Don't Look Now by Richard Montanari Page B

could pop into the ladies’ room here and see if she might be in there, see if she’s all right.’
    ‘Sure,’ the woman said, pushing open the door. ‘You say her name’s Eleanor?’
    ‘Yes. Ellie, actually. About this tall, blondish, wearing a light brown cardigan.’
    ‘Hang on,’ the woman said, and disappeared into the ladies’ room.
    Paris leaned up against the wall and looked both ways down the hallway. Empty. The front-desk clerk had told him that Eleanor Burchfield had walked across the lobby, and around the corner toward the ballrooms and convenience lobby. The small alcove, which contained a Coke machine, an ice machine, and a candy machine, along with a tiny gift shop, was empty when Paris glanced in. Whoever had worked behind the counter had closed and shuttered the shop for the evening. His heart had leapt when he saw the deep-red stain on the carpeting, but when he knelt down, he saw that someone had spilled some wine. No bogeyman, no razors, no blood.
    But no Eleanor Burchfield either.
    The door to the ladies’ room opened and the woman came out, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s empty. I even looked in the stalls.’
    ‘Okay. Thanks very much.’
    ‘You’re quite welcome,’ the woman said, and walked toward the lobby.
    Paris made a once-around the first floor, listening at the doors of some of the guest rooms, looking into the pool room and the arcade. She was gone.
    She had seen a real-life cop with a badge and a gun and a notebook and realized that the whole thing just wasn’t worth it.
    Fuck
the next victim, right?
    Right, Paris thought as he sauntered back into the lounge, which was now reduced to a handful of only the most desperate of holdouts. There were two women in their forties sitting in one of the booths by the dance-floor. One of them kept looking over at Paris every time she used her hands to make a point to her girlfriend.
    Rita waved Paris over to the bar.
    ‘I remembered something else,’ Rita said.
    Paris said nothing, retrieving his notebook.
    ‘I seem to recall this guy talking to another woman. Over there.’ She gestured to a darkened corner to the right of the dance-floor. ‘Not for long, but I’m pretty sure it was before he and your friend got together.’
    ‘Did they look like they were a couple?’
    ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
    ‘Can you describe her?’
    ‘Young and pretty. Like everyone else. Kind of on the tall side, I think. Although, when you’re five two, everyone’s on the tall side.’ Rita curled a fingerful of hair. ‘But that’s about all I remember. It’s dark in here. Couldn’t even tell you her hair color, which for me is pretty rare.’ She poured coffee into Paris’s cup. ‘Let me think about it. I don’t know why, but I seem to think he may have even come in with this woman.’
    ‘Okay,’ Paris answered, absently tapping his index finger on the edge of the cup. Rita grabbed a bottle of Crown Royal, slid a California shot in the side door of his coffee.
    ‘You know,’ Paris said, tilting the coffee cup to his lips, ‘you are damn good at what you do, you know that?’
    ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Tips don’t always show it though.’
    Paris dropped a twenty and his card on the bar. ‘If you think of anything, give me a call. Or just stop down at the station when you have time and we’ll hook you up with the police artist.’
    ‘Okay, captain,’ Rita said, saluting. ‘Be careful out there.’
    Paris pulled out onto the boulevard, functioning on autopilot. All he wanted was a good night’s sleep and a big, fat lead.
    When he turned right, onto Lee Road, he didn’t notice the white BMW that made the turn behind him.
    Paris got to the office at just after eight am. He dialed Eleanor Burchfield’s number at eight forty-five, but there was no answer. Nor was there voicemail.
    The storefront window at 1190 East 185th Street held an intricate web of neon lighting which, from the other side of the