Chapter Sixteen

I had one leg draped over the edge of my balcony, and I was straining to reach Pete’s balcony when my phone rang. The noise, even though muted inside my purse, seemed unusually loud. I glanced down at the entrance to the hotel below me where the glow of car headlights cut through the night and voices of people walking to the hotel from the parking garage floated up. I pulled my leg back, hooked my foot into the curly wrought iron surrounding the balcony, and perched there on the balustrade as I dug my phone out. The last thing I needed was for someone to glance up and see my bad impression of John Robie, the “Cat.” I checked over the railing and didn’t see anyone with their heads craned back. The people continued to stroll while the palm fronds clattered in the soft breeze.

My phone glowed with Mitch’s picture. I closed my eyes for a moment, debating whether or not to answer. If you’re about to break into a hotel room, should you tell your spouse? Probably not, I decided. Especially if you’re already halfway over the railing. I bit my lip, and, in that moment of hesitation, my decision was made for me. The picture disappeared, and the call went to voice mail. I did some mental math and realized Mitch must be close to arriving. I’d been so swept up in searching for Pete that I’d forgotten Mitch’s arrival time. Well, I’d just have to finish here and get back to the hotel.

A quick check of my voice mail confirmed that Mitch was about an hour out and would call when he arrived. I also had a second voice mail. I must have missed the call when we were in the noisy bar. It was from Detective Jenson. He got right to the point. “Still waiting on that call from your brother, Mrs. Avery.”

“Okay, okay,” I muttered. “I’m working on it.” I put the phone on vibrate and loosened by foot from the wrought iron. The balconies were spaced about four and a half feet apart, slightly beyond the length of a “giant step,” which I figured was intentional. It was designed to discourage exactly what I was doing. The gap was wide enough to give a sense of privacy to each balcony and also caused me to break out in a cold sweat at the thought of crossing the space. I’d tied the bed sheet tightly to the balustrade on my balcony. I wiped my forehead, tried to ignore the fact that I was actually above the coconut palms, and gripped the sheet tight. I leaned, using it to extend my reach a few more inches.

My fingertips brushed the wrought iron balustrade on the other balcony. I breathed deeply and lengthened my stretch, thinking of the stroller brigade workout—just like a cool-down stretch for the oblique muscles. My fingers connected with the iron again, and this time I was able to get my fingers all the way around the balustrade. I didn’t stop to think. I shifted my weight and was across, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. “Okay. Good,” I muttered, and swung my shaky legs over the railing. I’d kept hold of the sheet as I came across and looped it around the balustrade, in case I had to go back this way. I actually intended to go out the door, if at all possible.

My phone buzzed against my hip. It was Monica. “Is he leaving?” I asked.

“No, he’s still here. Are you in yet?”

“I would be if people would stop calling me.”

“Testy. Testy. Maybe I should have done it, after all.”

“No, I’m almost there,” I said as I cradled the phone on my shoulder and wiped my palms on my jeans. “I’ll call you back if I find anything.”

I’d experimented a few times on the latch on Room 503’s sliding glass door before I’d set out and, surprisingly, found that my Kroger club card fit best into the sliver of space between the frame and the sliding glass door. I hoped it worked as well from the outside as it did from the inside. I worked the card into the tiny space and moved it up firmly. It stuck. I bit my lip and tried again. There was a metallic click, and I couldn’t help smiling. The glass door moved smoothly down the track when I pushed on the handle. My Kroger card was a bit mangled, but I figured paying full price for milk was the least of my worries right now.

As soon as I was in the room, I moved to the door to put on the interior deadbolt, then I closed the curtains and hit the lights.

“Oh, no,” I whispered, looking around.

I’d broken into the wrong room. No one was staying here. I turned in a circle, taking in the immaculate room. Not a single wrinkle marred the smooth lines of the comforters on the double beds. Nothing on the desk or the nightstands. Even the remote was tidily lined up in front of the television. I checked the tab on the phone, and it listed this as Room 505. It was the right room. Had Pete already checked out? Or was he just extremely—maybe compulsively—neat? I hurried into the bathroom and let out a relieved breath. There was a toothbrush, a wrinkled tube of Crest, and a shaving kit.

Okay, he hadn’t checked out. I quickly looked through the shaving kit and only found typical toiletries, like shaving cream, razors, and deodorant. There was nothing else in the bathroom besides the hotel’s thick bathrobe on the back of the door. I hurried back into the room, moved to the closet. A small hard-sided rolling suitcase and a duffle bag were tucked into the closet along with his video camera.

