No Reservations Required, page 17
part #8 of Sophie Greenway Series
Sophie wasn’t shocked by much, but this shocked her. “Dad? This is Minnesota, remember? Maybe that would go over in L.A., or San Francisco—”
He held up his hand. “See, you’re stuck in the mud. We gotta think cutting edge here, Soph.” He studied her a moment, then said, “Okay, try this on for size. One hotel we stayed at had the coolest check-in policy. See, you play a hand of blackjack with the receptionist. If you win, you get your room free, or maybe we could give the guest some kind of discount at one of our restaurants. What do you think?”
She hated to put a damper on his excitement, but she was growing more nauseated with each passing second. It might be the cigar, but she feared it was the list. “Well—”
“Or, how about this? We provide a speed-dial button on our room phones that would patch guests straight to a shrink. You know, in case they get depressed while they stay here.”
Sophie needed a shrink on speed dial right now. “Dad, I, ah—”
“Here’s another. You know how people like to tie one on when they’re on vacation. Well, what if we give them—free—some hair of the dog. On weekends only. We don’t want to give away the bank.”
“Hair of the dog?”
“Free cold pizza and Bloody Marys, say from ten to noon.”
“Dad!”
“What?”
“Do you really think the Maxfield Plaza would benefit from any of these programs?”
“Absolutely. I know it would. You think I’m crazy, but I swear, we wouldn’t be the only ones doing this. We have to stay ahead of the curve, Soph. Otherwise, we die.”
She’d heard just about all the new Gen X slogans she could stand and was about to let fly with what she really thought, when Margie walked into the room.
“Hi, Henry, Sophie.” As usual, her smile was amused, more of a smirk. “Gee, with a little more heat, you could smoke a ham in here.”
Henry glowered. “You’re interrupting. What do you want?”
“I was looking for my dad.” She tucked a lock of chocolate brown hair behind her ear.
“Nathan’s upstairs on the mezzanine level,” said Sophie. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Me? Why?”
“He said you two had a meeting this morning.”
Her face puckered in confusion. “Not that I know of.”
Sophie turned to look at her. “You mean he’s not here to see you?”
“Nope.” The smirk returned. “Hey, great save, Sophie. You get me to think he’s here to see me, so if I happen to run into him, I think there was a mixup— when in reality, it’s just more of the same. You and Nathan getting together behind my dad’s back.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it?”
Henry piped up: “Anybody ever tell you you’re a real brat, Margie?”
Her smirk evaporated. “What did you say?”
“I said you’re a brat. B-R-A-T. You leech off my daughter’s goodwill, and at the same time, every chance you get, you stick it to her. I’m watching you, missy. You may have your dad wrapped around your little finger, but not me. Now get the hell out of here. We’re working.”
Margie’s mouth fell open.
“Did you hear me? Leave!”
Turning on her heel, Margie stomped out.
After she was gone, Sophie reached across the table and squeezed her dad’s hand.
“I know. I’m awesome. Now, let’s get back to the list.”
29
Bram checked the white pages and found that Phil Banks had an unlisted phone number and street address. It didn’t surprise him. After thinking about the problem for a few minutes, it occurred to him that perhaps Vince Parillo might know it. He phoned right away. Vince not only had the address, but he gave Bram directions. When Vince heard about the message his niece had left on Bram’s answering machine, he was furious. He muttered something about his old army buddies, two-by-fours, and paying Phil a little visit later in the day. Bram promised he’d call and let him know how Chris was doing.
Half an hour later, Bram pulled off a quiet Wood-bury street and eased his new—used—silver Bentley into Phil’s driveway. He cut the motor and sat for a second gazing at the stucco house. It was a modern two-story, with a lower deck that ran along one side and around the back. In Bram’s opinion, it was ugly—boxlike and boring. But it was also impressive in its own overstated way. Noticing that one of the doors to Phil’s three-stall garage was open, and hearing country music blaring from inside, Bram figured he’d found his man.
