Knox
“I did not become a vegetarian for my health, I did it for the health of the chickens.”
―Isaac Bashevis Singer
THEY ARRIVE AT the entrance to Hotel California just before four o’clock. Knox makes the right turn onto the long, paved drive that leads to the hotel.
The chickens are sitting side by side in the middle of the back seat, their heads tucked close to each other.
“I can’t believe they’re just sitting there like that,” he says, glancing at Emory.
She reaches back to rub each of them, and, amazingly, they seem to like it. “They know they’re safe,” she says.
“I’ve never spent any time around chickens, but they seem content.”
“Wow. It’s beautiful,” Emory says, as the hotel comes into sight.
“Yeah. Explains why it’s a getaway for the wealthiest of the wealthy.”
Knox turns the Jeep into the parking lot to the right of one of the enormous oaks on the front lawn. A half dozen cars are lined up in the individual spots, all Mercedes or better. He notices a couple have Washington, DC, plates.
He pulls in at the end of the row, cuts the engine to the Jeep.
“Should we both go in?” Emory asks.
“Why don’t I go in first?” Knox asks. “Get the lay of the land.”
“Okay. I’ll stay here with the chickens.”
Knox shakes his head as he walks across the parking lot and up the wide stairs at the front of the hotel. What the heck are they going to do with two chickens?
The lobby is impressive—gleaming, old, hardwood floors, walnut maybe? Enormous, ornate gold mirrors line the wall of a winding staircase centered in the middle of the entrance. To the right is the check-in desk.
The man standing at the center looks up to greet him with a subdued smile. He’s wearing a stern navy suit, starched white shirt, and muted pink tie. His bald head gleams beneath the crystal chandelier hanging above him. “May I help you, sir?” he asks in a voice that sounds as if he’s spent a good deal of time reading classic novels. Somewhere between Charles Dickens and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Knox steps up to the counter, rests a hand on the rolled edge of the heavy wood. He decides to use his MPD credentials on the hunch that he isn’t going to get far with this guy without them. Hoping he doesn’t ask for ID, Knox says, “I hope so. I’m with the DC Metropolitan Police Department. I’m looking for someone who might have visited your hotel or be connected in some way.”
The man draws in a nearly invisible breath, makes an obvious effort to keep his smile in place. “Yes?”
“His name is Sergio.”
The man considers this for a moment, raises an eyebrow. “Do you have a last name?”
“No. I don’t.” Knox keeps his voice even, as if he isn’t aware of the other man’s subtle condescension.
“Our guest records are confidential, of course, but I don’t recall anyone by that name visiting the hotel in recent history. Nor am I aware of anyone by that name connected to the hotel.”
Knox weighs the answer.
“Is there a manager I could speak to?”
The smile becomes more accommodating, even as he shakes his head. “I’m afraid she is not available at the present. If you would like to leave your name and number, I will ask her to call you.”
He hands Knox a pen and a white notecard. Knox writes down his contact info, handing it back to him. He thanks the man and turns for the door, unable to shake the feeling that there’s something going on under the surface of their communication.
His phone dings. He pulls it from his pocket, taps the text app, and sees that it’s a message from Emory.
Just saw a dark Range Rover pull out from behind the hotel. Headed for the entrance gate.
Knox slips the phone back in his pocket and takes off running for the Jeep. He jumps under the wheel and says, “How long since you saw the vehicle?”
“He pulled out right after you went in the hotel. I texted you, but wasn’t sure it went through. I only had one bar. I started to come in and get you, but I didn’t want to give away anything.”
“Let’s just see if we can catch up. Luckily, this place is at the end of the state road, so he could only go one way.”
He guns the Jeep out of the parking lot, one of the chickens clucking in protest.
“Did you get a good look at the driver?”
“I think it was a man. He was driving fast, and I wasn’t expecting to see it. Did you find out anything inside?”
“No,” he says, reaching the hotel’s entrance gate and swinging right. He floors the Jeep, and they’re at seventy on the two-lane road with no vehicles in sight ahead of them. “Can’t put my finger on it, but something was up with the guy at the front desk. He was doing his best to not look bothered by my questions.”
They drive over the speed limit for ten minutes before he finally lets up and says, “Afraid we aren’t catching up with him.”
He pulls into the parking lot of a small car garage. A mechanic standing in the entrance of one of the bays lifts a hand in greeting. Knox lifts a hand to let him know they’re all good.
“What now?” Emory asks.
“Well, no idea if we’re on to anything or not. Let’s go back as customers though. We could have dinner at the restaurant. See what we see.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“You do remember we have two chickens in the back seat?”
He glances over his shoulder. “You call and see if we can get a reservation, and we’ll run back to the city, deposit the chickens at your house, and change clothes.”
“I’ll look up the number,” she says, picking up her phone.