyes with me. “Please. Our parents are driving us insane. We just want a couple hours alone together.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
“Distract them,” Marie pleaded. “Tell them we went to sample cakes or something. I don’t care. Say something that’ll give us enough of a head start.”
Ned tapped his foot impatiently. “Babe, they’ll be here any second.”
Marie seized Ned’s hand. “Please, Jack!”
“Okay, okay.”
She swept her lips against my cheek. “Thanks! I owe you.”
The happy couple made a run for it, laughing hysterically as they squeezed into the same section of the revolving door and pushed it around together. Right as they vanished from the sidewalk in front of the Saint Angel, the elevator doors opened again.
I met her eyes. “I’m saying you better be on your guard, especially if any more bridesmaids disappear.”
The following morning, I put on my private investigator pants—also known as my favorite pair of jeans—and set out to gather more information. The first part was easy: start local. I had no proof that Angelica had left the Saint Angel of her own accord, so I cornered a few of the bridesmaids to see if I could find some.
As a treat for agreeing to come to Chicago so far ahead of the wedding, Marie had booked the bridesmaids for a game of—heaven forbid—axe throwing. I tracked down the venue and stepped inside a bar themed with every Canadian cliche the designers could think of. It was all warped wood, buffalo plaid, and stuffed beavers. Country music blared over the speakers, though no one seemed to be enjoying it unless they were several beers in already… at eleven o’clock in the morning.
A chorus of raucous cheers went up from the last bay. I made my way to the end of the throwing stations and found Marie’s bridesmaids, sans Angelica, getting rowdy with their weapons. I watched from the back as Kelani stepped up to the line, raised the axe with both hands behind her head, and hurled it at the bullseye. The axe thudded against the painted wooden board and clattered to the floor.
Kelani let out a string of swears that could have made milk curdle. The rest of the bridesmaids roared with laughter. They shoved another axe into Kelani’s hands, urging her to try again.
“Plant your feet!”
“Don’t take your eye off the target!”
Kelani closed one eye and aimed again. The axe whirled down the bay. The blade slammed into the bullseye and stuck.
The bridesmaids went wild. They pounded Kelani’s back and slapped her butt like a bunch of drunk frat boys. As the server delivered another round of tequila shots, another woman stepped up to the throwing line.
“Hey, ladies,” I said, stepping into their midst. “Sorry to interrupt the fun, but can I—”
“Jacqueline!” Kelani tugged me against her side. The taller girl dwarfed me. My head barely came to her chest. “Did you see me throw? Did you?”
“I saw,” I said. “Great job. Can I ask you guys some questions?”
“You can ask,” another bridesmaid said, “but we’re sloshed. Don’t expect accurate answers.”
“It’s about Angelica.” Someone shoved a beer into my hands. For the hell of it, I drank some. “Has anyone heard from her?”
The bridesmaids moved as one entity, all shaking their heads at once.
“Damn,” I muttered. “What about her social media? Has she posted anything since she left?”
“Nope.” Casey tossed me her phone. “Have a look. Last thing on her Instagram are some pictures from the bachelorette party.”
I scrolled through Angelica’s feed, but there wasn’t much to look at. Like Megan Hollows, her Instagram page boasted selfies, exciting landscapes, and the view outside a plane window. She’d posted consistently, like most people our age, at least once every day until the night she disappeared.
“What about her family?” I asked. “Who does she live with?”
“Her boyfriend,” Casey said. “Carson. His number’s in there if you want to get a hold of him.”
I located Carson’s number, tapped his name, and put the phone to my ear. After several rings, a deep voice answered: “Yo, Case. What’s up?”
“Hi, Carson. This is Jacqueline Frye. I’m a friend of Angelica’s,” I said. “I was wondering if you’ve heard from her lately.”
“Nah, she said she was off the radar for the wedding,” Carson replied. “She wanted alone time with the girls. I respect that.”
“She hasn’t contacted you at all?”
“Nope.”
I chewed on my lower lip. “Listen, Carson. Something’s happened here in Chicago. Angelica supposedly left the hotel to go home.”
