approach he came up with would get him in trouble if anyone ever found out, but he didn’t see how they would. Besides, the matchbook could be nothing. He was just…curious, that’s all. And if his curiosity helped him break the case, that would be a bonus.
He made a stop at a gas station before he reached the hotel, and changed into his uniform in the restroom. It would provide him instant credibility, and open doors that his civilian clothes wouldn’t.
He parked around the corner so no one would see the car he arrived in. At the entrance, a doorman in black tails and bowtie opened the glass door and said, “Welcome to the Lawrence, Officer.”
Jake gave him a nod as he passed inside.
The lobby was smaller than he expected, but was still large enough to encompass several ornate couches and chairs, a water fountain aged to look like it had been uprooted from an Italian piazza, and a coffee bar with the most elaborate coffee maker Jake had ever seen. At the far end were the reception counter, the concierge desk, and the bellhop station.
Jake headed straight for reception. Both of the people working the desk were with customers, but when the woman nearest him caught sight of him in his uniform, she picked up a phone. A moment later, a third woman came out of the back room.
“Can I help you, Officer?” she asked with a smile.
As he approached the counter, his first instinct was to smile back and put her at ease, but he kept his expression neutral, knowing the uniform would be a more effective tool than a smile. “Yes, thank you. I’d like to speak to the person in charge of security.”
Her brow darkened. “Yes, of course.” As she picked up a phone, she said, “Is there a problem?”
“Just a routine matter.”
She nodded, then said into the phone. “I have an Officer…” She looked at Jake’s uniform, reading his nameplate, “…Oliver at the front desk. He says he needs to speak to Mr. Evans…yes, yes…okay. Sure.” She hung up, then motioned to one of the chairs in the seating area behind him. “If you’d like to wait over there, he’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Thank you.” Jake moved over to the chair, but didn’t sit down.
Two minutes later, a woman and a man came out of an unmarked door near the concierge desk, and walked over to him. The woman looked to be in her fifties and was dressed in a smart, dark gray business suit. The man was maybe a few years older, and wore a black suit and the unmistakable look of retired cop.
“Officer Oliver, is it?” the woman said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said.
She held out her hand. “I’m Toni Conway. I manage the Lawrence.”
Jake shook her hand.
She then turned to the man beside her and said, “This is Carl Evans. He’s head of security.”
“Mr. Evans,” Jake said, as he shook the man’s hand.
“What is it we can help you with?” Evans asked.
“A small matter, really,” Jake said. “I’m sure you’re aware of the airport transit robberies.” The robberies were real. Someone had been forcing Town Cars headed for the airport off the road, then robbing their passengers of whatever valuables they might be carrying. These were always cars heading
“Sure,” Evans said. “We’ve been taking every precaution to ensure our guests don’t become victims.”
“May I ask what those are?” Jake said. The question really wasn’t important other than to sell his own legitimacy.
Evans said, “We’ve encouraged most people to use van pools. Those who do go by Town Car, we always send a second car driven by a member of my staff to follow right behind. We haven’t had any problems.”
“Excellent,” Jake said. “That’s exactly what we’ve been encouraging other hotels to do.” He paused. “We could use your help on another matter.”
“What’s that?” Evans asked.
“A matchbook with your hotel’s logo was found at the scene of the latest robbery.”
Conway’s face scrunched up in question. “A matchbook? From here?”
Jake stepped over to a small table between the two chairs. He’d spotted a matchbook, just like the one he’d found at the crime scene, sitting on the table when he’d first come over. Now he picked it up and showed it to them.
“Just like this one.”
“Why would that be important?” Conway asked.
“It might not be,” Jake said. “But I’m sure you understand that we need to follow up on every lead.”
Evans was nodding. “I take it you think that the matchbook might have come from the robber?”
“It’s one possibility.”
“Those Town Cars go to all the hotels,” Conway said. “It could have been in there from a previous ride, and fallen out.”
“That’s also a possibility,” Jake conceded. “And it might already have been on the ground when the car drove up.”
Evans smiled in a way that told Jake the head of security was about to say the same thing.
“So what is it you’re hoping we can tell you?” Conway said.
Jake looked down, then back at them, his expression more relaxed than before. “I’ll be honest with you. I think this is a dead end, but, like I said, we have to follow up on everything. I was assigned to look through your security footage, with your permission, of course.”
“Our security footage?” Conway asked. “What do you expect to find?”
“You know who it might be, don’t you?” Evans said.
Jake hesitated. “We’ve…identified several potential perps. My focus would be to see if any of them was here.”
“Perps?” the woman asked.
“Perpetrators, ma’am.”
Conway looked at Evans. “Carl?”
Evans shrugged. “I don’t have a problem with it.” He looked at Jake. “How far back do you want to look?”
“Just the last forty-eight hours.”
“Easy enough,” Evans said.
Conway didn’t look completely happy, but Jake could tell she wasn’t going to stand in the way. “All right. But, Officer, we can’t give you any information about any of our guests. You can look at the footage, but that’s all the help we can give.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” Jake said. “If we need anything more, we’ll get a warrant so that you’re covered in case any of your guests complain.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “I’ll leave you in Mr. Evans’s hands, then.”
8
“The car belongs to a guy named Jake Oliver,” Steiner reported over the phone as Durrie drove back into the city.
From the address Steiner read off, it was pretty clear this Oliver guy lived in either an apartment or townhouse.
“The birthday on his license puts him at twenty-two. Height listed at five-foot-ten, and weight one-sixty-five. You need hair and eye color, too?”
“No,” Durrie said. He’d seen the man’s hair and eyes.
“I was able to get a social security number and do a little more digging. I assume that’s what you wanted.”
It was. Durrie remained silent, waiting.
