She smiles back. “Even if you had found her, I doubt she’d like to be approached like that. She’s the type who wears her sunglasses inside. Kinda shut off, you know what I mean? All I can tell you is she’s a salon blond—I mean a high-end salon blond—who is a great tipper.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “Good to know.” That’s a pretty generic picture painted by a young woman who was astute enough to offer me eighteen-year-old Macallan before I had to ask, but I say, “Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
I shake my head, and she walks down to another customer.
I sign my check and head to my room, where I cover my head with a pillow and fall into a fitful sleep filled with images of laughing girls and zip ties.
The next morning, I still haven’t received a message from Laura Sanders. I pour a cup of coffee from the coffee bar in the lobby. The hotel is quiet. A vacuum whirs somewhere down a hall, but I have yet to see any carpet in this place. I find a chair by the front desk and sit. It’s six in the morning, but I send a text anyway.
When and where would you like to meet? Will need to be a public place.
I debate calling the number, too, but that could scare her off. Texting adds a layer of distance. If she hears my voice, she might bail on me. Reporters have to be careful with their sources. It’s a delicate balance: Too much contact can scare them off; too little can give them time to change their mind about talking with me.
An hour after my last text and after catching up on all my emails, I send Laura another message.
Are we still a go?
The front lobby is louder now. Lots of hushed, quick whispers coming from two staff members behind the front desk. A woman and a man, leaned in close to one another like the waitresses last night, the woman’s hands moving in fast animated gestures. I make my way back to the coffee bar next to them. Eavesdropping is an art, one I’ve perfected, and these two are telling me to pay attention. I stir cream and sugar into my to-go cup as I hear the words:Ritz-Carlton,Key Biscayne.
I pull out my phone and pretend to read messages as I sip my coffee.
The woman says, “My friend works there and said everyone is freaking out. Lots of police activity there.”
I move a step closer.
The woman lowers her voice. “My friend said it washed up on Hobie Beach.”
“What?” the guy next to her says so loudly other guests stop to look.
Both front desk attendants smile, but I catch the look from the woman to the guy.
The other guests move on, and the guy says in a quieter voice. “What washed up?”
I move another step closer, but I know what she is going to say. I know it before the words:
“A woman’s body.”
Chapter Two
Miami, Florida
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
11:02 a.m. EST
Four hours later, I’m standing at the front entrance of the Setai dressed for the camera in a navy pantsuit and layer after layer of the makeup I thankfully packed: primer, concealer, foundation, powder, blush, mascara. Over and over. An art NCN had their makeup artist teach me years ago. It’s a wonder I have any eyelashes left after the amount of Vaseline it takes to undo this mess at the end of the day.
I check my reflection in my compact and touch up the thick layers. I add another layer of mascara and swipe red over my lips. I look good even though I know viewers will still weigh in after I go live. They’ll comment on my hair, my weight, or the sound of my voice. Comments I’ve noticed my male colleagues at National Crime Network never get. Just once I want someone to comment on Pete Major’s fucking roots.
I check my phone. Carl should be here any minute. Dom got him on a flight out of DFW as soon as I called and told him my lead could possibly now be a homicide. The body on Hobie Beach could be anyone, but Laura has gone dark and the butterflies in my stomach feel as if they are on fire, and I don’t believe in coincidence.
I’d told Dom I needed to discuss something with him, but he’d told me to call back once Carl was here. He was juggling too many stories totalk. I could have blurted it out. I could have said this involves a school I attended. And somehow involves a girl I went to school with.
An image of three girls running through the dark woods, singing Tom Petty’s “American Girl” and holding stolen bottles of vodka fills my head. Rita. Katrina. Summer. And a fourth girl with wild red hair who never quite fit in with our clique, tripping over the tangled brush as she tried to keep up with us. Heather.
If I get on camera and don’t disclose my connection, my career will pay a price. The number one building block in a successful career as a journalist is integrity. I’ve got to make sure I don’t blow that block up.
