Lost You Page 7

  “Well, shit, Raymond Villalobos. How you been, you greasy spic bastard?” He pointed to the bars on his collar. “And it’s Lieutenant Cole, thank you very much.”

  Villalobos forced a smile as he approached, shook hands, resisted the urge to wipe his fingers on his pants.

  “I been good, Lieutenant, how about you?”

  “Oh, getting by. And cut the Lieutenant shit. I’m still Mickey, you’re still Ray, am I right? How long’s it been since you got retired out? I heard about your little girl. That’s gotta be rough.”

  “Almost ten years out of the job. We lost Jess about a year after that.”

  “Shit, man, I’m sorry.”

  They both fell silent for a moment, long enough for the idea of walking away to reoccur to Villalobos. But he had a question he needed answering.

  “So, what do you think of all this?”

  He tilted his head toward the Atlantic Room. Cole looked back that way, then returned his gaze to Villalobos.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s something going on here. The mother, she’s holding back. Damned if I know what, but there’s something. You talked to her, right? What did you think?”

  Villalobos lowered his voice. “I think she’s scared shitless, and I think she should be. No question she’s afraid for her boy, and she wants him back, but downstairs, when I showed her the video of someone leading the child away? She wasn’t surprised. It was like she was expecting it.”

  “And you think the kid’s still on the grounds?” Cole asked.

  “I can’t be certain, not absolutely, but I’d be willing to put money on it. There’s two gates in and out of this place, one to the front, one to the rear leading down to the boardwalk and the beach. My guys didn’t see anyone take a child through either of them. So unless they climbed a wall, that boy and whoever has him are still in the resort. But there’s nearly a thousand rooms, eighteen acres of grounds. That’s a lot of searching. And I’ll tell you now, the manager’s going to do everything he can to stop us going room-to-room.”

  “Let me worry about the manager,” Cole said. “He tries to stop me doing my job, I’ll shut this place down before he can open his mouth to complain.”

  A young uniformed cop stepped through the archway that led back to the concierge’s desk. He stopped there, looking from Cole to Villalobos, nervous.

  Cole stared at him for a moment, then said, “What?”

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Cole sighed. “Officer Jameson, you tell me what you want right now or I’ll stick my foot up your ass, so help me God.”

  “Sorry, sir, there’s a lady says she seen something. Mrs. Kendrick. I thought maybe you should go talk to her.”

  “No shit,” Cole said. “Where is she?”

  * * *

  —

  JAMESON BROUGHT THEM to a cluster of couches and armchairs in the lobby. A middle-aged woman sat waiting, her knees together, her fingers entwined in her lap. Cole sat next to her while Villalobos hovered within earshot.

  “Mrs. Kendrick, I understand you have something to tell me,” Cole said, his voice warm and calm, his hard manner tempered for the time being.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Mrs. Kendrick said breathlessly. She pushed her dark hair back behind her ear, showing her gray roots.

  “Let me decide that,” Cole said. “Now, tell me, what did you see?”

  “Well, I’m on the sixth floor on this side.” She pointed south. “I’m here by myself. My husband passed away before the holidays, and my friend Mary-Anne, she bought me a trip to help me rest after the fuss of the funeral and all that.”

  Cole placed a hand on hers. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. What did you see?”

  “Well, I’ve been here five days, and day before yesterday, a woman checked into the room across the hall from me. Not directly opposite, I suppose, maybe a door or two down. Anyway, I first noticed her two days ago, and the reason I noticed her was she was on her own. I mean, she didn’t have a man with her. Or a woman. Or anyone.”

  Cole exchanged a weary glance with Villalobos.

  “I said hello to her a couple times when we passed in the hall, just to be friendly, you know? And she said hello back and all, but she wasn’t exactly chatty. But that’s okay, not everyone wants to be friendly, nothing wrong with that.”

