your gut say?”
“The help doesn’t like talking to cops because no one wants to be shipped south if their illegal status is discovered. So they’re nervous. Big surprise. No one I’ve questioned is from Colombia, Peru, or Ecuador. Some Guatemalans. A lot of Mexicans.”
“Mendoza do any better?”
“If he has, he’s not sharing,” Mario said.
“Then he hasn’t. He’s not a glory hog.”
“So what did you find about our gem switcher, the one that leaves good stuff and keeps the bad? You sure she isn’t a blonde?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Sam asked. “Blonde jokes are out. De-meaning to groups like Blondes Demanding Respect.”
Mario did a double take. “There’s no such group.”
“Prove it.”
The cop gave a bark of laughter and headed for the bell captain’s desk, shaking his head.
Sam checked his cell phone, saw the terse message— NO HITS —and swore silently. No female Caucasian between the ages of twenty-five and forty using the name Natalie Harrison Cutter, under any spelling variation, had been arrested, fingerprinted for any job, or otherwise entered into the FBI databases.
Either she was innocent or she’d been using an alias. All in all he was betting on the alias, which meant that subtle wasn’t going to get this job done.
He went to the registration desk, showed his badge, and requested the on-duty manager. Very quickly he was in an office with the door closed behind him. Hotels really didn’t want to make their clients nervous.
Cops made people nervous.
“How can I help you?” the day manager asked. “There hasn’t been any trouble with the security arrangements for the gem trade show, has there?”
Sam smiled easily. The manager was blonde and sleek and not stupid. If Blondes Demanding Respect ever came into being, she would be a charter member and first president.
“Your staff has been very helpful,” he said, hoping it was the truth. “We just want to know if you have a Natalie Cutter registered here.” He used the Bureau’s royal “we” because it worked better than “I.” No one gave a crap about what Sam Groves wanted, but people jumped for the FBI.
“That’s Natalie with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’ or something else?”
“Check all variations,” Sam interrupted. “Same for Cutter.”
The manager’s elegant eyebrows rose, but she started tapping on the computer keyboard. After a few moments she frowned and typed again. Then again.
Sam waited. He was good at it. As far as he was concerned, being a successful investigator was sixty percent patience, thirty percent luck, and ten percent brains.
And if you were lucky, you could throw patience and brains out the window.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the manager said finally. “We don’t show anyone with that name registered here, either in the past few weeks or pre-registered for any of our conferences or conventions in the next month.”
“Maybe she’s at another hotel.” Or more likely she lied to me. Either way, he wasn’t worried. Sometimes lies told him more than truth.
“Another hotel.” The manager brightened at the idea that someone who was on the FBI’s scope wasn’t on her client list. “I’m sure that’s the case. Is there anything else?”
“Gavin M. Greenfield. Normal spelling on both names. If that doesn’t work, get creative.”
Her fingers skimmed over the keyboard. “Normal spelling works. He’s with the furniture convention. Room ten-thirty-three. Would you like me to ring the room?”
“No, thanks. Could I talk to your day security chief?”
“Of course.”
Sam went to the security office, shook hands with the security man, flashed the badge a few times, watched another hour go down the drain, and finally came away with ten copies of a picture of “Natalie Cutter” taken from the lobby security tape. He went back to the manager’s office.
“Thanks,” Sam said to her. “Could you ring ten-thirty-three for me? If Greenfield answers, just tell him someone
“The help doesn’t like talking to cops because no one wants to be shipped south if their illegal status is discovered. So they’re nervous. Big surprise. No one I’ve questioned is from Colombia, Peru, or Ecuador. Some Guatemalans. A lot of Mexicans.”
“Mendoza do any better?”
“If he has, he’s not sharing,” Mario said.
“Then he hasn’t. He’s not a glory hog.”
“So what did you find about our gem switcher, the one that leaves good stuff and keeps the bad? You sure she isn’t a blonde?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Sam asked. “Blonde jokes are out. De-meaning to groups like Blondes Demanding Respect.”
Mario did a double take. “There’s no such group.”
“Prove it.”
The cop gave a bark of laughter and headed for the bell captain’s desk, shaking his head.
Sam checked his cell phone, saw the terse message— NO HITS —and swore silently. No female Caucasian between the ages of twenty-five and forty using the name Natalie Harrison Cutter, under any spelling variation, had been arrested, fingerprinted for any job, or otherwise entered into the FBI databases.
Either she was innocent or she’d been using an alias. All in all he was betting on the alias, which meant that subtle wasn’t going to get this job done.
He went to the registration desk, showed his badge, and requested the on-duty manager. Very quickly he was in an office with the door closed behind him. Hotels really didn’t want to make their clients nervous.
Cops made people nervous.
“How can I help you?” the day manager asked. “There hasn’t been any trouble with the security arrangements for the gem trade show, has there?”
Sam smiled easily. The manager was blonde and sleek and not stupid. If Blondes Demanding Respect ever came into being, she would be a charter member and first president.
“Your staff has been very helpful,” he said, hoping it was the truth. “We just want to know if you have a Natalie Cutter registered here.” He used the Bureau’s royal “we” because it worked better than “I.” No one gave a crap about what Sam Groves wanted, but people jumped for the FBI.
“That’s Natalie with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’ or something else?”
“Check all variations,” Sam interrupted. “Same for Cutter.”
The manager’s elegant eyebrows rose, but she started tapping on the computer keyboard. After a few moments she frowned and typed again. Then again.
Sam waited. He was good at it. As far as he was concerned, being a successful investigator was sixty percent patience, thirty percent luck, and ten percent brains.
And if you were lucky, you could throw patience and brains out the window.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the manager said finally. “We don’t show anyone with that name registered here, either in the past few weeks or pre-registered for any of our conferences or conventions in the next month.”
“Maybe she’s at another hotel.” Or more likely she lied to me. Either way, he wasn’t worried. Sometimes lies told him more than truth.
“Another hotel.” The manager brightened at the idea that someone who was on the FBI’s scope wasn’t on her client list. “I’m sure that’s the case. Is there anything else?”
“Gavin M. Greenfield. Normal spelling on both names. If that doesn’t work, get creative.”
Her fingers skimmed over the keyboard. “Normal spelling works. He’s with the furniture convention. Room ten-thirty-three. Would you like me to ring the room?”
“No, thanks. Could I talk to your day security chief?”
“Of course.”
Sam went to the security office, shook hands with the security man, flashed the badge a few times, watched another hour go down the drain, and finally came away with ten copies of a picture of “Natalie Cutter” taken from the lobby security tape. He went back to the manager’s office.
“Thanks,” Sam said to her. “Could you ring ten-thirty-three for me? If Greenfield answers, just tell him someone
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