Serious Moonlight(45)

“Oh, shit. No way! Birdie, check this out.”

I popped my head out of the doorway and spotted Daniel standing in front of the sofa, holding something. When I got closer, he turned around and held it up.

“Is that . . . ?”

“The bag Darke was carrying,” he confirmed. “All the times I’ve studied it in the security footage . . . I never noticed this. Look at the front.”

Excited, he handed me a black-and-white striped plastic bag. It was wrinkled and creased, as if it had been balled up. An unassuming logo was printed on the front—so small, anyone might miss it. A stylized music note surrounded by the words TENOR RECORDS.

“Oh, wow!” I said. And then it hit me. “It’s empty. It wasn’t when he was carrying it in the hallway. And he left it behind.”

“Whatever was in that bag, he gave it to Ivanov. So, I’m thinking cash.”

“Where was it?”

“In the trash,” Daniel said, pointing to a gold trash can near a desk. “They must have sat here on the sofa and chairs—a pillow from the sofa is on the floor.”

I nodded and smoothed out the bag, peering inside. A piece of paper was stuck to one side. “Did you see this?”

“What is it?” He tugged one corner and we read it together. It was a printout, one that was hard to read; the ink was light, and the font was strange. The edges of the page were jagged, as if they were perforated.

“Dot matrix,” Daniel murmured. “Who even has a printer like this that still works?”

“Someone from the Ukraine, apparently.” All the headings at the top were Cyrillic. But the bottom half of the paper contained a spreadsheet, and inside its columns were English letters.

“It’s a list of names,” Daniel said, reading aloud, “Oleksander. Aneta. Danya. These are all names, yeah? What’s this column?”

Initials. Maybe abbreviated surnames. And then another with either an M or an F. “Male or female?”

“Probably. And this column has dates, I think.”

“They’re in the European format,” I said. “See? All this year.”

Except one from last year, which was crossed out with a blue pen, and two more that had future dates. Neat blue checkmarks had been added to one of those names with future dates, and one dated last month. Both males.

“What the hell is this? A prostitution ring?” Daniel said. “I was joking before, but Christ. My mind is going straight to sex trafficking or mail-order brides.”

“Illegal immigration?”

Daniel nodded. “Okay, yeah. That sounds way less scary. But it doesn’t make sense. Why is Darke involved in . . . whatever this is?”

I didn’t know, but inside my head I compiled all the information we’d learned today into a quick profile: Suspect: A. Ivanov

Background: Ukrainian; married; at least one child Age: 40s?

Occupation: Unknown. Involves him flying to the United States for multiple private meetings (Seattle and San Francisco) with clients in hotel rooms.

Medical conditions: Unknown.

Personality traits: Punctual and efficient (regular short meetings with “associate” in pricey hotel room every week). Fond of twelve-year-old son. Fond of wife’s cooking. Friendly and chatty to store clerks.

Other details: Returning to Seattle in July. Left behind mysterious spreadsheet in hotel room after meeting with client Raymond Darke. (What does this say about his secretive hotel meetings?) Daniel and I stared at the printout for a long time, tossing theories around. None of them seemed reasonable. The only thing we could agree upon was that we’d finally made real progress. Ivanov might be headed back overseas soon, but our investigation wasn’t dead in the water. We had a tangible clue in our hands, and that was exhilarating. I just wasn’t sure what this clue was or how it added up in the bigger picture.

“It either matters or it doesn’t,” Daniel murmured out of the blue.

“What does?”

“Why you asked me earlier about dating people from the hotel.”

Ugh. I was hoping he’d forgotten that. Why did I bring it up? “It doesn’t.”

“No?” He folded up the printout. “So, you don’t care how many people I’ve dated?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t give two hoots about it.”

“Hoots? Oh my God, Birdie. You’re priceless.”

“Two whatevers,” I said, frustrated. “Damns.”

“Shits,” he corrected. “You don’t give two shits.”

“That’s right. I don’t give two shits. Two shitholes. Two bear balls.”

“Yikes,” he said. “You really don’t care about Beth.”

“Should we keep the bag? I think so. Could be evidence. You take the bag home, and I’ll hold on to the printout. I’ll see if I can translate it,” I said, taking it from him and stuffing it inside my purse. “And, no, I don’t care about Beth.”

“Because you have no interest in my love life,” he said.

“No,” I said firmly, turning to face him. “I do not. I was just being nosy.”

He nodded slowly. “And I have no interest in yours. You could be pining away for Joseph, for all I care.”