“What do you mean she left?”
“She’s gone, and so is all of her stuff. Are you sure she hasn’t come home?”
Carson’s voice pitched in panic. “No, she’s not here. Where’s Casey? Has she talked to Casey? We’ve been arguing, but she wouldn’t have left me—I don’t think. God, what if she left me?”
“Carson, calm down,” I said. “I don’t think Angelica has left you.”
“Then where is she?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I paced on the outer edge of the bridesmaids’ party, doing my best to avoid wayward axes. “What about her parents? Any friends or family she might have gone to see?”
“We don’t know anyone in Chicago,” Carson replied. “Her mom passed away, and she doesn’t speak to her dad. All her friends are there with her for the wedding.”
I scribbled the details in a small notepad. “Don’t worry, Carson. I’m going to find Angelica. I just needed to confirm she wasn’t with you.”
“Wait, who are you again?”
“My name’s Jack. I’m an investigator.”
“Whoever you are, please bring my girlfriend home safely.”
With my promise to Carson sealed, I did the one thing I usually never resorted to during one of my own investigations: I went to the police.
I sat in a waiting room for a good fifteen minutes before anyone bothered to glance at me. Being patient was so much harder than being pushy. My leg jiggled up and down. How did anyone ever get anything done by waiting all the time?
At the twenty-minute mark, the young rookie behind the front desk made eye contact with me for the second time and quickly looked back at his paperwork. Gritting my teeth, I stood up.
“Excuse me,” I said to the rookie. “I’ve been waiting to file a missing persons’ report for almost a half hour. Do you have anyone I can talk to?”
“All the officers are busy right now,” the rookie replied. His eye twitched. Liar.
“Aren’t you an officer?”
He stammered. “Uh, yeah, but I’m not, like, a fully-fledged—I’m supposed to man the front desk.”
“Time is of the essence here, stud,” I said. “You’ve got a whole set of files sitting on a desk back there about the women who have gone missing from this city in the last few months. And you’ve got a murder case you haven’t solved yet. If my missing girl is linked to the others, I’d like to know sooner rather than later.”
“Sorry, miss. I don’t have access—”
“Jones!”
The rookie jumped, squared his shoulders, and straightened the collar of his uniform as a tall woman with familiar features came around the corner. She patted the rookie on the back with a little too much force.
“Make yourself useful, Jones,” she ordered. “Get us some coffee. What do you like?” she added to me. “Latte? Or green tea? Jones, here, makes a decent matcha latte.”
Jones blushed deeply.
“Matcha sounds good.”
The woman smacked Jones’s shoulder. “Off you go then.” As Jones scurried off, the woman turned to me. “I know you. You were at the crime scene outside the Saint Angel a few nights ago.”
Her face clicked in my memory. “Kate, right?”
“Detective Kate Arnold.”
As she shook my hand, we sized each other up. In stature, she reminded me of Evelyn: tall, broad, and well-muscled. That was where the similarities ended. Kate had dark hair, brown eyes, and thick browns. She didn’t quite exude the same “don’t mess with me or I’ll punch you” vibe that Evelyn toted around most days.
“I overheard you talking to Jones,” Kate said. “You got a missing person?”
“Angelica Taylor,” I confirmed. “She disappeared the night after Megan Hollows died.”
Immediately, Kate drew her notepad out and began writing. “Got a time frame?”
“Between midnight and seven a.m.”
“What was she wearing?”
“No idea. Pajamas maybe? All the bridesmaids got matching silk robes that day.” I took out my phone and showed Kate a picture of Angelica from the spa day. Her vacant smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Pink. Embroidered with their names.”
Kate studied the picture. “Did you contact any of her friends or relatives?”
“I called her boyfriend. He said she never came home, and she doesn’t have any other family to go to.” I leaned on the front desk. “When I went to Angelica’s room, it was spotless, like someone went in and cleaned up a crime scene. Megan Hollows disappeared the same way. The hotel thought she’d wanted to ditch her bill, but she ended up dead in the alleyway outside. That can’t happen to Angelica.”
