Serious Moonlight(19)

I needed to see if Daniel’s story about Raymond Darke coming into the hotel was plausible, so I searched records from this past Tuesday at seven p.m.

Huh. There was a checkin around that time, at 6:55. Not Raymond Darke, but a listing for “A. Ivanov.” In fact, when I went farther back in the archives, this Ivanov appeared twice before, both times on Tuesday nights at 6:55 p.m. And last month, the same thing. And again, farther back, in the late winter.

His Tuesday-night checkins were brief. He never stayed the night, but instead checked back out within the hour. A few of his stays were only fifteen minutes long.

Interesting. Very interesting.

I pulled up a web browser and googled A. Ivanov to find . . . everything. And nothing. It could be any number of students. An athlete. A dead painter. Several doctors. Or a whole lot of Russians. Without a first name, it was impossible to narrow anything down.

I scanned the information we had on him in the system. The room reservation was made over the phone every Sunday. The room number was requested—the same room each time, on the fifth floor. Our VIP floor, usually reserved for Emerald Service Loyalty Program members.

In our system, the man’s address was listed as being in San Francisco. I googled that, and when the pinpoint on the map popped onto my computer screen, I stilled.

The company that owned the Cascadia was Seattle-based, but I remembered from my training that they had invested in two other hotels: one in Portland and one in San Francisco.

Mr. A. Ivanov’s address? It was the same address as our San Francisco hotel.

If Daniel hadn’t insisted this person was Raymond Darke and I’d stumbled upon this on my own, I’d have guessed this Ivanov was someone from hotel management, making routine trips to other hotels for one reason or another—perhaps one of those “secret shopper” types that companies hire to test their customer service.

And maybe he was.

Or maybe Daniel was onto something.

Could it really be? If so, it was monumental. Maybe not a 1938 unsolved murder, but Tippie Talbot was long forgotten and Raymond Darke was very much not. He was a celebrity of the book world. And he might be walking right under our noses every week.

A tiny thrill zinged through me. Ah, the intoxicating lure of a juicy mystery. Clues beckoned, and I was a weak, weak girl.

A couple of hours later, I was still daydreaming about possibilities while heading across the lobby when Daniel appeared from nowhere and briefly fell into step at my side. “I heard you earlier helping that lady who wanted to trade rooms. You did a good job keeping her calm.”

A clean tea tree and mint scent wafted from his hair as he loosely tied it up, and for one kaleidoscopic moment, I was transported back into his car, and my hands were in his hair, and he was kissing me into a wobbly, weak pulp.

Terrified he might somehow know what I was thinking, I quickly said, “Are you spying on me now?”

“I can’t help what I hear,” he said, tapping his ear as we stopped in front of Octavia the Octopus. She was hiding inside her main cave tonight, but if you looked closely, you could see her red arms and white suckers. If you pretended to look closely, you could watch Daniel’s reflection in the tank while he remained unaware.

“Besides,” he said. “You spied on me at the magic shop.”

“That wasn’t spying.”

“Stalking.”

“Coincidence-ing.”

He laughed. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is when my favorite bookstore just so happens to be near your magic shop.”

“How long have you been going there?”

“Years and years,” I said, still watching his reflection in the tank’s soft glow. “I used to live in the city.”

“Right, right,” he said, pressing the tip of his finger against the glass to leave a pale fingerprint that quickly faded. “You mentioned that in the diner. Well, I’ve been going to the magic shop since I was in diapers.”

I snorted a soft laugh. “Is this a competition?”

“Don’t you think it’s weird that we’ve both been walking in that same corridor forever, maybe a few feet from each other? Maybe we’ve even seen each other before and just don’t remember.”

“Or maybe, as I said, it’s merely coincidence. I thought you said you’d changed your mind about fate?”

“Yep, I did, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Must have meant it, then. I always say what I mean. What you see is what you get. Nothing coy here. No beating around bushes,” he said, trailing a finger across the glass and stopping in front of my staring eyes. “I mean, since you’re Detective Birdie Lindberg, you’ve probably figured that out already.”

Was he teasing me? It felt like he was, because my frightened-rabbit heart began wailing on my ribs again. I took a risk and glanced at his face, but his eyes were hooded.

He cleared his throat and said, “So . . . have you thought any about my mystery proposal?”

“I have,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “I need to know why you think this man is Raymond Darke.”

“You searched for him in the reservation system?”

“Of course.”

His look of satisfaction was annoying. “Thought you might. Does that mean we’re sleuthing partners?”