said nothing,” he snapped. “She makes her own conclusion.”
“Fine,” Butoli said. “So ask her this. Did she clean Mr. Walton’s room every day?”
The manager translated the question, and the housemaid quickly nodded.
“Ask her if he ever had any visitors.”
The little maid shrank even smaller against the chair, muttering beneath her breath as she shrugged.
“She says she saw no one but him in the room.”
Butoli nodded and smiled at the woman, hoping she would take that as a sign he meant her no harm. It didn’t seem to work. She covered her face with her hands and refused to look him in the eye.
“God almighty,” Butoli mumbled, then took a deep breath and started over. “Did she clean that same room on the morning Walton checked out?”
“She says yes, but that there was not much to do. He had not slept in his bed.”
Butoli’s attention sharpened. “What about his clothing…his luggage? Was it still in the room?”
The manager relayed the questions, then translated her answer again.
“She says everything was gone. She turn in room key she found on bed later, when she finish her shift.” Then the manager added, “It is the way we do it here. Sometimes guests use speedy checkout system. Checkout on room TV. It is very up-to-date process. Georgian Hotel is finest in Brighton Beach.”
Butoli looked at his partner. It was obvious from Marshall’s expression that he was thinking the same thing Butoli was. Someone had come back to Frank Walton’s room and removed every trace of the man’s presence. But why?
He sighed. This case was turning out to be more complicated than he’d first believed. They could no longer assume it was a run-of-the-mill mugging gone bad. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to delay the identification of a dead man by removing all his personal ID, then gone to his hotel and taken everything he had with him, making it appear as if he’d checked out.
But why?
He put his notebook in his pocket and gave the manager a card.
“Please tell your employee that we appreciate her help, and that if she remembers anything else that might help us catch the man who killed Mr. Walton, to please call us.”
The manager relayed the message.
The housemaid stood, gave the men a nervous glance and bolted out the door.
Butoli shook his head. “What’s she so scared about?”
The manager didn’t bother to hide a sneer. “Being sent back, of course.”
Larry Marshall looked up from his notepad.
“Back to where?” he asked
“Russia.”
Marshall’s gaze sharpened. “What? Are you hiring illegals? You can’t do that. You have to report them to—”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Butoli said, then grabbed his partner by the arm and all but dragged him out of the hotel.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Marshall yelped.
Butoli took a deep breath, mentally counting from one to ten before he trusted himself to answer.
“Marshall, for once in your life, just shut the fuck up.”
Larry Marshall’s face turned a dark, angry red. “It’s people like you who screw up the systems we have in place.”
“Maybe,” Butoli muttered. “But it was people like you who put the cockamamie systems in place to begin with. For God’s sake! We’re trying to get them to help us find a killer, and you’re threatening to call INS? What the hell were you thinking?”
Then he threw up his hands and headed for the car, leaving Marshall with no option but to follow.
Marshall got in and started the engine.
“Where to?” he asked.
Butoli glared. “Back to the precinct. We’ve got a name to go with the body, and a credit card number that should give us enough background information to find his next of kin.”
“But don’t you think we should—”
The look on Butoli’s face was enough to stifle what he’d been going to say. Instead, he pulled into the traffic and took a right turn at the next block.
Isabella handed a room key to the couple who’d just checked in. In the years since her father and Uncle David had opened White Mountain Fertility Clinic, she’d seen hundreds like them—people desperate for a child of their own and willing to try anything to make it happen.
“There is an elevator just to the right of the staircase,” she said.
“We’ll take the stairs,” the woman said. “Exercise is good for me.”
Isabella smiled. “Do you need help with your luggage?”
The man shook his head. “No. We only have the two bags. We can manage just fine. Oh…what time does the kitchen open? We have an appointment in town in the morning, and we don’t want to be late.”
“We start serving breakfast at six o’clock and if you need a taxi into Braden, you’ll need to call ahead and expect about a fifteen to twenty minute wait.”
The couple nodded their understanding and started up the stairs, their heads tilted slightly toward each other as they spoke in undertones.
Isabella hurt for their sadness. It was evident in every aspect of their expressions and posture. How sad to want a child so desperately and yet be unable to make it happen. Even sadder were the children who were born to people who didn’t care. It didn’t make sense. Why didn’t God just give babies to people who wanted them and let the people who were unfit to be parents be the ones who were barren? But she knew her thoughts were fanciful. Nothing in life was fair. She thought of her father dying so suddenly and leaving not only family, but waiting patients, behind.
The staff at White Mountain Fertility Clinic was well-trained and able to continue without her father’s presence. In the past few years he’d even talked about the time when he would retire and leave the creation of life to those younger than himself. Besides her father, Uncle David and Uncle Jasper still held active roles in the clinic, even though they took fewer and fewer new patients with each passing year.
Without thinking, her gaze automatically slid to the portrait above the staircase, unaware that the gentleness in the woman’s dark brown eyes mirrored her own. Her wandering thoughts stopped abruptly when the phone rang. Making herself concentrate on the present, she lifted her chin and picked up the phone.
“Abbott House.”
“This is Detective Mike Butoli with the Brighton Beach police. I need to speak to Samuel Abbott.”
Isabella’s breath caught as a quick film of tears blurred her vision. It was the first time this had happened since her father’s death, but she knew it wouldn’t be the last. She cleared her throat and made herself answer.
“I’m sorry, Detective, but Samuel Abbott recently passed away. I’m his daughter, Isabella Abbott. Maybe I can help.”
Mike Butoli frowned. He hated this part of his job more than spinach—and only God and his mother knew how much he hated spinach.
“Did you know a man named Franklin Walton?”
His use of the past tense made Isabella’s heart drop.
“Uncle Frank? What’s happened to him? Has he been injured? Is he all right?”
Butoli sighed. Damn. As many times as he’d done this, it never got easier.
“I’m