Slipping out of the front seat, Bram glanced at the house again, wondering if Chris was inside. He found Phil bent over the engine of his Corvette. He was wearing jeans and a dirty sweatshirt, and appeared to be deep in thought.
When Phil looked up, he seemed confused. The confusion quickly turned to irritation. “Jeez, Baldric. For a second there I thought you were that old actor. What’s his name? Cary Grant.”
“We all have our doubles.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Phil turned down the music. His hands were smeared with grease, so he picked up a rag and began to wipe them off. “What are you doing here? Or do I need to ask?”
“I came to see Chris.”
“How did I guess?”
“She left me a message yesterday. Said she’d call me last night. She never did.”
“This about that job offer?”
Bram nodded. He might as well play along.
Narrowing one eye, Phil said, “How come you’re so interested in helping my wife, Baldric? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hustling her.”
Bram shrugged. “What can I say? I’m just a nice guy.”
“Right.”
“She here?”
“Nope. You drove all this way for nothing.” He glanced out the garage door at Bram’s car. The sight of the Bentley seemed to annoy him.
“If she’s coming back soon, I’ll wait.”
“Sorry,” said Phil, tossing the rag over his shoulder. He returned his attention to the engine. “She left town this morning. Said she needed to get her head together.”
“Meaning what?”
“Hell if I know. You know women.”
“Where’d she go?”
“None of your goddamn business. Now get the hell off my property.”
Bram didn’t believe it for a second. If Chris was gone, Phil was behind it. And that left Bram with two big questions: What had he done with her, and most important, was she still alive?
“You’re lying,” said Bram. “She wouldn’t just leave without calling someone in her family.”
Phil reared back. “Who the hell do you think you are? All of a sudden you know my wife better than I do?”
“Where is she!”
“Gone. That’s all I’m gonna tell you.” He picked up a wrench, hefting it in his hand like a weapon.
Bram backed up. “Your alibi for the night Fabian and Loy were murdered is bogus. Chris admitted it to me.”
Phil cracked a smile. “That’s hearsay, Baldric. Not admissible in a court of law.”
Bram didn’t mention he had it on tape, that Chris had left it on his answering machine.
“It’s also not true. Maybe I’ll sue your ass for slander. I got so many lawyers on my payroll, I could keep you wrapped up in litigation for years. You want to lose that Bentley, huh? That fancy diamond ring?”
“Just tell me where she is and I’ll leave. Just so I know she’s safe.”
“You saying I’d hurt her?”
“You already did.”
“The black eye?” He laughed. “That was an accident. We were sitting on the couch and I stretched my arms, caught her a good one.”
Now Bram had two stories, and neither one was true.
“But if you don’t get the hell out of here, the black eye I give you will be for real. So will the broken nose and the cracked ribs. It would be a shame to see that pretty face of yours all banged and bruised, that nice tweed suit and blue oxford shirt bloody.” He brought the wrench up, tapping it in his other hand. “You either leave on your own, or I throw you off my property. Your choice.”
Bram glanced at a door that opened into the house. “Chris?” he shouted, hoping she’d hear. “Chris! It’s Bram Baldric. If you’re in there, come out. I need to talk to you.”
“You don’t hear very well,” said Phil, advancing another step.
“Actually, my mother agrees with you.” He turned to the door. “Chris!”
“Look,” said Phil, moving back behind the front end of the Corvette. “You’ve got me all wrong, Baldric. I’m a reasonable man. You wanna look inside? Go for it.”
Bram’s eyes snapped back to Phil, wondering if this was a trap. But he had to take the risk. He turned slowly and stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. “Chris?” he called again.
The house was silent.
Bounding up the stairs, Bram checked every room on the second floor. All were empty. After searching through the first floor, he located the basement stairs and started down. It didn’t take him long to realize Phil wasn’t lying. Chris wasn’t home.
After checking the freezer just to assure himself he’d looked everywhere, Bram started back up. Phil was standing in the doorway, looking down at him.