  “Okay,” Cole said, impatience sharpening his words, “so what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “Well, like I said, as far as I could tell, she was here on her own. I didn’t see her with anyone else. Except for this evening, when I left my room to go to dinner, I met her in the hall, and she was in an awful hurry, and she didn’t even say hello back. Thing is, what really made me wonder is that she had a little boy with her, kind of pulling him along by the hand, and I thought, that’s strange, I was sure she was all alone. Then I came downstairs, and there was all these police everywhere, and I asked what was going on, and someone said to me about the little boy who’d gone missing.”

  Cole looked to Villalobos once again, then back to Mrs. Kendrick.

  “Ma’am, can you describe the boy for me?”

  She held one hand three feet off the floor. “He was about so high, kind of red, strawberry-blond hair.”

  Villalobos stepped closer and said, “What was he wearing?”

  Mrs. Kendrick looked up at him in surprise, noted his uniform, then replied, “A yellow T-shirt, I think, and blue shorts.”

  “That’s him,” Villalobos said. “Ma’am, what’s your room number?”

  “Sixty-one eighty-nine,” she said.

  “And this other woman’s room, is it to the left or right as you look out of your door?”

  She thought for a moment, her hand held out in front of her, pointing first one way, then the other. “To the left, I guess,” she said.

  “Room sixty-one eighty-six,” Villalobos said to Cole. “I have a master key.”

  Cole got to his feet, told Jameson to keep the woman there, and followed Villalobos to the south elevator bank. He beckoned two other officers, one male, one female, to come with them. In the elevator, Cole spoke.

  “I’ll knock once,” he said, “then you unlock the door and step aside. I’ll go in first, you two follow. We go in weapons drawn, but down, nice and easy. Fingers off triggers unless it goes to shit, understood?”

  The two junior cops said, “Yes, sir.”

  They all fell silent as a recorded voice counted off the floors, four, five, six, then the elevator halted and the doors slid open. Cole stepped out first, then turned to Villalobos.

  “This way,” Villalobos said.

  He crossed to the doors and the hallway beyond. Holding back, he allowed Cole and his officers to check the way ahead.

  “Sixty-one eighty-six, you said?”

  “That’s right,” Villalobos said.

  They walked slowly along the hall, counting the doors. Room 6186 stood on the right, a little more than halfway along. They gathered around it, Cole and Villalobos closest. All breathing heavy, all sweating.

  Ten years out of the job, and Villalobos remembered all too well the fear of the closed door. Didn’t matter that it was just a kid and a woman they were looking for. Anything and anyone could be on the other side. Maybe the woman would be calm and compliant; maybe she’d be hysterical and panicked. Maybe she’d be unarmed; maybe she had a handgun aimed at the door right now, just waiting for it to open.

  He checked the watch on his wrist, the one that tracked his heart rate. One twenty-nine, goddammit. He could feel it, thrumming in his chest, and his knees felt weak. This was why he’d retired, for Christ’s sake. His heart couldn’t take the pressure. He breathed in through his nose, deep and slow, out through his mouth, trying to bring his pulse under control.

  Cole swallowed and whis
pered, “We ready?”

  They all nodded, drew their weapons, including Villalobos. He’d never drawn his Glock on the resort grounds in the eight years he’d been there. It felt cold and heavy in his hand.

  Cole rapped the door hard with his knuckles. “Police! Open the door!”

  He waited a moment, then nodded at Villalobos. Villalobos held the master key against the sensor. The lock whirred and clicked as he stepped back. Cole pushed down the handle, shoved the door open, ducked away, and waited for a shot that didn’t come. He edged around the doorframe, pistol still lowered, forefinger outside the trigger guard.

  “Please step out into the center of the room with your hands raised,” he called inside.

  No answer. No movement.

  He stepped slowly inside, the other officers behind, Villalobos at the rear. Nothing in here but a lone sandal on the floor. Silently, Cole directed one cop to check the closets, the other to check the bathroom. The female officer went to the closet, pulled on the door handle. Empty, save for a small backpack on the floor. The male officer went to the open bathroom door. Lit up inside, the tiles shone harsh and bright. The glass shower screen on the bath hid nothing.

