She was pointing to Milt.
“Yes, yes, I did,” I said, walking toward her.
“What were you doing down here?” she asked.
“I was just… a little distracted. I had Milt in my hands here and walked right past the elevator without noticing.”
“Do you have my key?” she asked.
I reached into my pocket and handed it to her. “Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t want this falling into the wrong hands!” she joked, putting it into her own pocket. I hit the elevator button. The doors, which had just closed, popped open again. Veronica boarded the elevator with me.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look a little… rattled.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I mean, you know, as fine as I can be, considering.”
“Sure, sure,” she said. “I understand. Listen, about the other evening, I want to apologize.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
“No, I think I came on a bit strong.”
“It’s okay, really.”
We reached the first floor and the doors parted.
“Take care,” I said to Veronica, rudely getting off ahead of her and hotfooting it to the lobby doors.
“Well, so long to you, too,” she said.
I GOT IN THE BEETLE, putting Milt in the passenger seat, and drove out of the Just Inn Time lot as quickly as I could. I had to put some distance between myself and this hotel. I had to think about what this all meant.
If I’d felt I was nibbling around the edges before, now I felt as though I was taking huge bites.
Close to finding answers, close to finding Syd, or both?
Of that, I was less sure.
Something was going on at the hotel, and now I was guessing that Syd had stumbled onto it. And given that Eric—or Gary, or whatever his name was—was looking for her, I felt the odds were she was still out there somewhere.
Syd, for crying out loud, just call home.
I needed help with this. I couldn’t do it all alone.
I was going to have to call Kip Jennings.
Detective Marjorie had it in for me. But maybe, just maybe, there was a part of Kip Jennings that still believed in me, that still believed my daughter was still alive, and genuinely in danger.
I had to put some trust in her now. I had to tell her what I’d found out.
I pulled the car off Route 1 into a plaza parking lot. I felt too on edge to attempt driving and talking on the cell at the same time. I got out the phone and keyed in the number I’d used to get in touch with Jennings before.
I got her voice mail.
“Listen, Detective Jennings, this is Tim Blake. Something’s happened, and I think I know what’s going on. I need to talk to you. Not that asshole Marjorie. I don’t honestly think you believe I’ve done what he thinks I’ve done. It’s you I want to talk to, because I think you’ll believe me and I think you’ll do something about it. I’m this close to finding Syd. I really think I am. You have to call me when you get this message. Please.”
I flipped my phone shut, gripped the top of the steering wheel and rested my head on my hands.
I still wanted to talk to Carol Swain about Patty. It was easy to forget, with all that was happening, that Patty was missing, too. I couldn’t help but feel that Patty’s disappearance was linked to Sydney’s, and I hoped that talking to Patty’s mother might offer up some new clue about what might have happened to both of them.
But first, I was going to go home, find that picture in my emails of Sydney walking past that fire extinguisher. I’d print it out, show it to Jennings, take her to the hotel, show her the worn “I” on the glass door. She’d come around.
“Oh no,” I said as I turned onto Hill Street.
Up ahead, out front of my house parked next to the curb, was Kate Wood’s silver Focus.
“Perfect,” I said under my breath.
As I pulled into the drive, I noticed that Kate’s car was empty. She wasn’t sitting in it waiting for me. I’d never given her a key to the house. Maybe she was sitting around back in one of the lawn chairs, waiting for me to come home and let her in.
I turned off the Beetle. Instead of walking in through the front door, I walked down the side of the house to the backyard.
I spotted the brown bag of Chinese food first. It lay on the grass, on its side, the top ripped open. It looked as though someone had reached in and helped themselves to a couple of things and left the rest.
The sliding glass door that leads from the living room to the backyard patio had been broken. There was glass on the carpet inside the house. Someone had smashed the glass so they could reach in and unlock the door.
I slid the door open and stepped in.
I called out, “Kate?”
There was no reply.
Broken glass crunched under my shoes. I moved through the living room and into the kitchen.
She was on the floor, on her back, her arms stretched out above her head, her legs twisted awkwardly. Blood was pooled around her.
I was guessing it must have come from the hole in the middle of her forehead.
THIRTY-FIVE