She scrambled. “Okay, what?”
“We went into the house this morning, but it was empty, except for staff.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, since Hamish is sitting at a table in The Arrington’s garden restaurant, sipping espresso, just a few yards away from me.”
“It begins to make sense,” Tom said. “We checked out the car phone on the Bentley and found an agency GPS card in it. We checked with the doorman at Annabel’s—the car was parked out front all evening, but Hamish and Mo were not in the club. We’ve been chasing our own tails.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” Holly said defensively. “Now I’ve got to go and wrap this up. Bye.” She hung up and turned back to where Hamish sat. He was gone.
—
Hamish walked quickly through the back of the garden and got into the white Cayenne at the curb with Hans at the wheel. “Did you pick up my two bags?”
“Yes, in the back.”
“How about your device?”
“In the spare tire well, under the trunk.”
“Drive normally and get us out of here.”
54
Holly darted around the restaurant, looking for Hamish. She opened the men’s room door and shouted his name. A man elbowed past her. “Sorry, wrong guy.”
“Is there anyone else in there?” she shouted at him.
“Not a soul, lady.” He hurried away.
Holly got on her phone. She had to look up Steve Rifkin’s number, which took a minute. Finally, she had it ringing.
“Rifkin,” he said.
“It’s Holly Barker.”
“I’m going to have to call you back,” Rifkin said.
“No, no!” But he had already hung up. She looked up Mike Freeman’s number and tried that.
“Freeman,” he said.
“Mike, it’s Holly Barker.”
“How are you, Holly?”
“Listen, Hamish McCallister is on the hotel grounds.”
“Who?”
“Algernon!”
“How do you know that?”
“I just had a conversation with him in the garden restaurant, but I lost him. Can you alert your security people? It’s vital that we interrogate him.”
“Is he registered at The Arrington?”
“No, at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”