Kate regarded me with such deep intensity that I wondered if I had said something wrong or offensive. Then she said, “I’ve seen your blog.”
My face burned bright red. “I don’t really update that anymore. I don’t want to be accused of fear-mongering.”
“Some of your earlier stuff was bizarre and hard to follow,” Kate admitted. “But I read about the case you cracked in London last year. Jack the Ripper copycat, eh? What made you so sure you could catch the guy?”
“Audacity, guesswork, and a little luck.”
“I’d add brains in there too.” With a wink, she turned on her heel and headed out of the waiting room. At the doorway, she looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming or what?”
Bewildered, I hurried after her. She led me deeper into the police station, walking with an authoritative sway to her hips. As she power-walked, she filled me in.
“If your friend is gone, that’s four women who have disappeared from downtown Chicago in the last three months,” Kate said. “Not including Megan, who might have been considered missing if we hadn’t found her body.”
“Do you think the missing girls are linked to Megan’s death?” I asked. “I don’t think the killer intended to leave her body in that alleyway. It was an accident that she ended up there. What if the other girls are—?” My voice caught in my throat. “What if they’re already—?”
“Dead?” Kate finished for me. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that too.”
She pushed open a door and led me into a small office. Her case—the missing women of Chicago—was plastered all over a big corkboard. She had the details of each woman who had disappeared, sticky notes, pictures, and possible connections pinned to the board. Megan Hollows’s information was set slightly away from the others, but Kate had included it nonetheless.
Kate sat in one office chair and rolled the other over to me with her foot. She propped her feet up on the desk and faced the corkboard. “Britney Fielden, Bianca Mitchell, Hannah Peterson, Megan Hollows, and now…” She gestured to me.
“Angelica Taylor.”
“Angelica Taylor,” she repeated, as if committing the name to memory. “Not a whole lot to connect them. They were all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-two. All relatively active on social media. All tourists to the Chicago area.” Kate twirled a pen around her thumb. “These are important things to consider, but they don’t give us a solid enough link. We can’t pin the disappearances on one person without more.”
“What does your boss think? Royce?”
Kate’s eyes rolled. “Royce isn’t making this case his top priority. He’s more concerned with the drug-related homicides. Not to mention, the whole department is stumped on this. No one can make any connections. That’s why Royce gave me the case, so he can blame it on me if we never solve it.”
“But there are connections,” I said. “You just listed them. You said all the girls disappeared from the downtown area, right? That means the person who took them is probably local.”
“I got that already.” She tapped the pen against a handwritten sticky note on the corkboard: Dick’s probably local.
“You mentioned their social media,” I said. “Any chance any of them are still posting from their accounts?”
“All three of them posted after their supposed disappearance,” Kate answered. “That’s another reason we haven’t been noticing them sooner.”
“Someone posted from Megan Hollows’s account too,” I said. “Whoever’s doing this is purposely trying to buy themselves some time.”
“They succeeded,” Kate said. “Trail’s practically cold. What do you got?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you gotta give me something,” she urged. “Why else would I have brought you back here?”
I rolled closer to the corkboard. “Sorry, police officers don’t ask me to work with them often. Usually, they’re telling me to mind my own business.”
“I could use all the help I can get. Got a hunch?”
“You might think I’m crazy.”
Kate smirked. “Girl, if crazy solves cases, I don’t care if you’re certifiably nuts.”
“So you won’t arrest me if I admit I stole something from the crime scene?”
Her eyebrows hit the ceiling. “You did what?”
“I found a journal in that alley,” I said. “Whoever wrote it was obsessed with H.H. Holmes. He was—”
“Murder Castle guy. I’m familiar. What about this journal?”
“I think it belongs to whoever is kidnapping these women,” I guessed. “And I’m pretty sure he’s mimicking Holmes’s crimes, if his diary is any indication.”
Kate wrote something on a sticky note, rolled over to the corkboard, and planted the note alongside the others: Dick’s a Holmes fan.
“Well, I guess we gotta find a murder castle,” Kate declared.
