Best Laid Plans(153)

“We don’t give out guest information, hotel policy.”

“I completely understand, Mr. Anderson. I don’t need personal information. I have the names of the guests, I would simply like to confirm that they were in fact guests on that night. Even a verbal confirmation would be sufficient.”

She discreetly slid over a fifty-dollar bill.

He barely glanced at it, but his expression darkened. Dammit, she’d blown it. She rarely read people wrong; she thought for sure he would cave.

“I cannot help you, Ms. Revere, and if you persist, I will call security.”

Jerk. She forced herself to smile and walked away, taking her fifty with her.

She could feel Mr. Anderson’s eyes boring into her back, so she turned into the lounge. Fortunately, it was open. She wasn’t much of a morning drinker, but right now she was out of options. She needed a backup plan, and that meant sitting down to think. It didn’t help that she hadn’t slept well last night, odd dreams of searching for Karen intermingled with finding Scott’s body. Only, she found Karen—bloodied and staring at her as if everything were her fault.

Why didn’t you do something?

Why indeed. Max couldn’t save Karen from her bad choices. She hadn’t even been able to prove who had killed her. But she wasn’t going to give up finding out why Keller, Ibarra, and Cowan left Scott to die.

During her restless sleep, Max had come up with a theory. Arthur Cowan was the joker, and from what she’d seen on his social media pages, he could be cruel. What if he was still infatuated with Jess, but Jess wanted nothing to do with him? And then he thought Jess and Scott were together? Would he play a “prank” on Scott, leave him on the mountain? And if so, why hadn’t Tom Keller or Carlos Ibarra stopped Art from doing it? Why hadn’t they told someone sooner? Was Carlos so loyal to Art, and Tom so desperate to make friends, that they would do anything he wanted?

All the evidence—circumstantial though it was—told Max they’d left Scott Sheldon at that campsite, by himself, all night. And Scott must have thought they wouldn’t come back, so he tried to get out on his own.

Why, dammit? There has to be a reason!

The bartender, a fit, attractive, forty-year-old black guy wearing slacks and a button-down white shirt, approached her with the clichéd line: “What’s your poison?”

“Be honest. How are your Bloody Marys?”

He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Max had always appreciated a nice smile. “The best in Colorado. I prepare my own mix fresh every morning.”

“I want the good vodka, but make it weak.”

He dipped his head and mixed her drink. She watched his fluid, sure movements. He set it in front of her and she read his name tag: JOHANN. “Why do you look so glum, pretty lady?”

She wasn’t in the mood to flirt, so instead said bluntly, “I couldn’t bribe your concierge.”

Johann laughed, and his next words to her held a hint of an accent she couldn’t immediately place. “Sugar, you should have asked me.”

She slid over the fifty she was going to give to Mr. Anderson. “Keep it. You can’t help me.”

“Try me.”

She sipped the Bloody Mary. Nodded appreciatively. “You’re right. Best in Colorado. Better than my cousin’s five-star Vail resort.”

“I know.”

“You know the resort?”

He winked. “I just know I’m the best.”

She laughed and felt the tension washing away. “Six months ago, three college students stayed here. I know it, I have a photo they took elsewhere but uploaded through your hotel Wi-Fi. But I need to confirm it.”

“Aw, yes, our guest privacy. Wouldn’t you expect a hotel to respect your privacy?”

“It depends.”

“Depends?”

“I’m a reporter. Sometimes I want people to find me.”

“Did they drink?”

“Probably. But they were nineteen and twenty.”

“Did you have a fake ID when you were nineteen or twenty?”

“No,” she answered truthfully. Then she smiled. “But my college roommate did.”

He slid over a napkin and pen. He didn’t have to tell her to write down the names. She put them down—including Scott Sheldon. He didn’t look, but took the napkin and walked to the end of the bar, into a small office she hadn’t noticed until he stepped in and the light flickered on.

She wasn’t going to hold out hope, and instead enjoyed her drink. Already, a plan began to form. She knew Tom Keller was the weak link, but she’d also learned from Ian Stanhope, Scott’s roommate, that he and Tom shared a class together. If she could catch up with Ian, she could convince him to reach out to Tom. She’d play on the roommate’s guilt if she had to. She’d present the evidence to Tom—the photo would have to be enough. Max could spin the story, watch his reaction, play off it, until Tom broke down.

Johann returned and Max said, “Thank you for the delicious drink. It helped—I have a plan.”

He smiled. “I can tell you—though I can’t give you a copy—that the third name on your list signed for a room service charge that included a bucket of Corona. Our buckets come in four or eight; he signed for the eight bucket.”