Borrowing Trouble (27 page)

“I told her I had a scoop for her on Monday.”

“What are you, WikiLeaks?”

“We women have to stick together.” She looked down at the diagram in her packet. “Let's go to the Pine Cone first. It's the smallest at twenty-eight hundred square feet.”

“Lead the way.”

The place had skyscraper ceilings, twenty-foot windows, and a master bathroom the size of a two-car garage. Brady liked the log walls and oak floors. He supposed he could live here if he was forced to.

“Ehh.” Sloane rocked her hand back and forth, clearly unimpressed. “Onward and upward.”

Their next stop was the Sierra.

As soon as they walked into the massive foyer, Sloane said, “Now this is what I'm talking about.”

Yeah, Brady had to admit, the space was pretty spectacular. The great room had so much glass that he wondered how much it would cost to heat the place. There was a loft with a wet bar and a built-in for a humongous flat-screen. He could definitely spend some quality time in this room.

“Brady, come check out the kitchen,” Sloane called from downstairs.

He went down, walked through an imposing dining room with built-ins, and into the sickest kitchen he'd ever seen in a private home. First off, the architect got the layout exactly right. The sink, refrigerator, and stove formed a perfect triangle. There was so much counter top that he'd never run out of space. Miles of cupboards and pantry space and a wine refrigerator. All the stainless steel appliances were top of the line, the center island had a vegetable sink and enough room to seat six, and there was a wood-burning fireplace that could easily double as a pizza and bread oven.

“Just out of curiosity, how much is this place?”

Sloane rifled through the packet and started to laugh. “It ranges from eight hundred thousand to more than a million, depending where on the property it is. For example, golf course view, you're looking at top price. And everything in this kitchen”—she made a swirling gesture with her finger—“is an upgrade. If I had to guess, an easy hundred thou extra.”

“What about this one?” He looked out the window. It didn't have a golf course view, but it looked out onto forest, mountains, and a slice of river. It worked for him. “How much?”

She laughed again. “It's the model. I don't think it's for sale.”

“Griff would sell it to me,” Brady said, and joined in her laughter. “You like it?”

“Uh, yeah. It's like my freaking dream home. But if we sold everything we owned we still couldn't scrounge up enough for a down payment.” She grabbed his arm. “Let's go see the next one. This is fun.”

It was. Brady never expected looking at model homes to be fun—in fact, he held it right up there with being waterboarded—but he was enjoying himself. He credited Sloane with that because she was fun. She had a difficult job, solving tough crimes and seeing the worst of humanity. Yet, when her work day was done, she knew how to let loose and have a good time. Life was too tenuous not to. She saw the fragility of it every day in the line of duty.

They walked through a couple more models. But he liked the Sierra the best.

“Do you think all my shabby chic stuff would go with one of these places?” Sloane joked.

“Sure. Why not? I'm doing leather couches and club chairs in mine.”

Sloane's smile slipped. “Yeah . . . uh . . . that sounds perfect. Very masculine.” She walked a little ways ahead of him.

When they got back into the clubhouse, Griff winked. “What did you think?”

“They're beautiful, Griffin.” Sloane lowered her voice. “Any action?”

“Two parties seem really interested. Dana and Carol are working them over.”

“Which ones—” Brady's phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and checked the display. “I've got to get this.” Sloane followed him to a corner of the room.

“Do you have something?” Brady didn't even bother to say hello. He figured the detective wouldn't be calling on a Saturday to make small talk.

“Yuma PD found her car,” Rinek said.

“But not her?”

The detective let out an audible sigh. “Not yet. Her car was ticketed more than a week ago, before she was reported missing. An annoyed neighbor got sick of looking at it, called the Department of Public Safety, and had it towed. They ran the plate numbers and it came back to us. We're working with Yuma PD. But I'm not gonna lie to you; they won't give it high priority. She's a missing adult from California.”

“Why would she leave her car parked for more than a week?” The whole thing sounded strange to Brady.

“Don't know. It was a residential neighborhood, so maybe she was visiting someone. It's a newer Toyota Camry, so I can't see her ditching the car. I just don't know, Brady. But stay vigilant and hopefully I'll have more for you next week.”

Frustrated, Brady hung up. Sloane had given him space but was close enough to have heard his side of the conversation.

“They found her car?”

“In Yuma,” he said. “But they don't have the first clue where she is.”

Sloane scraped her upper lip with her teeth. “Rhys said her recent computer searches showed that she was looking for someone else besides you. I bet he lives in Arizona. She ever say anything about having a friend in Yuma?”

“Sloane, we didn't do much talking. And when she did talk, it was crazy stuff about how I was her destiny and that she would make me love her even though I'd only known her one night.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Is this ever gonna end?”

She put her arms around his waist, her cheek against his chest, and simply said, “Yes.” And as much as he wanted to believe her, he couldn't.

O
n Monday, Sloane got the bust of John Doe. It was so lifelike that it gave her the willies. Deep-set eyes, a nose with a slight bump—it had probably been broken—and a strong jaw.

