Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

Felix came back, fanning himself with the photo. “Yeah, I didn’t see him myself, but my buddy and I know the girl who waited on him in the bar. The police didn’t talk to her. But I can track her down for you for. . twenty bucks.”

“Twenty bucks,” Chris repeated. He held out his hand. “Can I have the photo back?”

Felix gave it to him.

Pocketing the photo, Chris backed toward the lobby door. “Thanks,” he said. “And fuck you. I’m going to have a talk with your pal, the desk clerk, and then I’ll tell the police you were holding out on them.”

“Hey, now, wait a minute, wait a minute,” Felix said. “First off, hot shot, dry your eyes. That wasn’t your uncle in the picture, was it? He looked too much like you. He was your dad, wasn’t he?”

Chris quickly wiped the tears away. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Felix nodded. “A friend of mine, Roseann, she’s a parttimer here, and she uses her sister’s green card. She’d be in a shitload of trouble if the hotel or the cops got wind of that. So her sister is covering for her, and saying she worked Friday. She’s saying she saw nothing and they’re sticking to that. But between you and me, your old man came into the bar, and Roseann waited on him. Rosie remembered, because they found him dead and his picture was on TV the next day. Anyway, Rosie said he was with a woman.”

“How can I get ahold of this Roseann?” Chris asked.

“You can’t. And you aren’t repeating what I just told you to anybody, because if you do, I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

“Please,” Chris whispered. “I think this woman might have killed my father. I need to know if your friend heard anything or if she can describe her. I promise I won’t use your friend’s name or say where I found out. Please, I’ll pay you. . ”

“Jesus, don’t start crying on me again, man,” Felix whispered. He glanced over at a Lincoln Town Car approaching the drive-thru. “And I don’t want your stinking money anymore, either. . ”

Chris stood by while Felix opened the back door of the Lincoln Town Car. His smile and his enthusiastic, “good morning” were ignored by the rich-looking middle-aged woman who emerged from the back of the car. He hurried to get the lobby door for her, and she walked through without glancing at him. Then Felix retreated to the back of the Town Car, where the driver had popped the trunk. He collected two big bags and brushed past Chris as he loaded them onto the baggage caddy. “Roseann’s working her other job today, selling dried flowers at Pike Street Market,” he whispered. “She has the first dried-flower stand down from where they throw the fish.”

“Thanks,” Chris said. “Thanks a lot.”

Felix nodded. With a grunt, he pushed the baggage cart toward the door.

She started to slow down for the turn to Willow Tree Court up ahead. She could see the black Honda Accord pull out from the cul-de-sac. It was Rachel Cross’s car, and it passed her going in the other direction.

In the rearview mirror, she took one last glance at Rachel’s Honda Accord, growing tinier with the distance. Then she turned onto the dead end. She’d borrowed a beat-up old station wagon from a friend. She had a lot of packing to do today, and the Mini Cooper couldn’t have handled the load.

Her days of free room and board at the Nguyens’ were a thing of the past. It had been a sweet setup for nine weeks. She’d had a good run, but it wasn’t quite over yet.

She studied the Dennehys’ house as she drove by. The widow’s car wasn’t in the driveway. It didn’t look like anyone was home at Lynette’s or Jill’s either. So her timing was pretty close to perfect.

She pulled into the Nguyens’ driveway, then quickly jumped out of the car and let herself inside the house. She hurried through to the garage entrance, where she pushed the button for the automatic garage door. Once it was open, she pressed the LOCK button. Running back to the station wagon, she climbed inside, started it up, and pulled into the garage. In less than a minute, she pressed the OPERATE button, and the garage door closed again.

It took a half hour to load up the station wagon with all of her stuff — along with a few things that the Nguyens wouldn’t miss. Hell, the things they’d really miss — the valuable items — she’d already sold at the hock shop weeks ago. All that remained were some DVDs and some fancy scarves and clothes belonging to the wife.

She glanced out the front window at the other houses on the cul-de-sac. There still weren’t cars in any of the driveways. She was wearing a fatigue jacket, a black tee, and jeans, perfect camouflage clothes.

The November wind whipped at her long, dark blond hair as she stepped outside. She cut around back and made her way along the edge of the woods — into the Dennehys’ backyard. She crept up to the sliding glass doors and peered into the family room. A fancy floral arrangement was on the table by the sofa — no doubt, condolence flowers from some family friend.

She realized her nose was fogging up the glass. She gave the door handle a tug, but it didn’t give. She glanced around for a flowerpot under which a key might be hidden. But there wasn’t one. She felt along the top of the frame to the sliding glass door, but again, no luck.

Undaunted, she moved onto the next yard and the next house. It took her only five minutes to find a key underneath one of the flowerpots by Rachel Cross’s screen porch. She tried it on the back door and felt the lock turn. She held her breath for a few seconds as she opened the door and waited for an alarm to sound. But it stayed quiet.

The house smelled like cinnamon toast. The kitchen was pretty spotless — except for a near-empty glass of milk by the sink. She didn’t linger. She moved toward the front of the house and started up the stairs.

She wanted to see the bedroom.

The windmill in front of Windmill Antiques & Miniatures stood about ten feet high. The store itself looked like a slightly decayed antebellum mansion — with white pillars, a porch, and a porch swing. Posted along the front lawn was a collection of novelty wind toys: a man rowing in a boat, a woman swimming, a sailor with flags, and a British bobby directing traffic, among others.

Molly hoped she would have better luck in the antique store than she’d had at the La Conner Channel Lodge. In the chalet-style lobby, she’d questioned two bellhops. Neither one of them recognized Jeff’s photograph — or the sketch of Natalie. She’d tried the fiftysomething woman at the registration desk, giving her the dates Jeff checked in and checked out. She showed her Jeff’s photo and asked if she remembered whether or not he’d checked in alone. Molly got a very haughty, “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re not allowed to give out that kind of information. The privacy of our guests is very important to us.”

Molly wanted to tell her: Well, what — and who — my husband was doing in your hotel is very important to me. But she didn’t think of that comeback until after she’d nodded politely to the woman and ducked out the front door.

The antique store was three blocks away. As she stepped inside, a little bell on the door rang. It had a slightly musty smell, like an old attic. There was a grand staircase right in front of her — with dozens of clocks and ornately framed paintings and old photographs on the wall. To her right was a parlor, with wall shelves full of vases, lamps, and desk clocks. An elaborate toy train set — complete with a bridge, two crossing gates, and a town full of stores, houses, and foliage — was on a big table in the middle of the room. To Molly’s left was a room with a dozen different dollhouses. Miniature furniture, lamps, knickknacks, and tiny dolls — including dolls of pets — lined the shelves of the big room.