“Find her?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you check the chimney? Maybe I stuffed her up there. Or how about the freezer? That’s a perfect place to hide a body.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, my my. Frustration. Like I said, Baldric, she left town. She wanted some privacy and I intend to see she gets it.”
“Her car,” said Bram.
“Gone,” said Phil. “You wanna see? Come on back out to the garage.”
Now that Bram was at the top of the stairs, he met Phil’s eyes with a hard stare of his own. “You’ve done something with her.”
“Nothing I wouldn’t like to do with you, given half a chance.” His breath stank of stale coffee and cigarettes.
“You married her to shut her up, but it didn’t work. You killed Fabian and Loy, and now you’ve killed Chris.”
“Prove it.”
Bram was startled. He didn’t even deny it. “You crazy psycho piece of crap! Tell me!”
“Get out,” said Phil, his voice cold as rebar.
With his heart banging wildly in his chest, Bram said, “Gladly.”
An hour later, he was standing in Al Lundquist’s cubicle. “He murdered her!”
“Calm down,” said Al, leaning back in his chair.
“You’ve got to get on this! Now. Banks is responsible for three deaths. I told you, Chris wasn’t with him that night. He went out to his car to sleep while she watched the movie. He could have gone anywhere.”
“He didn’t kill Fabian and Loy.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because . . . because I can. I can’t say any more.”
Bram glared at him. “You think Gladstone did it?”
“No comment.”
“Did Sophie call you?”
Al cocked his head. “Why would your wife call me? She doesn’t even like me.”
Bram didn’t want to get into it right now, because he didn’t think it had any bearing on the murders. Still, he figured Al should know. “Anika Gladstone gave her husband an alibi for the night of the murders, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, she was lying, too. Sophie ran into her over at the Rookery Club right about the time Ken Loy was shot. She couldn’t have been with Andy unless she can be in two places at once.”
Al held his eyes. “Sophie would swear to this?”
“Sure. Anika even admitted to her that she was lying. She said Andy was home sick, that he couldn’t have killed his brother or Loy.”
Al’s eyes dropped to his desk as his fist slammed on top of a stack of papers. “Gotcha,” he crowed.
“No, no. You’re not listening. It’s Phil! He’s the one you’re looking for.”
Al thought for a moment, squeezing the back of his neck, then picked up his phone and punched in a bunch of numbers. “It’s Lundquist. Yeah. Where’s Molly?” He listened. “Well, when she reports in, tell her to call me ASAP. Got that? ASAP.”
“You’re targeting the wrong guy,” said Bram, even before Al hung up the phone.
Al shook his head. “Okay, I hear you. Phil’s an asshole. He’s also a rough character. You should be glad he didn’t clock you right there in the garage. You could be climbing out of a drainage ditch right now instead of talking to me.”
“But you’re not listening.”
“I am. Any guy who would hit a woman is a total sleaze. But he was ringing your chimes today, pal, and probably enjoying the hell out of it. The fact that Chris wasn’t there doesn’t mean a thing. If, in twenty-four hours, she still doesn’t turn up, file a missing person’s report.”
“This is what I pay taxes for?”
“What do you want me to do? Go out there and arrest him? For what? On what evidence?”
The phone on Al’s desk gave a jarring ring. Al picked it up. “Lundquist.” He listened a moment, then cracked a smile. “We got him. Yeah. I’ll explain when I see you. Stay there, okay. I’ll be right over.”
Bram flung his arms in the air. “You’re just going to blow this off? I know in my gut that Phil’s done something with her. All right, so maybe he was playing with me, maybe he didn’t kill her, but he’s got her locked up somewhere so she can’t hurt him. Who knows how long it will be before he does decide to get rid of her?”
Al stood and shrugged into his Twins baseball jacket. “You’ve got a lethal imagination. You’re also assuming he’s our perp. If he isn’t—and I know for a fact that he isn’t—he’s got no reason to hurt her. Unless it’s a domestic, in which case somebody else will have to cover it.” He put his hand on Bram’s shoulder. “You’re a great guy. You care about people. But you’re off base on this one. Okay? Trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time. Now, I gotta go.” Pushing Bram out of his office, he added, “Do yourself a favor. Go home, take two aspirin, and take a nap.”
