1st to Die - James Patterson [28]
“I’m Hartwig,” said a tall, lanky man in street clothes. He was holding a paper cup from Starbucks. “Sorry to bust up your weekend,” he apologized in a friendly drawl.
He passed us a wedding photo of the missing couple. It was enclosed in one of those Plexiglas “shaky toys” with the Golden Gate Bridge in the foreground. “Party favor,” he acknowledged. “Mr. and Mrs. Michael DeGeorge. From down your way. They both worked in the city at a large accounting firm. Married on Friday night.”
Actually, it was a sweet photo. She, bright-eyed, with thick brown hair; he, ruddy and serious looking, wire-rimmed glasses. Oh, God, not them. Not again.
“So when were they last seen?” I asked.
“Seven-fifteen last night. Hotel staff saw them come down on their way to dinner. French Laundry,” Hartwig said. “The concierge wrote them out directions, but they never showed.”
“They drove off to go to dinner and were never heard from again?”
Hartwig kept rubbing the side of his face. “The manager said they checked in the day before in a gold Lexus. Door staff confirms they drove it briefly that afternoon.”
“Yeah?” I nodded, fast-forwarding him.
“Car’s still in the lot.”
I asked, “Any messages from the outside we should know about?”
Hartwig went back to a desk and handed me a small stack of slips. I skipped through them. Mom. Dad. Julie and Sam. Vicki and Don. Bon voyage.
“We thoroughly searched the grounds around the property. Then we widened the search. It’s sort of like your murders down there. Big wedding, celebration. Then poof, they’re gone.”
“Sort of like our thing,” I said. “Except we had bodies.”
The Napa cop’s face tightened. “Believe me, I didn’t call you guys all the way out here just to help us with the missing-persons forms.”
“What makes you so sure?” Raleigh asked.
“’Cause the concierge did receive one call last night. It was from the restaurant, confirming their reservations.”
“So?”
Hartwig took a sip of his coffee before he met our eyes. “No one at the restaurant ever called them.”
Chapter 30
THE HONEYMOON COUPLE had received no unusual visitors, scheduled no conflicting side trips. The reservation at the French Laundry had been for just two.
What made this all the more grave was that they had missed their scheduled flight to Mexico.
While Raleigh poked around outside, I made a quick check of their room. There was this enormous redwood bed neatly turned down, a suitcase laid out, clothes stacked, toiletries. Lots of flowers—mostly roses. Maybe Becky DeGeorge had brought them from the reception.
There was nothing to indicate that the DeGeorges weren’t set to board that plane the next morning.
I caught up with Raleigh outside. He was talking with a bellhop who was apparently the last person who saw the DeGeorges leaving.
When it was just the two of us, Raleigh said, “Two of the local guys and I swept a hundred yards into the woods.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Not even a footprint. I looked around the car, too. It’s locked. No blood, no sign of a struggle. But something happens to them out here. Someone accosts them. Twenty, thirty yards from the hotel.”
I took a frustrated 360-degree scan of the driveway and the nearby parking lot. A local police cruiser was set up outside the property gate. “Not accosts them. Too risky. It’s in plain view. Maybe someone picked them up.”
“Reservations were only for two,” he countered. “And the guy at the front door insists they were headed to their car.”
“Then they vanish?”
Our attention was diverted by the swoosh of a long black limousine turning into the resort’s pebbly driveway. It pulled up under the redwood overhang in front of the entrance.
Raleigh and I watched the hotel door open and the doorman emerge rolling a trolley of bags out. The driver of the limo hopped out to open the trunk.
It hit us both at the same time.
“It’s a long shot,” said Raleigh, meeting my eyes.
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but it would explain how