Pete Gutin was packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. I hauled the suitcase out and opened it on the floor. I worked as carefully as I could, looking through it, trying to keep everything exactly as it was. Lots of clothes—lightweight collared shirts, several pairs of pants and shorts, underwear, sandals, sneakers and socks, a waterproof jacket, and more swim trunks—exactly how the experts tell you to pack for travel. Everything was wash-and-wear, made of fabrics that would dry quickly without wrinkling, and all were either white, tan, or black. I found a few receipts in the small pockets of the suitcase along with two cherry LifeSavers and a stubby pencil.

I zipped the suitcase closed and switched it for the duffle. The duffle held snorkeling gear, a really nice digital camera, a bag of trail mix, a whole package of LifeSavers, two paperback thrillers, a laptop computer, and a spiral notebook with wrinkled edges and coffee-ring stains on the front. I quickly checked the smaller exterior pockets but didn’t find the memory card. It wasn’t plugged into any of the slots on the laptop or the digital camera, either.

I sat back on my heels and rubbed my forehead. Had I been completely wrong? Was Pete the wrong person? I left the duffle bag and went back to the closet to double-check. Maybe there was something else . . . some other bag I’d missed, I thought. I was getting desperate and the closet was tiny. There wasn’t another bag in there, but I looked anyway, patting the top shelf. Nothing.

Then I picked up the video camera and saw my laptop. I recognized the diagonal scratch that Nathan had put in it when he’d run his front loader over the top. Thank goodness, I thought. I carefully put the video camera down and picked up my laptop. Nothing in the ports, but at least I knew Pete had been in my hotel room. I was on the right track.

I put the laptop down on the carpet with the other things I’d removed from the closet. I was afraid to put anything on the smooth comforters and leave an impression that would show I had been here. With my hands on my hips, I turned in a half circle, looking at each item, then scanning the room. The memory card was tiny . . . it could be anywhere. I was searching for something roughly the size of a paper clip.

Be methodical, I told myself. Don’t get overwhelmed. I needed to approach this like an organizing job. Okay, then. I’d finish the personal stuff first, then search the room. I replaced everything in the duffle except Pete’s laptop and the notebook, then I looked over the video camera, but I didn’t see anywhere he’d be able to hide a memory card. I moved quickly through the room, checking drawers and trash cans, then under the bed, but didn’t find anything.

It isn’t here. I dropped down on the carpet. I was exhausted and scared. What was I going to do? Call Jenson and tell him everything? Would he believe me? Would he be able to help me now? Could I get Mr. Sandpaper Voice to give me more time? But that wouldn’t help me if I couldn’t find the photos.

I didn’t have time to panic right now. I wiped my hands down over my face and took a deep breath. I had to put everything back and get out of here. Then I could have a meltdown in my very own expensive room next door.

I picked up the spiral notebook and flipped through the pages as I moved to replace it in the duffle. Most of the notes looked like travel information, hotel names and flight numbers. I opened a set of papers folded in half and shoved in the middle of the notebook.

The paper was a printed boarding pass. I blinked. Pete Gutin was going to the Cayman Islands tomorrow morning. My mouth felt dry as I flipped to the next page. It was a two-page document, a legal contract. I skimmed the text, whispering, “No, no, no.”

Pete had sold the photos to the British tabloid, The Daily Bulletin, in a seven-figure deal.

My phone buzzed. I jumped, dropping the notebook and the papers. I pulled my phone out and saw it was Monica.

“He’s left,” she said.

“What?” I bent down and picked up the papers automatically. I felt dazed. The memory card was gone. The photos had been sold.

There was nothing I could do. Absolutely nothing. I could send Ben a message, but I had no idea if he’d get it. He didn’t understand how much trouble he was in. What would Mr. Sandpaper Voice do when I had to finally admit that I didn’t have the photos? And then, if that wasn’t enough, there was Detective Jenson waiting in the wings, who thought Ben had something to do with Angela’s death, which he now believed was murder.

“Pete. He left the bar. He’s heading for the elevators. Did you get in his room?”

It felt like a splash of cold water had hit me. “Yes, and it’s not good. There’s no memory card here, and he’s sold the photos.”

“What? To who?”

“The Daily Bulletin,” I said, spreading the papers on the floor.

“He went to the British tabloids with them? Oh my God. They’d pay a fortune.”

“They did,” I said, grimly.

“What do you mean?”

“Two million dollars. There’s a signed contract, and since I can’t find the memory card, Pete must have already sent them to The Daily Bulletin. Will they put them online right away?”

“Probably as soon as they can,” she said, her voice miserable. “Once they’ve examined them, and they’re sure the photos aren’t doctored, they’ll run them. Probably either tomorrow or the next day.” Her voice changed. “Oh, his elevator is here. He’s definitely going up to his room.”

