Best Laid Plans(152)

“We found him in a different area than you originally looked.”

“Correct.”

Max nodded.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Ms. Revere, but you’re thinking.”

“Max. My friends call me Max.” He was right; she was thinking. “What if they deliberately misled search and rescue?”

“Playing devil’s advocate, why? There’s no physical trauma. No signs of abuse, no bruising, minor scrapes consistent with the environment.”

“If something else happened—maybe drug related, maybe something Scott knew—something that, if he were found alive, he would get the others in trouble.”

“That’s a mighty big leap, unsupported by any evidence.”

“There’s plenty of evidence,” she said bitterly. “It’s a matter of how we look at it. Is Detective Horn going to talk to them?”

“Not until after the autopsy report comes back.”

“They’ll have plenty of time to synchronize their stories.”

“I think it would be best if you stayed in the background. Amelia is a good cop. If there’s something there, she’ll find it.”

“She told me on the phone that there was no evidence of foul play then, and if there’s no physical evidence now, there’s not going to be an investigation. It’s not like I’m impeding an official police inquiry. I can get Tom Keller to confess. He’s the weak link.”

“Confess to what?”

She stared Chuck in the eye. “The truth.”

*



Max rarely found herself drunk, but she was tipsy when she walked back to her hotel room. She hoped the alcohol would help her sleep, but suspected it would more likely contribute to vivid and disturbing dreams. She drank water while checking her e-mail. Her editor—she filed it away to respond to later. Ben, again nagging her about the television show. She e-mailed him back.

If you keep nagging me, I will block your e-mails and never return a phone call. I’ll let you know when I make my decision.

There were several other messages she ignored or deleted, and then she saw the note from her computer genius in New York, Grant Malone.

I analyzed the image you forwarded. It was uploaded at 8:39 a.m. local time on October 31. The image was uploaded via Wi-Fi, the code was also embedded in the image. I’ve attached the GPS location and verification of the Wi-Fi code.

She clicked on the attachment. The photo had been uploaded from a hotel off the interstate that was nowhere near the campground. In fact, they were thirty-seven miles away, in a warm hotel room while Scott Sheldon died a slow and painful death, cold and alone.





CHAPTER EIGHT



When Max woke Thursday morning, she planned to go directly to the college campus and confront Tom Keller with the evidence, compel him to tell her the truth. But she needed more evidence than a photo she’d downloaded from the Internet. It convinced her, and it might convince Tom to talk, but Arthur Cowan was a wily bastard, and Max needed something irrefutable. Something else to sway Tom Keller that telling the truth was his only choice.

She doubted anyone at the hotel would remember three college boys after six months, but she might be able to convince one of the staff members to look up information for her. It was worth a shot.

And if they wouldn’t do it out of the kindness of their hearts, Max had enough cash to convince them. It had worked in the past.

The hotel was twenty-five minutes north of Colorado Springs, outside the city limits and off the interstate—the same road they used before turning up the mountain to get to the campground. On the drive, Max called the campus bookstore to talk to Jess, but learned she didn’t work Thursdays. Max couldn’t convince the person who answered to give her Jess’s cell phone number or her dorm room, and while Max couldn’t blame them for protecting Jess’s privacy, it was frustrating. She gave the person her contact information and said that it was urgent Jess contact her.

Urgent might be an overstatement, but Max had an idea, and Jess was her best bet to put it in action.

Then she called Chuck Pence, but he didn’t answer. She left a message on his voice mail. She considered calling Detective Horn, but feared the cop would tell her to stay out of it. Max had no plans to do that. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, Karen had always said. Max never agreed with her … until she became a freelance reporter. Asking for permission rarely worked.

Plus, she’d been in jail before, and it was no fun.

The embedded photo information identified not only the hotel’s Wi-Fi, but also narrowed the location to the south wing. It wasn’t until she parked in the guest lot that she realized she didn’t have a plan that didn’t involve bribery. Not everyone could be bribed. But she was here, she wasn’t going to stop now.

She walked in and assessed the lobby. It wasn’t a five-star hotel, but it wasn’t a dive, either.

It was ten in the morning and the building was relatively quiet. She had three options—concierge, reception, or find the manager. There were two people at the reception counter, so Max picked the concierge, an older man in a well-cut suit. His nameplate read ANDERSON.

She approached with a confident smile and handed him her business card. “Maxine Revere. I’m following up on information about three guests who stayed here last October thirtieth. I’m hoping you can help me.”