ing,” I said. “Except we had bodies.”
The Napa cop’s face tightened. “Believe me, I didn’t call you guys all the way out here just to help us with the missing-persons forms.”
“What makes you so sure?” Raleigh asked.
“’Cause the concierge did receive one call last night. It was from the restaurant, confirming their reservations.”
“So?”
Hartwig took a sip of his coffee before he met our eyes. “No one at the restaurant ever called them.”
Chapter 30
THE HONEYMOON COUPLE had received no unusual visitors, scheduled no conflicting side trips. The reservation at the French Laundry had been for just two.
What made this all the more grave was that they had missed their scheduled flight to Mexico.
While Raleigh poked around outside, I made a quick check of their room. There was this enormous redwood bed neatly turned down, a suitcase laid out, clothes stacked, toiletries. Lots of flowers — mostly roses. Maybe Becky DeGeorge had brought them from the reception.
There was nothing to indicate that the DeGeorges weren’t set to board that plane the next morning.
I caught up with Raleigh outside. He was talking with a bellhop who was apparently the last person who saw the DeGeorges leaving.
When it was just the two of us, Raleigh said, “Two of the local guys and I swept a hundred yards into the woods.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Not even a footprint. I looked around the car, too. It’s locked. No blood, no sign of a struggle. But something happens to them out here. Someone accosts them. Twenty, thirty yards from the hotel.”
I took a frustrated 360-degree scan of the driveway and the nearby parking lot. A local police cruiser was set up outside the property gate. “Not accosts them. Too risky. It’s in plain view. Maybe someone picked them up.”
“Reservations were only for two,” he countered. “And the guy at the front door insists they were headed to their car.”
“Then they vanish?”
Our attention was diverted by the swoosh of a long black limousine turning into the resort’s pebbly driveway. It pulled up under the redwood overhang in front of the entrance.
Raleigh and I watched the hotel door open and the doorman emerge rolling a trolley of bags out. The driver of the limo hopped out to open the trunk.
It hit us both at the same time.
“It’s a long shot,” said Raleigh, meeting my eyes.
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but it would explain how someone gained access without attracting anyone’s attention. I think we should check if any limos have been reported stolen lately in the Bay Area.”
Another car turned into the driveway, a silver Mazda, and parked near the far end of the circle. To my dismay, a woman in cargo pants and a University of Michigan sweatshirt jumped out.
“Raleigh, you said one of your particular skills was containment, didn’t you?”
He looked at me as if I had asked Dr. Kevorkian, You’re sort of good at mixing chemicals, aren’t you?
“Okay,” I said, eyeing the approaching figure, “contain this.”
Walking up to us was Cindy Thomas.
Chapter 31
“EITHER YOU’VE GOT the sharpest nose for a story I’ve ever seen,” I said to Cindy Thomas angrily, “or I may start to think of you as a murder suspect.”
This was the second time she had intruded in the middle of a possible crime scene.
“Don’t tell me I’m stepping on some interoffice romance?” she quipped.