Serious Moonlight(27)

“It was Darke,” he said. “I would bet my life on it.”

We sat in silence for several moments while I considered what he’d told me. “Is Darke Russian? I couldn’t tell from the security footage, but the name in the registry was Ivanov.”

“Nope. Not Russian—I mean, not that I could tell. He just looks like . . . I don’t know. A random middle-aged American white dude. Maybe he has Russian ancestry. Who knows. But I’m thinking Ivanov is another fake name. Not his writing pseudonym, but maybe an identity he uses.”

I mentioned the address on file being the Cascadia’s sister hotel in San Francisco.

“I noticed that too. That’s the first thing I looked up, because I thought, whoa. Maybe I can track down his house, see how he lives. But no. I feel like he’s trying to cover his tracks.”

“But why not a local address? Why use one from another hotel—that hotel? The average person couldn’t know that the hotel in San Francisco is owned by the same people. Something’s not right about that.”

“Something’s not right about the whole thing. What does he do up there? Does he meet someone? I asked housekeeping, but they said the room is spotless after he leaves. Is he dealing drugs? Running arms for a Russian mobster?”

“Maybe it’s research for his next novel,” I said.

Daniel considered this. “I don’t think so. Whatever he’d been doing upstairs in the hotel room seemed to have made him upset. He told his agent that he needed his royalties ASAP because he’d just forked out an enormous sum of money, and he was being swindled, and then the agent seemed to ask about it, but he said, ‘Never mind. It’s personal.’?”

Okay, that didn’t sound like research.

I told Daniel about the opera theme running through Darke’s books. “His fictional detective, Paul Parker—”

“Stupidest name ever.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “That’s what I said.”

He held his fist over the table, and after a short hesitation, I bumped it with my own. He seemed far too happy about this, and my cheeks were warming way too fast, so I quickly got back to my point before he pointed out that I was blushing.

“Anyway,” I said, “Paul Parker loves opera in the books. He has a massive collection of opera records. I breezed through a couple of his older books yesterday—they were on my grandfather’s bookshelves. And the details about opera are way too emotional. The way he describes music? It’s more than just a random character detail. It’s obvious Darke knows what he’s talking about.”

“He knows opera.” Daniel paused. “Wait. You mean he likes opera himself? Like, personally? Not just the character.”

“I think it’s a definite possibility. And I was thinking . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, if you want to figure out why Darke is coming to the hotel, we could try to follow him next Tuesday. That’s risky, and it depends on our schedules, but beyond that, it’s still a few days from now. In the meantime, if you want to understand why someone’s doing something, you need to understand them. That means finding out what they’re like. Where they live, where they go, who they see.”

“We don’t know where he lives, though. The San Francisco address in the hotel registry is bogus.”

I leaned closer. “But we do know there’s a chance that Darke buys opera records somewhere in town. And I researched that. There’s a record store on Capitol Hill that boasts having the best selection of classical music on vinyl in the city.”

“All I know is Spin Cycle on Broadway.”

“This is smaller. Tenor Records. I think it’s all classical and jazz.”

“Whoa! Genius,” Daniel said. “Should we go there? Is that what you’re saying? You’re agreeing to partner up with me?”

“Just for sleuthing purposes,” I clarified.

“Strictly business between coworkers,” he agreed. “This has nothing to do with fate.”

“No fate,” I confirmed.

“And no flirting, no touching.”

The way he said this, it was almost a question. Was he teasing me? Maybe I was imagining it. I was trying to think of a response when his foot bumped against mine under the table. And then the side of his leg.

“That was an accident,” he argued when I glanced at his face.

But he didn’t sound sorry, and he wasn’t moving. His leg was warm and heavy. Tingles erupted from the place we were joined. I should have moved away.

I didn’t.

After a moment, I picked up my fork to dig into my hash browns. But when I looked down, instead of potatoes, a half-eaten piece of pie sat in front of me. Daniel had swapped plates.

He smiled at me with his eyes. “Misdirection, Birdie. It gets you every time.”





“I like detective stories—and detectives. Brainy is the new sexy.”

—Irene Adler, Sherlock (2012)





10




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Daniel was right: the pie was good. Like, life-changing, I-just-found-religion good. How in the world had I avoided it all this time? No wonder my mom had eaten it as if it were nutrition personified.