Bram couldn’t let it go. Chris was either dead or in danger. Either way, somebody had to find her. He remembered that her mother’s first name was Nora. Sitting in his car, he used his cell phone to call directory assistance. A few minutes later, Nora Parillo was on the line:
“Hello?”
“Is this Nora?”
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Baldric. Bram Baldric.”
“Oh, sure. I recognize your voice from the radio. You’re a friend of my daughter.”
She sounded a lot like Chris, except that her voice was deeper. “I am. I was wondering if you’d heard from Chris today? I’m trying to reach her.” Bram didn’t want to alarm her.
“Well, yes, I did. But I didn’t actually talk to her. I was out walking the dog when she called. She left me a message.”
Bram’s heart skipped a beat. Maybe Chris was okay. “Can I ask what she said?”
“Just that her car was on the fritz. She planned to drive it over to Phil’s mechanic’s place and leave it there for him to look at. Phil said he’d follow in his car so he could drive her back home. She said she wanted to talk to me today, but not to call her at the house. She said she’d get back to me.”
“That’s all she said?”
“Well, yes. And that she loved me.”
“What time was the call?”
“About eight fifteen.”
So that meant if Phil had done something to Chris, it had to have happened between eight fifteen and ten thirty—when Bram arrived at Phil’s house. Not much time.
“Why are you so interested?” asked Nora.
“Like I said, I’d like to get in touch with her today.”
“Is this about that job offer? She told me all about it. I think it would be a godsend for her to do something with her life other than wait hand and foot on that horrible man.”
“I couldn’t agree more. You don’t by any chance know who Phil’s mechanic is, do you?”
“No idea. Sorry. Listen, Mr. Baldric, if you find her, will you tell her to call me right away? She sounded kind of nervous in that message she left me. Maybe nobody else would have noticed, but I’m her mother. I worry about her.”
“I understand. And I promise. As soon as I find her, I’ll make sure she calls.”
30
When Anika was thirteen, she saw a man being pulled from Chatham Lake. It was an image she would never forget. It was wintertime, and the lake was a favorite spot for skaters in her small Michigan hometown. That December day, Anika had been walking home from school when a squad car, lights flashing, whizzed past her and made a hard right on Tarnauer Road, heading for the lake. By the time she reached the warming house, she saw that a paramedic truck had already arrived and that men in wet suits were attempting to walk out onto the lake.
People were scattered around in small groups, muttering softly. Anika stood close to one of them and learned that a man had fallen through just a few minutes before and had disappeared under the ice. Anika watched as one of the men in wet suits jumped into a gaping hole.
Ten minutes later, rescuers tossed ropes to the diver as paramedics helped drag the man from the water. Anika inched closer to the warming house as the man was carried past her on a stretcher. What seemed so astonishing to her then—and ever after—was how he was encased from head to toe in a thin, glistening sheet of ice. It looked like shiny plastic, perfectly molded to his clothes and skin. She could see the horror on his face as he must have struggled to find a way out.
The man’s eyes were open, but he was dead inside an ice cocoon.
As Anika looked over at her husband now, watching him behind the wheel of their car driving back to Bob’s house, just minutes after dropping Rick off at the airport, she was certain she saw that same ice cocoon forming around him. She shivered as she turned her eyes away.
After arriving home last night, Andy had drunk one glass of champagne after another. When the bubbly was gone, he started in on the Scotch, refusing to eat any of the pizza. Anika couldn’t pinpoint just what was wrong, but she knew that whatever it was, it was huge. She’d never seen Andy so fractured—laughing gaily, almost desperately one minute, zoned out the next. The booze was obviously a way to anesthetize his pain, though it eventually cut him off entirely. Shortly after nine, he’d excused himself and lurched his way upstairs to bed.