  “No one here,” Cole said aloud.

  Villalobos glared at him, raised a finger to his lips.

  Cole mouthed, What?

  Villalobos pointed to the patio doors that opened onto the balcony. They were hidden by the drawn curtain that moved in the breeze from outside. Villalobos knew the doors couldn’t be opened from the outside. You wouldn’t close them from out there on the balcony or you wouldn’t be able to get back in.

  Cole understood, nodded. He crossed the room to the drawn curtain, the side that rippled in the currents of air. The two uniforms came to his side. Villalobos approached, raised his right hand, his fingertips grazing the edge of the heavy fabric. He looked to Cole, who nodded once more.

  Villalobos grabbed a handful of curtain and voile, and pulled them back as hard and as far as he could. Quickly, Cole slipped his hand into the gap between the frame, slid the door back, exposing the balcony and the view of the main gates beyond.

  Empty.

  “Goddammit,” Cole said.

  All four of them exhaled, unsure whether to be relieved or frustrated.

  “What now?” the female cop asked.

  “Let’s have a look around,” Cole said. “We got probable cause to search.”

  The room had a hollow ring to it, as if it had never been occupied. Villalobos knew the casual mess of a room where someone had slept, even if housekeeping had done their job. There would always be cosmetics around the basin in the bathroom, toothbrushes in the cups, scatterings of pocket litter on the surfaces, loose bills and coins here and there. Nothing like that was visible here as they each toured the room, opening drawers, looking in trash cans, looking under the furniture.

  “Just this,” Cole said, pointing at the backpack that remained on the closet floor.

  Villalobos reached in, grabbed it, and brought it to the bed. It weighed little, barely disturbed the blankets as he tossed it there. He unzipped the main compartment and emptied out the contents: a few pairs of underwear, one top, one pair of shorts, a clear baggie with a toothbrush and a miniature tube of toothpaste.

  “Traveling light,” Cole said.

  Villalobos said nothing. He turned the backpack in his hands, feeling the three pockets. Opening the first revealed a printed ticket for a return journey by bus, Boston to Orlando and back again. Along with it, a handful of tickets and receipts for local buses and cabs. Another printout for the hotel reservation, three nights, in the name of Anna Lenihan. He handed it to Cole.

  The second pocket was empty, but the third—and largest—contained something hard and rectangular. He opened it and found a small wallet inside. Dropping the backpack, he turned the wallet in his hand, undid the clasp, and unfolded it. A few weathered bills hid within, no more than thirty or forty dollars total, a couple of credit cards from the kind of companies that loaned money to those who couldn’t afford more debt.

  And there, a Pennsylvania driver’s license, expired some weeks ago.

  He slipped it from the wallet, checked the name—Anna Lenihan—and looked at the photograph. Then he looked again, just to be sure his eyes hadn’t fooled him. He held it out for Cole to inspect. Cole stared openmouthed at the photo for a time, then looked at Villalobos.

  “My God,” he said.

  12

  “YOU CAN’T KEEP ME HERE,” Libby said.

  The police officer at the door did not reply. She stared straight ahead, impassive.

  Cole had been gone at least twenty minutes. Twenty more minutes of Libby’s son missing in this hotel. Gnawing worry had turned to shrieking fear and back again, over and over, and she had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming.

  “What good am I doing here?” she asked. “I could be looking for him. I could be helping. Why keep me sitting around useless like this?”

  The cop remained silent.

  Libby shot to her feet. “Goddamn you, answer me.”

  The cop looked at her now. “Ma’am, please sit down,” she said.

  “No, I won’t.” Libby stepped around the desk, approached the door. “I’m leaving right now. I have rights. You can’t make me stay here. I am not a prisoner. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Step back,” the cop said, one hand up, the other reaching for something on her belt.