“I’ve got to go.”

I quickly snapped photos of all the pages with the camera in my phone, then stuffed the pages back in the notebook, and replaced it with the laptop in the duffle. My phone vibrated with another call from Monica. I ignored it, shoving it in my pocket.

How long did it take to ride five floors in an elevator? I heaved the duffle back in the closet, then hesitated a moment over my own laptop. I wanted to take it with me, but if I did, Pete would know for sure someone had been in his room. I quickly replaced it in the closet and set the video camera on top of it. There was no way I could get it back across the balcony with me, anyway. I needed both hands for that maneuver.

I closed the closet door and sprinted for the sliding glass door. I hoped he had to stop on every floor. My phone buzzed again, causing me to do a little leap in the air. I was as tense and quivery as a poodle waiting for the mailman. I let the phone continue to buzz.

I’d have to leave the sliding glass door unlocked and hope Pete didn’t notice it. Maybe he’d think he left it unlocked.

I gripped the sheet and was about to lunge for my balcony, mentally giving myself a quick pep talk, when I remembered I’d flipped the interior deadbolt. I shoved the sliding glass door back open, rocketed to the door, flicked the deadbolt to the open position, then took a few steps and halted in my tracks. The lights! They’d been off.

I quickly reversed course, slammed my hand down on the switch plate to douse the lights, and dashed back to the balcony. As I pushed the sliding glass door closed, I heard the familiar click of the door lock releasing. I let out a whimper as I inched the glass door closed. Thank goodness the curtains were closed.

I threw my legs over the railing, grabbed the sheet, and jumped across the gap without even thinking about it. Fear and adrenaline are amazing things. Safe on the other side, I shifted my legs over the railing and untied the knot in the bed sheet with trembling fingers. Then I darted into my room and crumpled onto the bed.

After a few minutes, when I felt that I could walk without my legs collapsing, I got up, left my room, and made my way to the elevator. Monica was dialing my phone nonstop, and I figured she needed to see the photo of the contract to actually believe it. She met me in the lobby.

“Glad to see you made it out,” she said, removing her phone from her ear.

I shrugged. I was too drained to talk. I brought up the pictures of the contract on my phone and handed it to her. “We’re sunk,” I said, dropping down into one of the chairs scattered throughout the lobby.

She skimmed the document, shaking her head. “Do you know what this means?”

“It means we have nothing. No photos. No memory card. No bargaining power. Nothing.”

Monica paced across the dark wood floor, not listening to me. “It means Pete is done. He saw the opportunity for a big payoff, and he took it. Instead of handing the photos off to Exposé, he decided to keep them. He negotiated his own deal with the British tabloids. He’ll never work again in celebrity media.”

“I’ll say. Look at the next picture.”

Monica scrolled to it and shook her head again as she said, “The Caymans! I never would have thought it of Pete, but he is getting up there. He’s said a few things about retiring. This probably seemed like too good a deal to pass up. He snatches the photos from you, sells them to the Brits, and disappears to the Caribbean where he can catch waves until he can’t get out of his wheelchair.”

Monica sat down in a chair beside me. “Clever idea, getting the room next to his. I’ll have to remember that in the future.”

“Thanks,” I said listlessly.

“I wonder how long I can put off calling my editor. At least until the morning, right?” Monica sounded as apathetic as me. She didn’t seem to expect an answer, and we both sat in silence. Laughter mixed with music floated from the bar. People moved through the lobby, snatches of their conversations drifting through the air. I felt too tired to move and let the music and words flow around me for a few moments.

“I told you, that’s not good enough.” I stiffened as the speaker, a man, passed right behind me, his voice carrying through the lobby. “I’ll never let her sign,” he continued, “until you get rid of that exclusivity clause. Not going to happen.”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I knew that abrasive voice. I wanted to swivel around. Instead, I gripped the arms of the chair and slowly turned my head. In a white shirt and jeans, he stood out from several pudgy tourists in floral prints and pastels. He was striding away from me, his cowboy boots ringing out with each step, a phone pressed to his ear. When he turned his head, I could see his face was furrowed with wrinkles.

Monica picked up on my altered posture. “What is it?”

“It’s Mr. Sandpaper Voice,” I said, staring at the man, who was repeatedly punching the elevator button. “That’s who threatened Ben. He’s the one who wants the memory card.”

“Dwight? Dwight Fellows?” she asked, her forehead wrinkling. “Suzie’s manager?”

“Yes. That’s him. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.”

