“To our south is a gentleman by the name of Renning,” Clive said. “Some tech guru from Silicon Valley. Bought the place three years ago. He’s here maybe twenty days a year.”
This was the property where Frank and I had spoken to the man on the lawn mower.
“And the other direction?”
“That’s the Burrows estate,” he said. “House passed down in the family.”
The man whose father’s photo I’d seen at the police station. The professional shut-in.
“Have you met Mr. Burrows?” I asked.
“Two years ago,” the manager said. “He doesn’t leave the place often. We deliver him room service at times.”
“That’s convenient,” I said.
The Olive property was of some size. Out a window, I saw a small pond with a wagon wheel that circulated water, the wind blowing ittoward the hotel. “Your people walk the food over?” I asked. “Take a golf cart?”
“There’s a space between the bushes out front,” Clive said. “You probably passed it as you turned in.”
As we spoke, the place went dark, and I looked around. A gas generator kicked in, and the lights flickered back on.
“He allows them into his room?” I said, not missing a beat, my mind thinking of the article on Burrows. “He’s not a germophobe?”
“Sorry about that,” Clive said, putting on a good face amid the storm. “And no, not from what I’ve heard.” He glanced around at the hotel, the wind whipping against the large windows that looked out through the dark toward the beach.
I thanked the manager and checked into my room on the second floor. Dropped my workbag on the bed and stared around the room.
Frank had told me to crash. To be ready by 5 a.m.
I washed my face and lay down on the bed. But something caught my attention. A black-and-white photo on the wall. The Olive was one of two structures in the picture. Between the two stretched a large pool.
I sat up. Stared at it, then walked back downstairs.
Clive was still at the front desk.
“This place,” I said. “And the one next door—the Burrows house. It was once one big property?”
“You saw the pictures in your room?” Clive smiled. “Yeah, the Burrows Family Trust owns the Olive, Agent Camden. Fifty years ago, they knocked down a couple tennis courts. Covered the pool. Made this hotel its own place.”
“Mr. Burrows,” I said, referring to the shut-in we’d discussed earlier, “when’s the last time he ordered?”
The manager walked over to a computer and punched somekeys. “Actually, it’s been a while. Two months of radio silence. Guess maybe we should make sure he’s all right.”
I stared in the direction of the neighbor. Frank had said to get some rest. But something was itching at my brain.
Amber. Almost two days gone.
I thought of what Richie had said. About El Médico being one step ahead of us.
Edward Burrows was somehow involved. El Médico’s next victim, perhaps? Or was he our killer, parading as a shut-in?
Had he taken Amber Isiah captive? Would morning be too late for her?
I mentally double-checked my work, my mind shuttling through every face I had seen in the last week. Natalie Kastner. Detective Johnson. The men and women in the police station photo. Freddie, in his childhood photo.
And then one last set. Every boy Frank and I had seen Natalie Kastner in a picture with.
In doing this, a face matched. Not completely, but in pieces.
