Кей Хупер - Chill Of Fear

"Of course. Oh, of course." Doug Wallace tried hard to sound as if he cared about the long-ago murder of a little boy. And he almost pulled it off. Almost.

Stephanie kept her own tone brisk and businesslike. "Under the circumstances, I believe our best course is to cooperate fully with the authorities. The police captain in charge of the investigation has assured me that he will do his utmost to conduct all relevant inquiries as discreetly as possible." She decided not to mention the FBI agent who was, after all, here very much unofficially.

Wallace sighed. "Yeah, I've heard that before."

Pressing, Stephanie said, "And I have your permission to extend our cooperation to the police, to make our records available to them?"

"Christ. Is that really necessary?"

Unconsciously, Stephanie tilted her head to one side. "Is there any reason why it would be a problem, Mr. Wallace?"

He was silent for a beat or two, then said, "Stephanie, you're aware that most if not all our clients — our guests — value their privacy."

"Yes, sir." She stopped it there, waiting. In her experience, silence quite often produced answers where insistent questions wouldn't.

"We have had some Very Important Clients."

"Yes, sir."

He sighed again, impatient. "One of the services we offer is discretion, Stephanie. The very reputation of The Lodge was founded on that. Our specialty, as it were, the lure to get people to such an isolated spot. So if a Very Important Client checks in with a companion not his wife, we respect his privacy. If an actress recovering from cosmetic surgery or the unfortunate repercussions of an ill-judged affair wishes her presence to remain... well... secret, we oblige. If a group of businesspeople requires a secure and discreet setting in which to discuss the future of their company, we provide that."

"Yes, sir."

"Dammit, Stephanie, we mind our own business. And our paperwork reflects that."

Evenly, she said, "Sir, I very much doubt that the records of any of the situations you describe could possibly be relevant to this police investigation and would, therefore, be of no interest to them."

Wallace swore, not under his breath. "Stephanie, what I'm trying to tell you is that there have been occasions in the past during which no records were kept. Officially or unofficially."

"Sir, I was never told that anything of that nature would be part of my duties," she said stiffly.

"No, of course not. We don't do that sort of thing these days," Wallace was quick to say. "We keep a private ledger — which I'm sure you were told about since I told you myself — for those more discreet occasions. But there were regrettable instances in the past in which Lodge employees accepted... um... additional gratuities ... to keep a guest's name or the situation entirely off the books."

Somewhat grimly, Stephanie wondered what she'd gotten herself into. It had seemed like such a nice little job. "I see, sir."

Wallace's tone was strained but steady. "I don't know how thoroughly these police officers mean to examine our books and other records, or what they expect to find, but someone familiar with hotel accounting would certainly notice some... discrepancies."

Stephanie knew. "Such as food and beverages charged to supposedly unoccupied rooms. Such as spa services booked and not charged."

"Yes, yes, exactly those sorts of things." Wallace drew a breath. "I can assure you that all monies were reported and accounted in accordance with the law. We merely protected the anonymity of our clients."

And Stephanie believed in the Easter Bunny. She wondered how many secrets this place really held. And which of them would blow up in her face the instant they were exposed.

"Yes, sir." There really wasn't much else she could say, at least as long as she kept this job.

He cleared his throat. "My point being, of course, that if the police should look closely at our books, they could conceivably find things that could send them off on quite useless and needless tangents in their investigation of this child's tragic death."

Baldly, she demanded, "What do you expect me to do, sir?"

"You're on the scene," Wallace said, his tone persuasive. "You can... guide... the local police. Keep them focused on details relevant to their investigation."

"Guide them, sir?"

"Don't be deliberately dense, Stephanie. You can make certain that the police aren't allowed to paw indiscriminately through our accounts and records. Boundaries. Boundaries must be set."

"I've already been asked to allow access to employment records and historical documents stored in the basement."

"I don't see how those could be relevant."

"I've been assured it's simple procedure. The police need to know who was here at the time this child was murdered, and since ten years have passed, they'll need whatever paperwork they can find."

"You need to see those records first, Stephanie."

"Sir, are you asking me to interfere with that investigation?"

"Absolutely not." He sounded offended now, though also harassed. "I'm not suggesting you keep anything of value from the police, merely that you take a look before they do. Weed out what your common sense tells you cannot possibly be relevant. And notify me should you find anything... unusual."

"Unusual, sir?"

"Just anything that might strike you as odd, that's all. Nothing to do with this murder, obviously."

Stephanie had pretty good instincts, and right now they were practically doing handstands to get her attention. Trying to "guide" the police away from discrepancies in the bookkeeping was one thing; actively searching through documents herself in order to report back to Wallace was something else entirely. And suspicious as hell.

What did he expect her to find?

"Stephanie, I'm making a perfectly reasonable request that you keep in mind the best interests of your employers, that's all."

Stephanie was tempted, but decided not to try and pin him down to more fully explain his meaning. He was adept at sidestepping, for one thing. For another, she really didn't want him worried enough about what she might do to hop on a plane out in California and come here himself. Not before she figured out what this was all about, anyway.

If there was anything army brats learned young, it was that the more information you had in hand, the better your likelihood of making the best decision possible. Nobody could sneak up on you if you knew where they stood.

In other words, protect your goddamned flank. And your ass, while you were at it.

Keeping her own tone calm but just faintly impatient, she said, "Very well, sir. I'll take a look downstairs and report to you anything that seems to me unusual. And I'll work as closely as possible with the police, to keep fully abreast of the investigation."

"Good." Wallace sounded a bit wary rather than satisfied, as if he realized that Stephanie had not quite sung the team fight song. "Good. I'll expect regular updates, Stephanie. No matter how this plays out."

"Yes, sir." She crossed her fingers. "With the weekend looming, I doubt much will get done until Monday, at least. I'll call then with an update."

"Very well."

She cradled the receiver, then leaned back in her chair, propped her feet on the desk, and thought about this.

Item: there were discrepancies in The Lodge's accounts, and possibly other paperwork as well.

Item: Douglas Wallace, properties manager for the very wealthy group of investors who owned The Lodge, was worried about the wrong person finding the wrong thing while sifting through that paperwork.

Item: whatever Wallace was worried about might or might not have something to do with the murder of an eight-year-old boy ten years ago. But either way, Wallace was just this side of scared and not hiding it well.