Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(15)

There was a 5:45 p.m. flight from SeaTac that would have me in Anchorage by eight thirty. I called Mel first, to see if she could come pick up Sarah and her goods at lunchtime to take the dog back to police HQ. Then I booked a seat, packed up, and headed south.

Out of deference to Chief Soames, the snowplow folks had not only cleared our driveway but had made a path from our place straight down to the main drag. From there it was only a hop, a skip, and a jump to southbound I-5, and that had been sanded to within an inch of its life. I started toward Seattle under clear blue skies, but those disappeared the more I traveled south. At first the landscape was covered with snow, but as I neared Mount Vernon, the fields along the freeway were bleak, wall-to-wall mud. By the time I reached Everett, it was raining pitchforks and hammer handles, but I managed to make my way to SeaTac without any problem.

Once at the airport, I took note of the level and row where the car was parked, then went inside. I was plenty early, so I checked into the lounge and spent the wait booking a hotel room and renting a car.

“Yes,” I told the car-rental agent, “I definitely want four-wheel drive, heated seats, and a heated steering wheel.”

“And Blizzak tires?” she asked.

If those were some kind of winter-weather tire, I had never encountered them before. “Are those recommended?” I asked.

“Definitely,” she said.

“Okay, then,” I said. “Blizzak it is.”

I had purchased a first-class seat on the plane, so I had dinner—a grilled hot sandwich, a salad, and a bag of chips. It wasn’t exactly sumptuous, but it did the trick. I spent the rest of the time continuing to sort through the material Todd had sent me.

He’d helpfully let me know that Danitza Miller was currently working day-shift hours—7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.—in the ER at Anchorage General. As a single woman with a relatively young child, she probably wouldn’t be thrilled to have a complete stranger show up on her doorstep at home unannounced and late at night. It seemed to me that it might be better for me to track her down at her workplace the next day. That way I could at least introduce myself in public. These days guys can’t be too careful in those kinds of situations. Even with the best of intentions, it’s far too easy for private male/female interactions to end up being deemed inappropriate.

So once I got to Anchorage, I collected my car—a Ford SUV model that Mel and I used to refer to as “Exploders.” As ordered, it came with four-wheel drive, heated seats, and the highly recommended Blizzak tires, so I was good to go. I dialed the Captain Cook Hotel’s information into the vehicle’s internal GPS and let the car direct me to where I was going. I know I’ve had my issues with technology over the years, but when you’re in a strange city, a GPS system with audio included has it hands down over a physical map.

Once in my room at the hotel, I spoke to Mel. Sarah had behaved herself admirably in the office and was now welcome to visit Bellingham PD whenever she wished. After touching base for a few minutes, we said our good-nights. I tried watching TV for a while after that, but I kept dozing off. It was ten o’clock Anchorage time, eleven in Seattle, when I turned off the TV and bedside lamp.

Dreaming about Sue Danielson had cost me most of the previous night’s sleep. Tonight, maybe because she knew I was looking for her son, Sue left me alone. The next time I looked at the clock, it was 7:00 a.m. The sky outside was nowhere near daylight, but I awakened with a sense of purpose. I had a job to do, and it was time to drag myself out of bed and get with the program.





Chapter 8




Over the years I’ve learned that the best way to gain access to a hospital emergency room is to bypass the reception desk altogether. I was approaching the ER entrance when an ambulance pulled up and began unloading a patient. As they rolled the gurney inside, I positioned myself a step and a half behind the medic and made my way inside as though I had every right to be there.

As my patient decoy was wheeled into a curtained cubicle, I looked around. At nine on a weekday morning, the ER wasn’t exactly filled to the brim. Thanks to the yearbook photo and the fact that Danitza Miller still wore her ash-blond hair in a pixie cut, I was able to pick her out on my own without having to ask for help. I spotted her, dressed in a pair of brightly colored floral scrubs, standing next to the nurses’ station, chatting with someone on the far side of the counter.

“Ms. Miller?” I asked, approaching her from behind. “May I have a word?”

She spun around and faced me. She was a little bit of a thing, only five-four or so, but she wasn’t short on spunk. “Is this about a patient?” she wanted to know.

“No,” I replied, holding out one of my cards. “This is actually something of a personal nature. If I could have a moment or two of your time.”

She glanced at the card briefly, pocketed it, and then peered up at me. “As you can see, I’m working right now and—”

“I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Christopher Danielson.”

The change in both her attitude and expression was instantaneous. “You’re looking for Chris?” she asked.

I nodded.

She turned back to the woman on the other side of the counter. “I’m going to take my break now,” she announced. To me she added, “We can talk in the coffee shop.”