She nodded and handed him the cup. He snagged a creamer from a bowl and poured it in. Let it self-stir.
“Bathroom?”
“I’ll show you.”
They walked out together, Nilsson pointing toward the restroom.
They offered silent nods in farewell. She continued to the elevator and Shaw stepped into the bathroom. He locked the door behind him. He sipped coffee and set the cup down on a ledge. The bright, clean room, of blue tile, was well stocked for the hardworking. Plenty of towels and individually wrapped packets of soap, shampoo, toothbrushes and paste and the shaving kits.
He stripped, stepped into the shower and stood under the hottest water he could stand, then the coldest. The Winnebago was downstairs, in the lot, but didn’t have water pressure or temperature like this; he always took advantage of landline pipes when he could. He toweled off, dressed and shaved.
In the monitor room once more, he collected his backpack, which contained his computer, phone and notebook. The Glock had remained affixed to his belt constantly, even when he’d slept.
On the ground floor, he carded out and stepped into a damp, still morning. Either he was getting used to the scent of the Kenoah or the off-gassing was milder today. Maybe the cleanup was finally having some effect.
In the camper, he changed into clean jeans, a navy polo shirt and gray sport coat. Outside, he tugged on his helmet and muscled the two-hundred-pound Yamaha off the rack on the back of the vehicle, where he had—out of habit—affixed it once again after returning from Allison’s. He swung on, fired up and typed into GPS the first address on his list of Allison Parker’s friends. He memorized the route and skidded out of the lot.
In the reward business he always called on interviewees in person if he could; a phone call could be terminated with a mere tap of a finger.
Riding through progressively nicer neighborhoods, he arrived at the stately white split-level in twelve minutes. There was a low-end Mercedes in the driveway. He motored past and parked around the block and left the helmet. Bikers, even those dressed like CEOs of computer start-ups, will often be ignored when knocking on doors.
He rang the bell and stepped back.
A blond woman of about forty opened the wooden door but left the screen closed. Shaw suspected it was locked.
“Ms. Holmes?”
“That’s right.” She scanned him carefully.
“My name’s Colter Shaw. Alli Parker’s mother suggested I talk to you.”
A child—a boy of about five—wandered up and stared. Holmes turned him around and said, “Go play.”
Back to Shaw. “Alli’s mother? Why?”
“Alli’s ex-husband, Jon, was released from prison yesterday. And her mother’s worried she might be in danger.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “What?”
The surprise was genuine. This deflated the potential value of the lead significantly; she hadn’t heard from Parker in the past two days. Still, she might know of other friends or of getaway spots the woman might head to.
“She and her daughter’ve disappeared. I’m trying to find them and make sure they’re all right.” He knew the answer but asked anyway. “Have you heard from her in the past few days? Or know where she might’ve gone?”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed considerably. “And, again, who are you?”
“I’m in security. You can call Alli’s mother or her boss at Harmon Energy if you want confirmation.”
“I only met her mother a few times. And I don’t know her boss. Isn’t this something for the police?”
“They’re investigating. But Mrs. Parker thinks they’re not doing enough. So, any thoughts where she might be? We know she was headed north out of Ferrington. Friends or inns or hotels in that direction she might’ve mentioned?”
Now she was looking behind him, scanning the street, her face a mask of worry. “No, I don’t know anything. Please leave.” Her voice was desperate, her eyes imploring. A whisper: “He could’ve followed you here. He could think I’m helping you.”
“No, he didn’t. I’m sure.”
The woman asked bluntly, “You know where he is?”
“No, but—”