“I’m with Fairfield Windows and Doors and we’re going to be in your area later this-”
I hung up. I found a number for the Just Inn Time, dialed it. I let it ring twenty times before hanging up.
I grabbed my jacket and keys and drove across town to the hotel, pulled right up under the canopy by the front door, and went inside for the first time since Syd had started here a couple of weeks ago. Before heading in, I scanned the lot for her Civic. I’d seen it the odd time I’d driven by since she’d started, but it wasn’t there tonight. Maybe she’d parked out back.
The glass doors parted before me as I strode into the lobby. As I approached the desk, I hoped I would see Syd, but there was a man there instead. A young guy, late twenties maybe, dirty blond hair, his face cratered by the ravages of acne a decade earlier. “May I help you?” he asked. His name tag read “Owen.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was just looking for Syd.”
“I’m sorry. What’s his last name?”
“It’s a she. Sydney. She’s my daughter.”
“Do you know what room she’s staying in?”
“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “She works here. Right here on the desk, actually. I was expecting her home for dinner, just thought I’d swing by and see if she was going to be working a double or something.”
“I see,” said Owen.
“Her name’s Sydney Blake,” I said. “You must know her.”
Owen shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you new here?” I asked.
“No. Well, yeah.” He grinned. “Six months. I guess that’s new.”
“Sydney Blake,” I repeated. “She’s been working here two weeks. Seventeen, blonde hair.”
Owen shook his head.
“Maybe they’ve got her working someplace else this week,” I suggested. “Do you have an employee roster or a schedule or something that would tell you where I could find her? Or maybe I could just leave a message?”
“Could you wait just a moment?” Owen asked. “I’ll get the duty manager.”
Owen slipped through a door behind the front desk, returning a moment later with a lean, good-looking, dark-haired man in his early forties. His name tag read “Carter,” and when he spoke I pegged him as from the South, although what state I couldn’t guess.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for my daughter,” I said. “She works here.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sydney Blake,” I said. “Syd.”
“Sydney Blake?” he said. “Don’t recognize that name at all.”
I shook my head. “She’s only been here a couple of weeks. She’s just working here for the summer.”
Carter was shaking his head, too. “I’m sorry.”
I felt my heart beating more quickly. “Check your employee list,” I urged him.
“I don’t need to be checking any list,” he said. “I know who works here and who doesn’t, and there’s nobody here by that name.”
“Hang on,” I said. I dug out my wallet, fished around in a crevice behind my credit cards, and found a three-year-old high school photo of Sydney. I handed it across the desk.
“It’s not real recent,” I said. “But that’s her.”
They took turns studying the picture. Owen’s eyebrows popped up briefly, impressed, I guessed, by Sydney ’s good looks. Carter handed it back to me.
“I’m real sorry, Mr.-”
“Blake. Tim Blake.”
“She might be working at the Howard Johnson’s up the road a bit.” He tipped his head to the right.
“No,” I said. “This is where she said she works.” My mind was racing. “Is there a day manager?”
“That’d be Veronica.”
“Call her. Call Veronica.”
With great reluctance, Carter placed the call, apologized to the woman on the other end of the line, and handed me the receiver.
I explained my situation to Veronica.
“Maybe she told you the wrong hotel,” Veronica said, echoing Carter.
“No,” I said firmly.
Veronica asked for my number and promised to call me if she heard anything. And then she hung up.
On the way home, I went through two red lights and nearly hit a guy in a Toyota Yaris. I had my cell in my hand, phoning Syd’s cell and then home, then her cell again.
When I got back to the house, it was empty.
Syd did not come home that night.
Or the next night.
Or the night after that.
ONE
“WE’VE ALSO BEEN LOOKING AT THE MAZDA,” the woman said. “And we took a-Dell, what was it called? The other one we took out for a test drive?”
Her husband said, “A Subaru.”
“That’s right,” the woman said. “A Subaru.”
The woman, whose name was Lorna, and her husband, whose name was Dell, were sitting across the desk from me in the showroom of Riverside Honda. This was the third time they’d been in to see me since I’d come back to work. There comes a point, even when you’re dealing with the worst crisis of your life, when you find yourself not knowing what else to do but fall back into your routine.
Lorna had on the desk, in addition to the folder on the Accord, which was what Lorna and Dell had been talking to me about, folders on the Toyota Camry, the Mazda 6, the Subaru Legacy, the Chevrolet Malibu, the Ford Taurus, the Dodge Avenger, and half a dozen others at the bottom of the stack that I couldn’t see.
“I notice that the Taurus has 263 horsepower with its standard engine, but the Accord only has 177 horsepower,” Lorna said.
“I think you’ll see,” I said, working hard to stay focused, “that the Taurus engine with that horsepower rating is a V6, while the Accord is a four-cylinder. You’ll find it still gives you plenty of pickup, but uses way less gas.”
“Oh,” Lorna said, nodding. “What are the cylinders, exactly? I know you told me before, but I don’t think I remember.”
Dell shook his head slowly from side to side. That was pretty much all Dell did during these visits. He sat there and let Lorna ask all the questions, do all the talking, unless he was asked something specific, and even then he usually just grunted. He appeared to be losing the will to live. I guessed he’d been sitting across the desk of at least a dozen sales associates between Bridgeport and New Haven over the last few weeks. I could see it in his face, that he didn’t give a shit what kind of car they got, just so long as they got something.
