Cold Paradise (Stone Barrington 7)

“To where?”

“To the address on the card.”

Lundquist checked the card. “It’s his Minneapolis address. The guy’s gone home.”

“How much luggage did he have?” Stone asked.

“A lot; three or four bags.”

“And where did the bellman load his car?”

“Down on the street,” the clerk said, pointing at the side door.

“That’s why he got past you,” Stone said to Lundquist. “I’d like to see his room, please.”

The man pressed a few buttons on a machine, and a plastic card was spat out. “It’s suite four-oh-four. Help yourself,” he said.

Stone led the way to the elevator and pressed four. A moment later they were standing outside the suite, and Stone got the door open.

“Easy there,” Lundquist said, pushing past Stone. “I’d better go first.”

“It’s not a crime scene,” Stone said, following him. “Unless there’s a corpse stashed under the bed.”

Lundquist looked under the bed. “Nothing.”

“No kidding?” Stone looked around. The room had already been cleaned that morning, and the bed had not been used since. He went around the room, looking in closets and opening drawers.

“What are you looking for?” Lundquist asked.

“I don’t know,” Stone replied.

“Whatever he can find,” Dino said.

Lundquist started opening drawers, too.

Stone went back into the sitting room and looked around. The place was neat as a pin, the wastebaskets were empty, and there was not so much as a trace of Paul Bartlett, or whoever he was.

“What now?” Lundquist asked.

“The airport,” Stone replied. “He told the clerk he had to catch a plane.”

The three men left the hotel, and Lundquist got into the rear seat of Stone’s convertible.

“I should be wearing sunscreen,” Lundquist said as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, that pale Scandinavian skin will fry every time,” Dino said, half to himself, chuckling. “World’s whitest white men.”

“That’s what you call me,” Stone said.

“You, too.”

At the airport, they went to the nearest ticket counter, and Lundquist flashed his badge and asked about flights to Minneapolis.

“None of the airlines flies directly to Minneapolis from Palm Beach,” the woman behind the counter said. “You’d have to change, probably in Atlanta.”

“Will you check reservations for a Paul Bartlett?” Lundquist asked.

The woman turned to her computer terminal, tapped a few keys and looked at the screen. “I’ll do a search for the name,” she said, tapping more keys. “Nope, nobody by that name.”