Wojtowick to see.
“We’re like this,” I said.
“He said you are tenacious, your Commander Dunston did.”
“One of my lesser virtues,” I said.
“When are you leaving?”
“First thing in the morning.”
Wojtowick slipped a business card from the pocket of her coat and put it in my hand. I returned the favor by giving her my cell phone number, which she jotted down in her notebook.
“I’ll check with the fraud unit tomorrow to see if they’ve had any complaints similar to the one you’re investigating,” she said. “I will also attempt to locate the carpet. I will inform you if we learn anything. In the meantime, please let me know what you discover on your end. I do hope you find the girl.”
“Thank you.”
“When you find her, you might mention that the Thunder Bay Police Service would like to have a word.”
“Can you arrest her if Jason Truhler refuses to sign a complaint?”
“This is Canada, mister, and Truhler isn’t the only victim. There’s also Daniel Khawaja and the Chalet Motel.”
“Tell me something—what makes you think the scam originated in the States?”
“You tell me,” Wojtowick said.
“The reservation. It was made from Minnesota. It was made seven weeks before Truhler got here, which means they were expecting him.”
“They were expecting someone, anyway. It didn’t necessarily have to be him. Any mark might have done just as well.”
“There’s one way to check his story.”
“How?”
“Contact someone at the Prince Arthur Hotel. Find out when Truhler made his reservation there and for how many guests.”
“Good idea. I’ll do that.”
Wojtowick gave me a nod and started moving across the parking lot toward her car. I called to her.
“Are there any good restaurants in town?”
“A few.”
“I’d be happy to buy you dinner.”
She gave me a rueful smile and shook her head.
“Commander Dunston was right about you,” she said. “You are an incorrigible flirt.”
A few moments later she drove off. I watched her taillights receding into the darkness.
* * *
I heard a woman’s voice. It was loud and distinct. “I’m lost,” it said. A second voice replied. It was mine. My voice said, “Where are you?” The first voice said, “How the hell should I know—I’m lost.” “Who are you?” I asked. The voice said, “Oh, for God’s sake, who do you think?” Then I woke up. It wasn’t a particularly satisfying ghost moment, but there you are. Still, I discovered that the sheets were soggy with perspiration and my heart was beating fast. I wondered what had been going on in my dream before the voices woke me. I listened hard, only there was nothing more to be heard.
I flipped the pillow to the dry side and closed my eyes. Sleep didn’t come, and I didn’t think it would, at least not for a while. If I were at home I’d saunter down to the kitchen for a glass of milk—that was usually enough to tire me out. In room 34 of the Chalet Motel, where a young woman might or might not have been brutally murdered, I reached for the TV remote. It was on the nightstand next to the bed; the sliver of streetlight that peeked through a crack in the drapes gave me enough to find it. I had used the remote to turn off TSN–Canada’s Sports Leader—just hours before. There was no ESPN in Canada, the barbarians. I turned on the TV and switched to the Weather Network, a poor cousin of our own Weather Channel. The crawl at the bottom told me it was 3:14 A.M. It also told me that it was minus 3.3° Celsius in the City of Thunder Bay, Ontario. I did the math in my head just the way I was taught in high school: −3.3 multiplied by 9, divided by 5, plus 32 equals 26.1° Fahrenheit. That made it seem warmer, but not by much, so I used the equation for converting Celsius to Kelvin and came up with 269.85°. Toasty.
I flipped back to TSN. None of the scores from the evening before had changed; both the Wild and the Timberwolves still lost. When
“We’re like this,” I said.
“He said you are tenacious, your Commander Dunston did.”
“One of my lesser virtues,” I said.
“When are you leaving?”
“First thing in the morning.”
Wojtowick slipped a business card from the pocket of her coat and put it in my hand. I returned the favor by giving her my cell phone number, which she jotted down in her notebook.
“I’ll check with the fraud unit tomorrow to see if they’ve had any complaints similar to the one you’re investigating,” she said. “I will also attempt to locate the carpet. I will inform you if we learn anything. In the meantime, please let me know what you discover on your end. I do hope you find the girl.”
“Thank you.”
“When you find her, you might mention that the Thunder Bay Police Service would like to have a word.”
“Can you arrest her if Jason Truhler refuses to sign a complaint?”
“This is Canada, mister, and Truhler isn’t the only victim. There’s also Daniel Khawaja and the Chalet Motel.”
“Tell me something—what makes you think the scam originated in the States?”
“You tell me,” Wojtowick said.
“The reservation. It was made from Minnesota. It was made seven weeks before Truhler got here, which means they were expecting him.”
“They were expecting someone, anyway. It didn’t necessarily have to be him. Any mark might have done just as well.”
“There’s one way to check his story.”
“How?”
“Contact someone at the Prince Arthur Hotel. Find out when Truhler made his reservation there and for how many guests.”
“Good idea. I’ll do that.”
Wojtowick gave me a nod and started moving across the parking lot toward her car. I called to her.
“Are there any good restaurants in town?”
“A few.”
“I’d be happy to buy you dinner.”
She gave me a rueful smile and shook her head.
“Commander Dunston was right about you,” she said. “You are an incorrigible flirt.”
A few moments later she drove off. I watched her taillights receding into the darkness.
* * *
I heard a woman’s voice. It was loud and distinct. “I’m lost,” it said. A second voice replied. It was mine. My voice said, “Where are you?” The first voice said, “How the hell should I know—I’m lost.” “Who are you?” I asked. The voice said, “Oh, for God’s sake, who do you think?” Then I woke up. It wasn’t a particularly satisfying ghost moment, but there you are. Still, I discovered that the sheets were soggy with perspiration and my heart was beating fast. I wondered what had been going on in my dream before the voices woke me. I listened hard, only there was nothing more to be heard.
I flipped the pillow to the dry side and closed my eyes. Sleep didn’t come, and I didn’t think it would, at least not for a while. If I were at home I’d saunter down to the kitchen for a glass of milk—that was usually enough to tire me out. In room 34 of the Chalet Motel, where a young woman might or might not have been brutally murdered, I reached for the TV remote. It was on the nightstand next to the bed; the sliver of streetlight that peeked through a crack in the drapes gave me enough to find it. I had used the remote to turn off TSN–Canada’s Sports Leader—just hours before. There was no ESPN in Canada, the barbarians. I turned on the TV and switched to the Weather Network, a poor cousin of our own Weather Channel. The crawl at the bottom told me it was 3:14 A.M. It also told me that it was minus 3.3° Celsius in the City of Thunder Bay, Ontario. I did the math in my head just the way I was taught in high school: −3.3 multiplied by 9, divided by 5, plus 32 equals 26.1° Fahrenheit. That made it seem warmer, but not by much, so I used the equation for converting Celsius to Kelvin and came up with 269.85°. Toasty.
I flipped back to TSN. None of the scores from the evening before had changed; both the Wild and the Timberwolves still lost. When
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