8
With Kate’s blessing and copies of the other missing girls’ files, I returned to the Saint Angel with fresh confidence. As I stepped out of the Lyft, which had dropped me off across the street from the hotel, something caught my eye. Fletcher Stevens, the investor, lingered around the entrance of the Saint Angel, his gaze fixed on the ground. He made even strides back and forth, scanning the pavement for something. He rounded the corner and continued his methodical sweep in the alleyway where Megan Hollows had died.
He did a double-take then quickly knelt down and plucked something off the ground. He tucked the object into the breast pocket of his black bomber jacket, brushed his hands off, and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. With practiced nonchalance, he sauntered into the hotel.
I jogged across the street and tracked him inside. He waited outside the elevator, whistling a cheerful tune. I fanned myself, hoping for the pink flush to subside from my cheeks, and stepped beside him.
“Whew!” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Cold out, isn’t it?”
“Quite,” he replied politely. He glanced at me, one eyebrow lifting in recognition. “You’re Wolf’s friend. From Rodolfo’s.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” I admitted. “I ran into him, and he offered me lunch.”
A twinkle lit up Fletcher’s blue eyes. “He’s generous like that.”
“I’m Jack,” I said. “Wolf told me you were trying to buy the hotel.”
He patted his chest, as if to make sure whatever item he’d picked up in the alleyway outside was still there. “That remains to be seen. There’s quite a bit of competition.”
“Why do you want to buy this place anyway?” I asked. “Business doesn’t seem to be doing particularly well.”
“That’s why I want it,” he answered. “This place used to be Chicago’s prime destination. People practically begged to stay here. If I buy it, I can rebrand and redesign. Make it into the sort of place people post about on Instagram.”
“Social media junkie, huh?”
Fletcher chuckled. “Not quite, but I do know that stuff matters if you want to run a successful business. The company who owns the Saint Angel isn’t keeping up with the times. The only people who book this hotel anymore are the regulars who’ve been coming here for twenty years. We need fresh blood if we want to succeed.”
“We?” I asked.
“A premature pronoun,” he admitted. “I can’t help but think I have a future with this place. Is that presumptuous of me?”
I shrugged. “You would know better than me.”
“All I want is for the Saint Angel to live on,” Fletcher said. “I’m the best man to resuscitate it.”
“How does one get into the investing business?” I questioned. “Was your childhood dream to throw money at stuff?”
Fletcher’s answering grin lifted his cheeks into cute wrinkles around his eyes. “I did play a lot of Monopoly. Ironically, I didn’t win much. My brother—”
The elevator finally opened, spilling Marie and Ned into the lobby. Marie launched herself at me, yanking me away from Fletcher.
“Thank goodness,” she panted. Over her shoulder, Fletcher winked at me as he stepped into the elevator. “I need you to do me a huge favor, Jack. I’ll pay you. I’ll buy you a pony. I’ll—”
“Take back what you said about ruining your wedding?”
“She said what?” Ned asked, bewildered.
“I’m hormonal,” Marie shot back. “I didn’t mean it. Please, Jack. I’m sorry. I know it’s not your fault Angelica left—”
I opened my mouth to tell her that Angelica didn’t leave, that she had most likely been kidnapped by the same person who murdered Megan Hollows, but Ned’s phone buzzed. He checked his texts and made a “hurry up” gesture.
“Greg says they’re in the elevator,” he reported. “We gotta move!”
Marie grasped my forearms and locked eyes with me. “Please. Our parents are driving us insane. We just want a couple hours alone together.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
“Distract them,” Marie pleaded. “Tell them we went to sample cakes or something. I don’t care. Say something that’ll give us enough of a head start.”
Ned tapped his foot impatiently. “Babe, they’ll be here any second.”
Marie seized Ned’s hand. “Please, Jack!”
“Okay, okay.”
She swept her lips against my cheek. “Thanks! I owe you.”
The happy couple made a run for it, laughing hysterically as they squeezed into the same section of the revolving door and pushed it around together. Right as they vanished from the sidewalk in front of the Saint Angel, the elevator doors opened again.
