Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [39]
Hy had checked in shortly after midnight on Sunday; he’d had breakfast from room service at nine, and there was a coffee-shop charge at four-thirty and a bar charge at eight. The only phone charge was for the one call to Alicia Ferris’s number at nine. His room key and credit-card authorization had been retrieved from the express checkout box on Monday morning. I asked the clerk if the room had been occupied since then; he checked and told me it was currently in use.
Mr. Perkins emerged from his office and said he’d been unable to contact the day manager. Perhaps I could speak with him when he came on in the morning? I said I would, waited until he disappeared again, and asked the clerk if the security man had come back from his break yet. He hadn’t, but the clerk thought he might be in the coffee shop. His name was Ken Griffith; I should look for a balding heavyset man in a tan uniform.
As I crossed to the coffee shop, one of the women by the tourist information rack gave me a curious look. The man in western wear kept his eyes on his newspaper.
Ken Griffith was the coffee shop’s sole customer. He sat in a rear booth, picking through the remains of a salad, and when I showed him my I.D., he invited me to join him. I scanned the menu, thinking I should eat something, but the offerings—Pago Pago Burger, Tahitian Fruit Salad, Castaway’s Low Calorie Plate—looked singularly unappetizing in the unnaturally bright color photos. Griffith applauded my abstinence; even the Chinese Chicken Salad he usually had, he said, sucked.
I took the picture of Hy from my bag and passed it across the table. “This man was a guest here on Sunday. Do you remember him?”
Griffith scrutinized the photo with trained eyes—former cop’s eyes, I was willing to bet. “Yeah, I remember him. Paid particular attention to him, as a matter of fact.”
“Why?”
“He’s got a way about him. Quiet, but he could be trouble.”
“Did you have any trouble with him?”
Griffith shook his head. “Shows you never can tell. Why’re you looking for him?”
“Routine skip trace. How many times did you see him?”
“Twice. When he checked in and late Sunday afternoon, maybe quarter to five, when he was driving out of the parking lot.”
“You notice which way he went?”
“Left, like he might be picking up the freeway west.”
“And that’s the last you saw of him?”
“Right.” Griffith looked at his watch; he’d be wanting to get back to work soon.
I glanced around the coffee shop at the two waitresses who were clearing tables. “Tell me, are the waitresses on shift now the same ones who would have been working around four-thirty on Sunday?”
“Probably.” He turned and called to the woman nearest us, “Hey, Emma, your shift’s four to midnight, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You want to come over here a minute? Lady’s got a question.”
Emma set down the tray she was loading and moved toward the booth, wiping her hands on her apron. She was well over retirement age, very thin, and walked as if her joints ached. Griffith got up and gave her his place. “You set awhile. I got to get going.” To me he added, “You need anything else, the desk clerk’ll know where to find me.”
Emma heaved a weary sigh as she sank onto the banquette. “What do you want to ask me, honey?”
I handed her the by now well-thumbed photo of Hy. “Did you see this man in here on Sunday afternoon?”
She squinted at it, then nodded. “He was one of my first customers. Kind of quiet. Good tipper.”
“Did he say anything? Ask you anything?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, he did. When I brought the check he asked how long it would take him to drive to Imperial Beach. That’s where I live, so I could tell him practically to the minute. Then he asked if I knew where the Holiday Market is down there. I told him right on the main street—Palm Avenue. I kind of wondered what he’d want with a place like that.”
“What sort of place is it?”
“Mexican hangout. Open twenty-four hours. There’re always at least a dozen Mexes there, loitering in the parking lot.” She glanced