“Never heard of him.”
Zach leaned on the counter. “Look at me, Vince.”
The kid did. Zach held his gaze. It was a little trick he’d discovered in junior high. One that had lifted his grade point average in Algebra and gotten him a ‘yes’ out of Marisa Peabody.
“I think you do know him.” He lowered his voice. “I think you know him well.”
The kid nodded. “I do know him.”
“He’s registered here at the Inn.”
The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbled. “Yes. He rents by the week.”
“But he’s not here right now, is he?” The kid shook his head and Zach went on. “Did you see him leave?”
“I saw him leave,” he repeated.
“When was that?”
“Earlier.” Vince paused as if in thought. “The beginning of my shift.”
Micki stepped in. “What time was that? That you came on?”
Vince looked at her and the connection was lost. Zach kept his cool. Sometimes, the loss proved terminal, but not this time. Not this kid.
“I need to call my manager. I don’t think he’d like me talking to you.”
“Vince,” Zach said. “Look at me. That’s right, you’re talking to me, not her.”
Zach knew that wasn’t going to settle well with Mick, but that was too bad.
“Actually, Vince, your manager’s happy you’re talking to us. He wants you to help us in any way you can.”
“He does?”
“Yes. He likes you, Vince. Thinks you’re doing a fine job.”
The kid smiled. “Really? That’s good.”
“It’s very good. What time did you come on last night?”
“Nine.”
“And that’s when you last saw Martin Ritchie, leaving the hotel?”
“Yes.” He nodded as if for emphasis.
“Was he alone?”
“Yup.”
“What room is he staying in?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s a rule. Besides, Marty wouldn’t like it.”
“Here’s the deal,” Zach said. “Marty’s not going to care. Because he’s dead. Somebody shot him last night.”
“Somebody shot him?” the kid repeated. “No shit? That really blows.”
“Yes, it does.” Zach held out the key card. “Do me a favor. Tell me what room that key belongs to.”
He took it, ran it through the key reader, then handed it back. “Room 412.”
“And that’s Marty’s room?”
The blood drained from his already pasty face. “I can’t tell you that.”
“But you already have.” Zach slipped the key into his pocket. “Which way’s the elevator?”
He pointed and Mick headed in that direction.
Zach smiled at the kid. “That’ll do it, Vince. You’ve been very helpful. Which you’ll remember, by the way. And feel really good about. Have a great day.”
“You do the same, Detective!” Vince called as Zach hurried for the elevator.
Chapter Eight
Monday, July 8
11:07 A.M.
Micki held the elevator door for Zach. What she’d just witnessed had been damn creepy. It’d also been frickin’ brilliant. The way Zach had held the kid’s gaze had been mesmerizing. And when he’d talked to him, something in his tone had changed. She couldn’t put her finger on what the difference had been—softer but deeper, warmer yet firmer—but the hair on her arms had stood straight up. It was like Zach had exerted some crazy mind control over the hapless desk clerk.
When Zach joined her, she punched the button for the fourth floor. The doors slid shut; the car lurched, then started to creep upwards.
“What the hell was that?” she asked.
“What?”
She felt him look at her but kept her gaze on the illuminated floor numbers. “That hocus-pocus bullshit you just hit that kid with.”
“A technique I developed a few years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I could.”
She wasn’t amused. “Your buddy Parker said your special abilities were ‘need-to-know.’ I need to know. Now.”
The elevator shuddered to a stop. They stepped off and turned right in unison.
“I was thirteen when I learned I could get the answer I wanted from people. It just took a little . . . finesse.”
“And what answers were you looking for?”
“The same one everyone looks for: a ‘yes.’”
They reached 412 and stopped. She still didn’t look at him. “To what?”
“Anything. A dance. A date. An A instead of a C. Whatever.”
Micki processed what that meant. Who that made him. “That was a lot of power in the hands of a stupid kid.”
“It was,” he agreed. “It still is.”
He battled it, she realized. The realization wasn’t all that comforting.
“You can look at me, you know.”
“My no-good, son of a bitch uncle used to have this saying: you can’t keep a bird dog from hunting.” Micki looked at him then, eyes narrowed in challenge. “I catch you trying to use that voodoo on me, I’ll mess you up. You get me?”
“I get you.” He smiled. “By the way, it doesn’t always work. Some folks are too strong-willed. I suspect you fall into that category.”
“Don’t test that theory.”