First thing tomorrow, I decided, I was going to find a new place to stay, a motel where I’d feel less exposed, or perhaps a hotel instead.
After slipping back between the sheets, I flicked off thelight and lay with my eyes wide open, summoning the killer in my mind.
You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I thought. Spreading out your murders over the years. Using a voice adapter. Silencing a reporter who was on to you. But I’m going to find the clue that Alice came across. And then I’m going to know who you are.
Chapter 17
ISTIRRED AWAKE JUST BEFORE SIX THE NEXT MORNING ATthe sound of voices directly outside my door.
“You can’t put anyone in fourteen,” a male voice murmured. “The drain’s still clogged in there.”
“Okay, okay,” a female replied. “It’s not like we don’t have space.”
I unstuck my eyes to half-mast. The first thing my gaze landed on was the dresser shoved up against the door, and in a split second everything came crashing back—Alice’s death, Killian’s call, the missing laptop. I moaned, my stomach churning from the memory.
After dragging myself out of bed, I checked thePost Staronline. There was a short news item on the home page announcing Alice’s death. Though the piece offered scant details, it pointed out that the police were considering foul play. No mention of me. It looked like Killian was trying to protect me, hiding the fact that I’d been on the premises.
The article included a link to an obit of Alice, which detailed her long career as a reporter, first in Massachusetts and then here for many years. She was survived, it said, by a son, Ben Hatfield of Chicago. Was he already at O’Hare by now, I wondered, beginning his sad journey here?
With a heavy heart, I made a reservation online for a room at the Courtyard by Marriott in the center of Lake George village, which had a check-in time of three. I’d feel safer there than at the Breezy Point, and hopefully more people would be hanging around. If Dodson flinched at springing for the upgrade, I’d cover the difference myself.
After a quick run to a nearby general store for take-out coffee—checking more than once over my shoulder—I settled back at the desk in the room. I composed a short update to last night’s post, announcing Alice’s death. For now, I included nothing about my role in finding her, though I shot an email to Dodson filling him in, confidentially, about the situation.
With the update out of the way, I plotted my moves for the morning. My top priority was continuing my online research in the hope of lighting on Alice’s discovery. I also wanted to track down her son. I’d suggested to Killian that Alice might have shared the information with a colleague at the paper, but I’d also begun to wonder if she’d run it by Ben since they were clearly close. If he were taking a morning flight from Chicago, he’d arrive at the Albany airport by midday and in Lake George about an hour later.
In addition, I wanted to talk to Cody. My gut was still telling me that Alice had been familiar with her killer, and I wondered if Cody might have any theories. He knew who’dbeen hanging around the volunteer center and might have seen Alice interacting with people. It was a long shot, but long shots were all I had at the moment.
There was another subject matter I wanted to raise with him—the question of drugs—and though I knew he wouldn’t like it, I was going to go there anyway.
I spent the next two hours glued to my laptop, widening the radius of my search even further. People were missing, that was for sure, all over the state and New England, too, many more than I would have imagined, and the stories made you ache for the relatives, lovers, and friends who’d been left searching and yearning. But I found no cases of missing women that seemed relevant.
My phone rang. I wasn’t surprised to see Matt Wong’s name on the screen. He would have caught wind of Alice’s death by now and would be on the prowl for details.
“You know, I assume?” he said, barely giving me time to mutter hello.
“About Alice Hatfield? Yes.”
“They’re hinting at foul play. Do you think it has anything to do with the case? Or was it just some spat that got out of hand?”
“Spat?”
“You know, a personal issue—with a kid or neighbor. I doubt it’s a lover’s quarrel gone wrong. She wasn’t what you’d call a looker.”
“I don’t think Alice cared about being alooker,” I said, wishing he’d just shut the fuck up. “She was too busy being a good journalist.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. I know Alice was good. I’ve followed some of her stuff since I’ve been up here.”
“Matt, can I call you back?” I wasn’t in the mood for him.
“Yeah, okay, but we talked about having a drink. Does tonight work for you?”
“Maybe. Let me see how the day goes, okay?”
After I’d signed off, I double-checked my phone for texts in case Beau had tried to make contact and I hadn’t heard the ping. Nothing. I knew his cell service was spotty, but I felt a burning need to talk to him, to share about Alice. It would have to wait. At least I was going to see Jessie.
Checkout at the Breezy Point was at eleven, so at ten minutes before the hour I stuffed my clothes and boots into my duffel bag and work gear into my tote and then lugged everything outside. The white Camry, which had been parked in the lot when I’d made my coffee run earlier, was now gone. I hoped the jogger hadn’t checked out. Killian had said he’d follow up with her, and the easier she was to locate, the better.
A woman I didn’t recognize, middle-aged with a friendly, open face, was at the front desk of the motel. After paying my bill, I gushed disingenuously about my stay.
