Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(45)
Swonger rolled his eyes and made a lemon-sucking face. “This where we staying?”
“It’s where I’m staying. Did you make a reservation?”
“You an asshole, know what?”
The hotel rose five stories, but the dilapidated black fire escape that ran up the back of the building went only as high as the third floor. Gibson could see damage to the hotel’s exterior wall where the top two levels of the fire escape had wrenched loose of their moorings and collapsed. How did a hotel pass inspection with half a fire escape? Well . . . safety first.
Gibson carried his bag around to the front of the hotel and looked up and down Tarte Street. He didn’t trust a town without a diner. Across the street stood, or rather leaned, a windowless clapboard bar. Above its green door, a hand-painted sign read, “The Toproll.” Out front in the parking lot, a woman with a weight lifter’s build was having a serious heart-to-heart with a deliveryman. The deliveryman wanted no piece of her.
Inside, the hotel’s lobby had the run-down feel of a neglected museum, but it must have been grand in its day. Gibson didn’t know a thing about architecture, but even he could see that much. A vaulted ceiling soared twenty feet overhead, where a massive ceiling fan, like the propeller of a ship, chopped through the air. Crystal sconces glittered along dingy marble walls, although several were either cracked or missing entirely. Off to the right lay an oval sitting room, dark wood paneling the walls, with a fireplace, overstuffed chairs, and several chessboards. Through an archway to the left, he could see a shuttered dining room with chairs flipped upside down atop the tables. Somehow Gibson doubted his room included a complimentary breakfast.
Behind the counter stood an older man in a three-piece suit. He smiled in delight at the sight of them. Not even Swonger plopping the trash bag that served as his suitcase onto the counter could dampen his enthusiasm. He greeted them warmly and introduced himself as Mr. Temple, owner and proprietor.
“But call me Jimmy.”
Gibson liked him immediately and shook his hand over the counter. The same could not be said of the young woman who had been talking to Jimmy Temple. As he’d walked in, Gibson had the impression that the two were wrapping up their conversation, but now she lingered at the counter, watching him with hard, unwelcoming eyes. He didn’t much care for it and turned to face her. She didn’t seem to care for it either and held his gaze. She didn’t strike him as the kind of person who ever looked away first.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Was going to ask you the same thing.”
Jimmy jumped in to intercede. “Ah, no, that would be my department. Lea, thanks for stopping by. I’ll talk to you soon.”
She didn’t take the hint and instead leaned against the counter defiantly like she was planting a flag. One hell of a welcome committee. And why is there Christmas music playing?
Gibson told Jimmy that his reservation had been on the fifth floor and asked if he could be moved down to three.
“As it turns out, the fifth floor is entirely booked,” said Jimmy. “We’ll be happy to find you a room on three.”
“All booked?” the hard-eyed woman asked. “Since when?”
“Just this morning. The four gentlemen. Isn’t it fantastic?”
“They needed a whole floor to themselves?”
“Well, they needed peace and quiet, so they took every room on the floor. I think they’re on some kind of retreat. They said some colleagues may be joining them. Whatever business they’re in, I want in,” Jimmy said with a conspiratorial wink.
“How long are they staying?” she asked.
“They left it open-ended but at least a week.”
“Wow. That’s great, Jimmy,” she said, not sounding like she thought it was great in any way, shape, or form. She held up a gold watch as she turned to leave. “Let me know if anyone lost this.”
Jimmy said he would and turned his attention back to his customers. “We have a nice room on two or three with a view of the river.”
“Anything out back?” Gibson asked.
“You want to look at our parking lot?”
“If you have it,” he said. “I like a sunrise.”
Jimmy gave a the-customer-is-always-right smile and checked the leather-bound registry. No computer. Jimmy Temple was old school. Gibson didn’t give a damn about a sunrise. But providing the remaining fire escape was still structurally sound, he liked the idea of having another way out. Just in case. Gibson checked in under the name Robert Quine and handed Jimmy an ID and credit card to match. After Atlanta, and with Jenn Charles still missing, it had seemed prudent to put together a scramble kit in case he needed to disappear in a hurry. They were quality fakes, and Gibson hated to burn them, but he wanted to leave as small a footprint in Niobe, West Virginia, as possible.
Jimmy Temple handed Gibson a key—an actual key, not an electronic key card. Old, old, old school.
“Does the hotel have Wi-Fi?” Gibson asked.
“Only in the lobby, I’m afraid. I’ve been meaning to wire the rest of the hotel, but you know how things are.” Jimmy smiled brightly. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Quine.”
Lea left the hotel, her false smile melting in the sunshine. She was in trouble and knew it. At least seven new arrivals in the last few days, plus those two clowns checking in now. She couldn’t be sure how many were here for Merrick, but those fifth-floor suits weren’t here for a retreat. One thing was for certain: she might have started ahead of the pack, but they’d run her down now, and she was in danger of being left behind. Unless she adapted, scrapped her plans, and took a realistic look at the situation as it evolved. Beyond that, she needed to decide what she really needed out of this. What she could live with.