Mr. Kiss and Tell by Rob Thomas Page B

the exits.”
    Reflected light from the monitor shone in Mac’s eyes. She reached over Veronica’s shoulder and grabbed the mouse, backing up the video and playing it again.
    “There aren’t cameras on the individual floors?”
    “Nope. But the service corridors are all covered.” Veronica opened up a window that showed the basement hallway. “Petra Landros likes to make sure she gets her money’s worth out of the help. No sign of her there either. But there’s the guy the victim accused.” She pointed to a man in a red polo shirt, pushing a laundry bin up the hallway. The image was heavily pixelated, but she recognized him from the mug shot. Dark hair, broad shoulders.
    Mac frowned. “Those laundry baskets are pretty big. Maybe he used one of them to move the victim?”
    “That was my thought too. But the bins don’t leave the hotel, at least not that I can see.” She leaned back in her chair. “So we’re left with the same question either way. How did
this
girl”—she touched the image of Grace on her screen as she disappeared once again into the dark, unmonitored stairwell—“end up
here
?” She gestured to the pile of photos on the desk next to her. Mac picked up the top one, an image of Grace’s bruised and broken face, and blanched.
    “If we can’t get DNA from the guy she accused, there’s no way to prove for sure he did it.”
    Veronica paused, staring for a moment at the photo in Mac’s hands. Staring at the face of a woman who, all other points aside, had been raped, brutalized, and left for dead.
    “And that means the asshole who did
that
might still be out there right now, digging into a big old sack of fried cheddar sticks at the ballgame.”
    Mac’s eyes lingered on the photo for another moment before she looked up at Veronica. “So how are we going to stop him?”
    Veronica sighed. “Well, the first order of business is going to be to talk to the victim. Fun!
‘Hey girl, I’m working for the suits who’re trying to prove you’re lying about your rape. Coffee? My treat?’
”
    Mac winced. “Do you think she’ll talk to you?”
    “Wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. But I’ve got to try.” Veronica picked up her phone. “I need her side of the story. And she deserves a shot at telling it her way, on her own turf.”
    For a moment she considered going straight to Grace’s apartment unannounced, seeing if she could catch her in person. With most witnesses, that was the go-to strategy. Catching people off guard often paid off in straight, unrehearsed answers. But she didn’t want to ambush Grace—didn’t want to blindside her with questions about what presumably was the most traumatic day of her life. So she punched in the phone number from one of the police forms and waited.
    The voice that answered was a calm, even alto. “This is Grace.”
    Veronica jumped slightly. She’d half expected it to go to voice mail.
    “Hi, Grace. My name is Veronica Mars.” She didn’t mention their connection. Either Grace would remember it herself, or she wouldn’t. Given the context of the call, Veronica wasn’t sure which she’d prefer. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling because I’m doing some research for the insurance firm that covers the Neptune Grand.” She paused, her mouth suddenly feeling dry. “First of all, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for everything you’ve already been through…”
    “What’s your question?” The girl’s voice was still calm, but quicker than before, a bit impatient.
    “Well, I was hoping I could meet with you in person and ask a few questions.”
    “Fine.” The word came with no hesitation. “Are you free this afternoon? I’m in rehearsals for the summer show until five. You can meet me at Hearst. You know where the drama building is?”
    “Um, yeah. I do. I can meet you there.”
    “I’ll be on the main stage. I’m guessing you’ve already seen my picture. You’ll know who I am.”
    And then, before Veronica