It disappointed him that this was Charles Merrick’s prison. The Charles Merrick that he had gotten to know was a grand, larger-than-life figure, and Niobe Federal Prison seemed wholly inadequate to contain him. Merrick deserved a more fitting jailer. Gibson took his own odd sentiment as a good sign. Hacking a target required understanding, and often a strange parasitic sympathy developed. Often, he wanted the best for his targets even as he prepared to unlock them.
Funny how that worked. And here it came, right on schedule. He had a feel for the man now—how the man thought, how the man would react under pressure. Gibson let his mind work back through the problem. This was, without doubt, a unique dilemma. He had exactly twenty-one days to separate Charles Merrick from his money. Tricky enough if he knew where it was, but he didn’t. Pretty much impossible to rob a bank if you didn’t know the whereabouts of said bank. So the first step was to find it. Correction, the first step was persuading Charles Merrick to show him where it was.
Shouldn’t be too hard . . . the man had only concealed money from his investors since founding Merrick Capital in 1995. But Merrick had gotten sloppy. The interview was proof of that. Maybe it was being this close to the finish line, but after successfully lying low for all these years, the man had lost his self-control. The question was, could Merrick be goaded into another lapse in judgment? And if so, where would the money be? Where would a man like that hide it? Chewing that over, Gibson got back in the car, and Swonger swung the car around for the drive into Niobe.
The Wolstenholme Hotel had seen better days itself, but Lea had been in love with the place since arriving in town two years ago. Defiant in the face of decay, which only worsened if you ventured inside, the old girl had managed to keep her dignity, and that endeared her to Lea. A broad-shouldered brick building in the Queen Anne style, it had dominated downtown Niobe since the end of the nineteenth century, when coal money had flowed into the state. The hotel had been built by Clarence and Bessie Wolstenholme, wealthy eccentrics from Philadelphia with visions of establishing a cultural outpost in the wilds of West Virginia. Its long, slow slide into disrepair paralleled the town’s own. It was also the only hotel for ten miles, so if anyone came into town, which they rarely did, they stayed at the Wolstenholme.
Rarely . . . except during the last few days. Unfamiliar faces had begun popping up around town, driving cars with out-of-state plates. Lea recognized the orange and black of New York plates on an SUV parked in the hotel lot. She assumed the worst: the cars belonged either to Merrick’s victims looking for a little redress or else to opportunistic, mercenary raiders. Being a criminal himself, Merrick couldn’t very well go to the authorities for protection. That made him the perfect mark, and unless Lea missed her guess, the jackals had already begun to circle. She wondered how many were in town already. How many more were on their way? Jimmy Temple at the Wolstenholme Hotel would know better than anyone.
At the top of the stairs, she had to put her shoulder into the heavy wood doors to push them open. The groan of the hinges echoed through the cavernous lobby. Jimmy Temple wasn’t behind the front desk, but a friendly sign promised he’d be back soon. In addition to being owner and manager, Jimmy Temple was also the hotel handyman and spent his days making repairs to his hotel. His dreams of restoring the hotel to its former glory reduced to polishing brass on his own personal Titanic.
Lea rang the bell and called his name but got no response. As she leaned against the reception counter to wait, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” played over the lobby stereo, making her smile.
Jimmy had inherited the hotel in 1981, after his father passed. By that time, no one passed through Niobe anymore; after the bridge collapse, Niobe had become out-of-the-way overnight. With the hotel failing, Jimmy and his wife, Donna, had nearly sold out to an investment group in 1998. Jimmy and Donna had planned to move to the Florida Keys and watch the sunsets for as long as their eyes held out. But that winter, Donna came down with pneumonia. Christmas was her favorite holiday, and she held on until the twenty-sixth. Jimmy, who had no use for sunsets without his wife, put the kibosh on the whole deal. He sold their house, moved into the hotel, and ran it more or less on his own. Ever since then, Christmas music had played 365 days a year in the lobby of the Wolstenholme.
Jimmy Temple emerged from the back office, cleaning his hands on an old chamois. He always wore a suit, even when doubling as handyman. He was narrow of shoulder and white of hair, age taking its toll on both. His ruddy face brightened when he saw Lea. He never set foot in the Toproll—Jimmy Temple did his drinking in private—but he’d always had a soft spot for her. She liked him too.
Lea held up a gold watch by the leather strap. One of the last remaining artifacts from her old life. “Found this at the bar last night after we closed.”
Jimmy whistled. “That real gold? Looks expensive.”
You have no idea, Lea thought. “Doesn’t belong to any of our regulars. Anyone check in recently?”
“Oh, yes, several, actually.”
“Several?”
He smiled. “Must be my winning personality. They’ve been trickling in the last couple of days. And I’ve had calls for reservations for the next few weeks.”
“They know this is Niobe, right?” she joked.
He laughed. “I didn’t mention it.”
“Seriously, that’s great news. How many you got here now?”
“Well, let’s see, four men checked in yesterday.”
“Together?”
“Uh-huh, they did. Young fellows. Businessmen, I think. They were wearing jackets is why I say that. They weren’t too chatty, so that’s just me speculating.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yep, two more this morning, and an Asian gentleman has been here for a couple of days, nice fellow. Fisherman. From Ohio, I think. Couldn’t quite place his accent.” Jimmy pointed at the watch. “But I doubt that’s his. He was up at the crack of dawn. Headed over to the Elk River today, fishing trout. Doubt he’s spending time at the Toproll.”
“Well, ask around. It’ll be behind the bar if they can tell me the inscription.”
Although if anyone could tell her the inscription, that would frighten her to death.