  “Let me past,” Libby said, moving closer.

  The cop pulled something cylindrical from her belt, about the length of a pencil. With a flick of her wrist, it extended to form a baton. She didn’t raise it, kept it at her thigh, but the threat was clear.

  “Ma’am, I’ve been told to keep you in this room, and that’s what I’m going to do. Now, please, sit down.”

  Libby locked eyes with her. “You want to keep me in this room, then you’re going to have to use that.”

  The cop blinked, a bead of sweat running down her temple. “Please, ma’am, I don’t want to—”

  The sound of the door unlocking from the outside cut her off. The door opened and Lieutenant Cole entered, followed by Villalobos. They both watched Libby, a hard knowing in their eyes that frightened her.

  “Sit down,” Cole said, pointing at the chair she’d been in moments before.

  “I don’t want—”

  “I said sit down, goddammit.”

  Something in his voice told her not to argue. She went back to the chair, lowered herself into it, her hands on the table. Her gaze shifted from Cole to Villalobos and back again. They each had the same expression, as if they were examining an insect on a pin. Her bladder filled, and her stomach loosened. She wanted to weep with fear, but she held it back.

  They know, she thought. Oh God, they know.

  She noticed the plastic card in Cole’s right hand. For a moment, she wondered if it was the keycard for the meeting room’s door, but then he placed it faceup on the table in front of her. A Pennsylvania driver’s license, issued a little over four years ago to Anna Lenihan.

  The urge to vomit came upon her as she read the name.

  Her head went light when she saw the photograph.

  It’s me, she thought. Younger, maybe, but it’s a picture of me.

  She knew it wasn’t, but still, the idea rang so loud in her mind that it drowned out every other thought.

  “Who is this woman?” Cole asked.

  Libby couldn’t lift her gaze from the license. She could only shake her head.

  Cole leaned on the table. “Ma’am, you need to start talking to me. If I didn’t know different, I’d have said this was a photograph of you. A guest at the hotel saw this woman entering her room with a child that matches your son’s description. Are you going to tell me that’s just a coincidence?”

&n
bsp; She closed her eyes, wished herself away from this, wished the sky to fall.

  Cole slapped the table hard. “Goddammit, you tell me who this is right now, and you tell me why she took your boy.”

  Libby opened her eyes, opened her mouth to speak, but could find no words. She looked up at Cole as he glared back. His voice boomed.

  “Talk to me, goddammit.”

  Villalobos put a hand on Cole’s arm, told him to cool it, but Cole shook him off. He marched around the table. The cop’s hands grabbed at Libby’s bathrobe, hauled her up onto her feet, the chair tumbling away, pushed her back toward the wall.

  “Tell me who she is,” he said.

  “I don’t…I don’t…”

  Over his shoulder, she saw Villalobos approach, saw him slip an arm around Cole’s chest. He dragged the cop away, and Libby struggled to keep her balance.

  “Stop,” Villalobos said, pushing Cole across the room.

  The uniformed officer left her place by the door, the baton still in one hand, the other reaching for Villalobos. “Hey, hey, hey, let him go.”

  Libby noticed the door. Still open.

  Move, she thought. Now.

  Her legs would not obey.

  “Go,” she whispered. “Go now.”

  She lurched toward the door, her legs seeming to tangle one with the other, the ill-fitting slippers falling from her feet, the room tilting as she crossed the distance between her and the hallway outside. She threw the door back, fell through, her knees connecting with the cold floor. She heard a shout from inside as she got to her feet, voices cursing as she ran, her bare soles slapping on the marble.

  The two women at the concierge desk stared wide-eyed as she passed. Her arms churned, her legs pumped, and she had no idea where she was going, what she was running toward, only that she had to get away.

  “Stop!”

  Cole’s voice. She allowed herself a glance back, saw Cole gaining, Villalobos following with a lopsided gait.

  Run, run, run, she thought, anywhere, just get away.