Chapter 21
Gabe
Two minutes before five, I stroll over to Izzie’s door and knock. I was a little surprised she didn’t ask me to accompany her to get something to eat, but maybe she just raided the snack bar in her room. I did that and am still on a sugar high, but at least everything from the Outlaws Plate has digested successfully so far.
“Izzie! It’s time to go!” I yell through the closed door. When she doesn’t respond, I pound on the wood surface a few more times, to no avail.
Did she fall asleep? Pulling my cell from my pocket, I call her number. Within seconds, I hear the faint sound of her phone playing Beyonce’s “BODYGUARD” inside the room. I grin when I hear the ringtone, despite my annoyance that my client is such a sound sleeper.
After ending the call and calling her back three more times without rousing her, my heart rate ticks up. What could have happened to her? I didn’t hear a peep from her room.
Striding to the elevator, I punch the button for the first floor, then wait anxiously for the car. A noisy party of ten spills from the elevator as I dodge them and their roller bags to enter. When I get to the reception desk, I head to the first open position. “I need to get into Ismeralda Harrington’s suite,” I say, my voice laced with authority.
“Are you related to her?” the twenty-something guy says, peering at me over his glasses.
“No, I’m her bodyguard and she’s not responding when I knock on her door.”
The kid’s eyes widen. He types furiously on his keyboard, then squints at the monitor. After several seconds of reading the screen, he says, “Our guidelines document doesn’t address this situation. There’s no mention of bodyguards. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in.”
“Where’s the manager?!” I bellow, every eye in the lobby looking over at me.
“Um, I’ll get him.” The guy runs into the back room where I only hear snippets of a conversation. A few minutes later, an overweight middle-aged man appears, still chewing what must be the rest of his dinner, the aroma of hamburger wafting from his clothes. He swallows and says, “We can’t let you into another guest’s room without their approval.”
I glare at him, and he backs up a step. I’m a big guy and can be intimidating when I want to be. “I’m her bodyguard and she’s not responding. Either give me a key or I’m going to break the door down!”
The man turns pale, then motions to his employee. “Accompany him to the room but don’t let him out of your sight,” he says. The kid meekly nods and rummages through a drawer, finally coming up with a key card.
I could swipe the master key card from the kid’s hand and run down the hall before he knew what happened, but I resist. I might need the entire hotel staff to help me if I can’t find Izzie, so I better back off and treat them with more respect. As we walk to the elevator, the guy says, “Is she a celebrity or something?”
I nod. “Something like that.” We ride the elevator in silence and walk down the hall at a much slower pace than I wish we were going, more like a Sunday afternoon stroll than a frenzied dash. When we finally get to Izzie’s door, the guy fumbles with the key card but eventually gets the door open.
I push around him and stride into the room. Nothing looks amiss. Izzie’s cell is sitting on an end table. A few of the loveseat’s pillows have been moved, and it looks like Izzie was watching TV, the remote sitting beside her cell. Rushing into the bedroom, I see the dress she’s going to wear for the book signing lying neatly on the bed. A quick check of the bathroom proves that she didn’t take a bubble bath and drown.
When I re-emerge into the living room, the hotel employee says, “Did you find her?”
The question seems a little lame considering I came out of the bedroom alone, but maybe he thinks she’s sleeping. “No,” I say, rotating 360-degrees just to make sure I’ve checked everywhere. “There’s no sign of a struggle. Where could she be?” I say the words mostly to myself as my brain spins with where to look next.
“Maybe she went down to the gift shop or the coffee center? We offer a mix of teas and coffees 24/7.”
“Good thought!” I say. “You stay here in case she returns. You got a cell phone on you?”
He nods and I text him my number. “Call or text me if she comes back!” I yell as I dash off down the hall. Even though I’m praying that she’s okay, I’m going to kill Izzie myself if I find her downstairs.
Two minutes later, I jog into the gift shop. No Izzie, just a couple looking at the candy bar selection and a guy rummaging through the magazine rack. Striding up to the cashier, I say, “Have you seen a pretty woman, she’s twenty-five, about this tall (I raise my hand to Izzie’s height), shoulder length brown hair, and brown eyes?” The words run together in my haste. My heart stutters in my chest and my palms start to sweat as images of what could have happened to Izzie play inside my head.
“Does she have gorgeous skin?” the woman asks.
Odd question, but Izzie does have flawless skin. “Yes.”
She smiles. “Yes, I believe she was here about an hour ago. She bought five Snickers bars and left. When I told her chocolate made my acne flare up, she gave me some tips for how to avoid that.”
“That’s her!” I shout, wanting to give the woman a fist bump. “Do you know which way she went?”
The lady looks thoughtful. “There was a big group around the elevator. They had just checked in and were all trying to get to their rooms. I think she went down that hallway so she could take the stairs.” She points to a hallway tucked behind the elevator bay.
“Thanks!” I say, taking off at a run. The ugly carpet flies under my feet as I traverse the length of the hall, passing the room where they do laundry with its loud churning machines and an area where the maids park their carts. When I reach the end of the hall, I stop and turn back around, making sure I didn’t miss any clues as to what happened to Izzie.
My cell buzzes in my pocket. It’s the hotel employee I left to monitor Izzie’s room. “Did she come back to her room?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “My manager just called, and someone turned in a shoe at the reception desk. He wants to have you come down and verify if it belongs to the missing lady.”
Someone found a single shoe? This doesn’t bode well. My heart drops like a rock. I sprint back to the reception desk where the manager greets me with a concerned expression.
“Does this shoe belong to the missing gal?” He holds up a fancy high heel that looks just like the ones Izzie wears. I’d recognize it anywhere because of the unique red sole. My heart plummets further.
“Yes, that’s hers.”
Think, Gabe! Think!
“Do you have security cameras in the laundry hallway?” I ask.
“Yes, sir. We do!” the manager replies in an excited voice.
“Pull up the feed from about an hour ago,” I say.
His expression morphs from excited to glum. “I’d need to make the request to our off-site security service. It typically takes three days to obtain any footage.”
“Sir,” I say, giving him my most intimidating glare. “This lady’s life is at stake. In a kidnapping, the first two to three hours are critical because the kidnappee is usually still alive. After that, the odds of survival go down dramatically.”
He scrambles to his desk phone and makes a call. Those words really lit a fire under his butt as he barks at someone on the other end of the line. My opinion of him rises along with the command in his voice. When he hangs up, he says, “We’ll have the video in ten to twenty minutes. Come in the back with me and we’ll get ready to view it.” He shouts at a lady who’s refilling the paper cups at the coffee center across the lobby. “Josie, come man the front desk!”
She runs over, sporting a concerned look. “Is everything okay?” Her eyes bop back and forth between me and the manager.
“No, it isn’t. A guest is missing.”
She sucks in an audible breath, her eyes as big as saucers.
I follow him to a cramped room where the trash from his dinner still sits on his desk. He sweeps it off into the trash can, then sits in the desk chair in front of an older model computer.
“Please sit,” he says. “You might as well be comfortable while we wait.”
I nod and make the phone call I’ve been dreading but am obligated to make. When the recipient picks up, I say, “Winston, we have a situation.”