“It is distinctive,” she said, but there was doubt in her tone. “You think Dwight kidnapped your brother and . . . what? Has him tied up in the penthouse?”

“I don’t know. Ben could be somewhere else, but he did say he was in a nice hotel on the beach, but . . .” I frowned. “That’s not the guy who pulled a gun on Ben in the parking lot.”

The elevator dinged, and Dwight stepped inside. The air stirred around me as a young man jogged by, his flip-flops slapping the floor as his blue Hawaiian shirt fluttered. “Mr. Fellows, wait,” he called, and Dwight reluctantly held the button to keep the door open. The younger guy stepped inside and pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. Dwight Fellows sent him a look that, even at a distance, I could interpret as distaste. The younger guy held out a set of car keys, and the elevator door slid closed as Dwight took the keys.

“They’re together,” I said, sitting back in the chair, trying to work it out. “That younger guy, I saw him in some of the photos today. Do you know who he is?”

“No . . . but I suppose I could ask Tony. He’d probably know.”

“Who’s Tony again?”

“One of my contacts here. Works for the concierge,” she said. “He got off at eight, thank goodness, or he’d be trying to buy us drinks.”

“You should be nicer to your contacts,” I said in an aside.

“He’s seventeen!”

“Oh, in that case, you need older contacts. Who aren’t smitten with you.”

“But then they’re not nearly so cooperative,” she said with a little pout as she dialed a number on her phone. “Tony, honey. Me, again. Yes, I know, I have to talk to you every few hours. So who’s the scruffy guy with brown hair and glasses with Suzie’s entourage? Hawaiian shirt, young guy . . .” She listened for a moment, then thanked him effusively. Turning to me, she said, “He’s Lee Fitch, a new PA.”

“They both work for Suzie,” I said, lowering my voice as a woman joined us, taking a seat in the third chair in the conversational grouping. The woman opened her laptop and began typing. She had the same brand laptop that I had and, as I watched her out of the corner of my eye, something stirred in my mind, a thought that I couldn’t quite nail down. I turned back to Monica and focused on her, trying to work out what had happened.

“Suzie must have found out about the pictures somehow. Maybe Angela did contact her and offered to sell her the pictures instead of selling them to the paparazzi.”

“Press,” Monica said automatically. She looked through her messages on her phone. “Nothing from my tech guy. I’d call him, but it would only slow him down.”

“Suzie sent someone to meet . . . or intercept Angela. Maybe Suzie hoped Angela would have the photos with her. When she didn’t, the person forced Angela to go with them. After a night in the company of Lee and possibly Mr. Sandpaper Voice—I mean, Dwight Fellows—Angela called me and asked me to bring the purse. That’s why Lee tore the lining out of the purse. Angela must have told him where the memory card was.”

The woman shot us a look and heaved an irritated sigh. We ignored her. Monica said, “And when Lee realized he didn’t have the memory card, he took Ben, brought him to Dwight, and Dwight called you.” She nodded again. “It does make sense, that Dwight would take over at some point. If anyone bungles something, he’s the one who would clean it up.”

I said, “Even if we know who has Ben, I still don’t have the memory card.”

The woman in the other chair gave a little huff of disapproval, slapped her laptop closed, then strutted away to another chair.

“What does she think this is, a library?” Monica said, but I didn’t respond because I was staring at the woman’s laptop.

“I’m an idiot.” The wisp of an idea that had nagged at me crystallized into a coherent thought, and I grabbed Monica’s arm. “My laptop. Pete still has my laptop,” I said, my voice growing stronger and more excited as I spoke. “Upstairs in his room.”

“That’s irritating, but I don’t think you need to worry about that right now,” Monica said.

“I looked at the photos on the laptop and didn’t close any of the windows. My laptop is password protected. If Pete closed the laptop, it would go into hibernation, and he wouldn’t be able to open any programs or documents without the password. The photos could still be on the laptop.”

“Did you save them?” Monica breathed. “If you didn’t save them, I don’t think you’ll be able to view them without the memory card. You’d get that error message about the missing drive or disk or whatever it is.”

I closed my eyes, trying to remember. I shook my head. “I don’t know. Everything happened so fast. I might have hit SAVE FILE when I opened the documents, out of habit. I usually do that, but I might have just hit the OPEN instead.”

Monica’s eyes sparkled as she said, “But, either way, those photos have to be on there. Even if you didn’t save them specifically, you opened them. That had to create some kind of temporary file. I’m no computer expert, but I bet the files are there. It might take a specialist to find them, but I bet you the biggest Hershey bar they’ve got in that gift shop that the photos are on that laptop.”

“We’ve got to get that laptop.”