“I know you do, Dan, and I don’t blame you. Has Lundquist not heard from his office?”
“He’s called them twice, but the lab is still working on the car.”
“Okay. Ask him to call me when he gets word. If he’s going to arrest Bartlett, I’d like to be there when he does it.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Stone ended the call and stood there thinking for a moment. He was getting tired of this, too. He punched 411 into the phone, asked for the number of the Colony Hotel and waited while the operator connected him.
“The Colony, good afternoon,” a woman’s voice said.
“Paul Bartlett, please.”
She connected him, and the phone rang and rang. Finally she came back on the line. “There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Yes, please. Ask him to…”
“One moment, I’ll connect you with the front desk.” She did so.
“Reception,” a man’s voice said.
“I’d like to leave a message for Paul Bartlett,” Stone said. He’d just arrange to meet the man and put Liz’s proposition to him.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Bartlett checked out just a few minutes ago, and I’m afraid he didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
Stone punched the end button. “Shit,” he said aloud.
31
Stone couldn’t believe it. He and Dino got dressed and into a car and drove to the Colony Hotel; he wanted to question the desk man. As they pulled into the parking lot, he spotted Detective Riley and Lieutenant Lundquist sitting in an idling car thirty yards away. Stone walked over and rapped on the window, startling them both.
“What are you doing here, Stone?” Lundquist asked. “You’re going to spook the guy.”
“What guy?” Stone asked.
“Bartlett.”
“Bartlett has decamped.”
“Come with me.” Stone started for the hotel lobby.
Lundquist caught up and fell into step with Stone. “What do you mean, 'decamped'?“
“I mean, Bartlett has checked out of the hotel, and he didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I telephoned him half an hour ago, and that’s what the desk clerk told me. I want to find out if it’s true, or if Bartlett simply bought the desk man, and I want you to flash your badge at him so he’ll talk to me.”
The desk clerk stared blankly at the badge. “You’re a police officer? Where? Your badge doesn’t look familiar.”
“He’s from Minneapolis,” Stone said. “I can have a Palm Beach badge here in thirty seconds, if that will refresh your memory.”
“My memory about what?”
“First of all, has Paul Bartlett really checked out?”
“Yes, I saw him go.”
“What forwarding address did he give?”
“I’ll show you his registration card,” the clerk said, riffling through a stack of them. “Here.” He held it up. The space for a forwarding address was blank.
“Did you check him out of the hotel?”
“In a manner of speaking. He didn’t even wait for his bill, said he had to catch a plane and I should mail it to him.”
“To where?”
“To the address on the card.”
Lundquist checked the card. “It’s his Minneapolis address. The guy’s gone home.”
“How much luggage did he have?” Stone asked.
“A lot; three or four bags.”
“And where did the bellman load his car?”
“Down on the street,” the clerk said, pointing at the side door.
“That’s why he got past you,” Stone said to Lundquist. “I’d like to see his room, please.”
The man pressed a few buttons on a machine, and a plastic card was spat out. “It’s suite four-oh-four. Help yourself,” he said.
Stone led the way to the elevator and pressed four. A moment later they were standing outside the suite, and Stone got the door open.
“Easy there,” Lundquist said, pushing past Stone. “I’d better go first.”
“It’s not a crime scene,” Stone said, following him. “Unless there’s a corpse stashed under the bed.”
Lundquist looked under the bed. “Nothing.”
“No kidding?” Stone looked around. The room had already been cleaned that morning, and the bed had not been used since. He went around the room, looking in closets and opening drawers.
“What are you looking for?” Lundquist asked.
“I don’t know,” Stone replied.
“Whatever he can find,” Dino said.
Lundquist started opening drawers, too.
Stone went back into the sitting room and looked around. The place was neat as a pin, the wastebaskets were empty, and there was not so much as a trace of Paul Bartlett, or whoever he was.
“What now?” Lundquist asked.
“The airport,” Stone replied. “He told the clerk he had to catch a plane.”
The three men left the hotel, and Lundquist got into the rear seat of Stone’s convertible.
“I should be wearing sunscreen,” Lundquist said as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“Yeah, that pale Scandinavian skin will fry every time,” Dino said, half to himself, chuckling. “World’s whitest white men.”
“That’s what you call me,” Stone said.
“You, too.”
At the airport, they went to the nearest ticket counter, and Lundquist flashed his badge and asked about flights to Minneapolis.
“None of the airlines flies directly to Minneapolis from Palm Beach,” the woman behind the counter said. “You’d have to change, probably in Atlanta.”
“Will you check reservations for a Paul Bartlett?” Lundquist asked.
The woman turned to her computer terminal, tapped a few keys and looked at the screen. “I’ll do a search for the name,” she said, tapping more keys. “Nope, nobody by that name.”
“Try Paul Manning,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
She tapped the keys again. “Nope, no Manning.”
“Do you recall, in the past hour or so, a tall man, six-three or -four, mid-to-late forties, dark hair going gray, fairly good-looking?”
“No, and I think I’d have noticed,” the woman said, smiling.
“Thanks for your help,” Stone said. He turned to Lundquist and Dino. “Let’s hit the charter services.”
“How do we find those?” Lundquist asked.
“There’s a big sign outside, pointing to them all,” Stone replied.
They went outside and checked the sign; there were half a dozen.
“Ebbe, you go in the car with Riley and check the north side of the field; Dino and I will check the south
