`Heard a lot about you from Finlay,’ he said to her.
His bear’s voice rumbled. Roscoe nodded and smiled.
`The car Finlay found?’ he said. `Rental Pontiac. Booked out to Joe Reacher, Atlanta airport, Thursday night at eight.’
`Great, Picard,’ I said. `Any guess about where he was holed up?’
`Better than a guess, my friend,’ Picard said. `They had the exact location. It was a prebooked car. They delivered it right to his hotel.’
He mentioned a place a mile the other way from the hotel we were using.
`Thanks, Picard,’ I said. `I owe you.’
`No problem, my friend,’ he said. `You take care now, OK?’
He loped off back to the elevator and we raced back south to the airport. Roscoe swung onto the perimeter road and accelerated into the flow. Across the divider, a black pickup flashed by. Brand-new. I spun around and caught a glimpse of it disappearing behind a raft of trucks. Black. Brand-new. Probably nothing. They sell more pickups down here than anything else.
Roscoe pulled her badge at the desk where Picard said Joe had checked in on Thursday. The clerk did
some keyboard work and told us he had been in 621, sixth floor, far end of the corridor. She said a manager would meet us up there. So we went up in the elevator and walked the length of a dark corridor. Stood waiting outside the door to Joe’s room.
The manager came by more or less straight away and opened the room up with his pass key. We stepped in. The room was empty. It had been cleaned and tidied. It looked like it was ready for new occupants.
`What about his stuff?’ I said. `Where is it all?’
`We cleared it out Saturday,’ the manager said. `The guy was booked in Thursday night, supposed to vacate by eleven Friday morning. What we do is we give them an extra day, then if they don’t show, we clear them out, down to housekeeping.’
`So his stuff is in a closet somewhere?’ I asked.
`Downstairs,’ the manager said. `You should see the stuff we got down there. People leave things all the time.’
`So can we go take a look?’ I said.
`Basement,’ he said. `Use the stairs from the lobby. You’ll find it.’
The manager strolled off. Roscoe and I walked the length of the corridor again and rode back down in the elevator. We found the service staircase and went down to the basement. Housekeeping was a giant hall stacked with linens and towels. There were hampers and baskets full of soap and those free sachets you find in the showers. Maids were pulling in and out with the trolleys they use for servicing the rooms. There was a glassed-in office cubicle in the near corner with a woman at a small desk. We walked over and rapped on the
glass. She looked up. Roscoe held out her badge. `Help you?’ the woman said.
`Room six-two-one,’ Roscoe said. `You cleared
out some belongings, Saturday morning. You got
them down here?’
I was holding my breath again.
`Six-two-one?’ the woman said. `He came by for
them already. They’re gone.’
I breathed out. We were too late. I went numb
with disappointment.
`Who came by?’ I asked. `When?’
`The guest,’ the woman said. `This morning,
maybe nine, nine-thirty.’
`Who was he?’ I asked her.
She pulled a small book off a shelf and thumbed
it open. Licked a stubby finger and pointed to a
line.
`Joe Reacher,’ she said. `He signed the book and took the stuff.’
She reversed the book and slid it toward us. There was a scrawled signature on the line.
`What did this Reacher guy look like?’ I asked her.
She shrugged.
`Foreign,’ she said. `Some kind of a Latino. Maybe from Cuba? Little dark guy, slender, nice smile. Very polite sort of a guy, as I recall.’
`You got a list of the stuff?’ I said.
She slid the stubby finger further along the line. There was a small column filled with tight handwriting. It listed a garment bag, eight articles of clothing, a toilet bag, four shoes. The last item listed was: one briefcase.
We just walked away from her and found the stairs back to the lobby. Walked out into the morning sun. It didn’t feel like such a great day any more.