And if that was the case, then the woman was much more clearheaded than he thought. And also very determined. When Plan A had crumbled like dust at her feet, she’d regrouped rather quickly.
By waiting out the night, paying attention at breakfast, and following Rogan and Max to the aquarium, she’d been able to facilitate Rogan’s fall.
An excellent distraction.
And leading Max away, through all the confusion, played the helpful old lady card to perfection. Who was to question an elderly woman walking off with a little kid?
Nothing suspicious there.
In fact, the whole abduction had been so well thought out and smoothly executed that Clay suspected she’d done this sort of thing before.
But why? A pedophiliac Grandma?
The chances of that were pretty slim.
And most women who kidnapped children to fulfill a maternal need were younger, and selected younger children. Not to mention that that particular scenario played in a negligible amount of abductions.
So why specifically target Max? There had to be easier children to take. Did he remind her of a lost child? Was he the latest in a string of replacements?
He’d obviously been targeted before she ever made the reservation at the Inn. Tate didn’t allow Max to mingle with guests, except on a very limited basis. And the woman had come prepared with the drug and a plan for taking Max.
He wished the sheer, nauseating terror he felt would stop messing with his ability to think. Because the more he tried to fit the pieces together the more confusing the puzzle became. There was a reason cops didn’t investigate cases dealing with loved ones, because it shot your objectivity to hell.
“Figure anything out?” Kim asked as she pulled up behind the Inn.
“I’m an embarrassment to the Investigative Support Unit right now, because I can’t figure out shit.”
“Give yourself a break,” she advised as they got out. “You’re under a lot of stress. And please remember that as important as this is – and I know what this little boy means to you – this is not up to you alone. You have the Charleston PD and several federal agents working to get Max back. So whatever happens,” she stopped him just outside the door to the Inn with a hand laid in friendship on his arm, “you cannot hold yourself responsible.”
Her meaning was clear. If Max died, that was just the way things went.
“Thanks for that vote of confidence.” Clay shook off her hand, pinching his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Visions of Max, terrified and alone, made the words a ragged lance of pain. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Clay took the key Tate had given him to let them in the back door, and headed straight for the office. A feminine voice drifted out, engaged in one-sided conversation.
A shorter, rounder version of Kathleen Murphy sat behind the desk, cell phone to her ear. She tapped away at the computer keyboard while leaving a message asking Maggie for help.
Tate’s cousin, Maureen. The pharmacist looked up from the computer as they entered, and though a smile attempted to flutter at the corners of her mouth, the eyes behind her glasses were worried.
She shook their hands as introductions were made, then quickly got down to business. “I was having some trouble getting into the file that keeps the records of the Inn’s guests so I called Maggie to see if she could help. Or better yet remember the name of the woman you mentioned. Her cell phone’s apparently in a dead zone because I can’t get through.”
Hell, Clay thought. They didn’t have time for this. And while he was competent with computers he was no technical guru. He turned a hopeful look toward Kim.
“I’m not much better than you. But why don’t I give somebody in tech support a call and see if they can walk me through it?”
“Excellent idea.”
Kim moved to take the chair behind the desk, and Maureen hustled out of her way. “If this doesn’t work, should somebody wake Tate?”
“If this doesn’t work, we might have to. In the meantime, I’m going to go up to the room where our mystery guest spent the night.”
The door was unlocked, and Clay pulled a latex glove – an occupational staple – out of his pocket so as not to disturb any prints. From the unmade state of the ornately carved bed, he determined that the daily cleaning hadn’t yet taken place, and thanked whatever stars had determined that at least one thing go their way.
He wasn’t sure what, if anything, he might find, especially since this woman seemed careful. But at the moment any clue, however small, was better than none.
He checked the closet, under the bed. In the drawers of the bureau to see if anything may have fallen out of a pocket and been left behind. Unsurprisingly, the place was clean.
Flipping back the covers on the barely disturbed bed, he noted that not one single hair or detectable fiber was visible to the naked eye. No creases or drool marks on the pillow or residue from that night cream old ladies tended to wear.
In fact, it looked like no actual human skin had touched the sheets. Bending to sniff the bedding, he found no tell-tale odor of mothballs. Or rose water. Or sweat. Or anything other than Bounce.
Finding absolutely nothing even remotely useful in the bedroom, Clay flipped on the lights in the adjoining bath. The shower/tub combo was perfectly dry, the complimentary toiletries undisturbed, and neither the bathmat nor any of the large towels appeared to have been used.
Okay. So the woman hadn’t bothered to bathe. Not totally strange, considering his own grandmother had done so only every other day, and had positively refused to use the facilities whenever she’d stayed in a hotel. Germophobic, maybe, but not conclusive