The forensic sculptor had done a masterful job of reconstructing his face. She'd made a plaster cast of the skull and used modeling clay to reproduce his facial features. Of course, without knowing his hair or eye color, the thickness of his lips or how much fat tissue covered the bone, the likeness was only an approximation of what he looked like. Still, Sloane had heard that facial reconstruction—while fairly rare—had worked for other police departments to identify people who had been otherwise unidentifiable.

So, she'd thought, why not give it a crack?

She wheeled the bust, which sat on a cart, into the conference room and covered it with a blanket. Harlee had already been over to have a look and was given professional photographs of the reconstruction to feature in her article. The hope was that her story and pictures would get picked up by the wire services, including the Associated Press, since the big news outlets had zero interest in coming to Nugget for a press conference. Reporters from Sacramento and San Francisco didn't want to travel so far. So Sloane had written a press release and sent the photos by email, hoping that some of them would pick up the story that way.

The goal was to spread the photographs of the bust far and wide, in hopes that someone would recognize him. In the meantime, John Doe's reconstructed face had attracted the interest of Nugget residents to the point that they were cycling in and out of the police station like it was the Louvre.

“He looks like an ornery cuss,” Owen had said, inspecting the bust like an art critic. “Shifty eyes.”

“Those are glass, Owen. We don't have his real eyes.”

Donna was convinced John Doe had an eating disorder. “Look how sharp his cheekbones are. He looks hungry.”

Just about everyone who came in had an opinion. Her pilot kids would arrive after school. They'd been following the entire process, and Sloane couldn't wait to see their reaction. Simpson was doing a report on facial reconstruction and forensic anthropology for his science class. The mean girls had stopped picking on Rose. Sloane wasn't sure if it was because of Rhys's warning to Mr. Grant or that Rose's new-found self-esteem had repelled the bullies.

“What are you smiling about?” Rhys asked on his way back from the coffeemaker.

“I was just thinking about the pilot program.”

“Griffin was over for dinner Sunday night and told me he hired Rose's big brother. From what I gathered, you set that up?”

“I just introduced them.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Right. I could've used someone like you when I was a kid.” He pulled up a chair and straddled it. “You hear anything more from Rinek?”

“Not a word. Why would she just leave her car on a residential street in Yuma?”

Rhys huffed out a breath. “She have family there? Friends?”

“Not that Santa Monica PD is aware of. None of it makes sense. That other guy she was searching for on the Internet, did Rinek tell you whether her computer showed that she'd found him? Where he lives?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Rhys said. “Unfortunately, Rinek didn't tell me much. I got the feeling that I'm only on a need-to-know basis; otherwise I would've told you. You thinking he might be in Yuma?”

“It's as good a guess as any.”

“You want me to give Rinek a call, see what I can get out of him?”

“Let's wait a few days.”

Rhys got to his feet. “How about you? Any more texts or phone calls?”

“Nothing.”

“I figured they'd eventually stop. They just wanted to mess with you. Guys like them give the rest of us a bad name.” He went in his office and shut the door.

It was still a little early for lunch, but Sloane decided to take a walk across the square and say hi to Brady. But Brady was cloistered in an office with Nate.

“What's going on?” she asked Andy, and nudged her head at Nate's closed door.

“You think anyone tells me anything around here?”

She popped her head into Maddy's office, but it was empty. Deciding to come back later, she left the inn and had started back to the police station when her phone rang. Harlee.

“What's up?”

“If you've got a sec, come over. I want to show you something.”

“Okay.” Sloane crossed the square to the
Trib
's office and found Harlee sitting at her desk in front of a computer.

“Look.” Harlee pointed to her monitor.

It was an AP story about how Nugget PD was using facial reconstruction as a last resort in finding the identity of skeletal remains that had washed up on the shore of the Feather River. There were quotes from Sloane attributed to the
Trib
. “That's great. Is there any way to find out how many papers and TV stations picked up the story?”

“No, but we can see if some of the big ones did by going to their websites.” Harlee quickly searched the
New York Times
. “Nothing here yet, but the story just went out. Let me search for it on Google News.” She typed
forensic facial reconstruction
into the bar. “Aha, Fox has it and so does CNN.
USA
Today and the
Sacramento Bee
. It's getting picked up.”

“Wow.” Sloane was surprised it was getting this much traction. And so soon. “Thanks, Harlee.”

“Just remember who your buddy is when you crack this case wide open.”

“I won't forget,” Sloane said as she left to go back to the station to tell Rhys.

When she got back she had at least a dozen messages from the media, including
Dateline
.

“Look, if you want me to leave, I'll leave. I won't hold it against you, Nate. In fact, if the shoe was on the other foot . . . You've gotta take care of your business . . . your family.”

Nate scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Brady gave him a long look. “You're not terminating me?”

“What, over the wingnut? I thought they were hot on her heels in Arizona.”

“They found her car but have no idea where she is.”

“I thought we went over this already. As I recall, you offered to leave and we all said no. So why are we revisiting it?”

“I just assumed that when you wanted to have a sit-down, you'd reevaluated.”

“Well, you were wrong. I'm firing Richard. Sam hates his guts and I'm quickly getting there. I'd like to replace him with his chef de cuisine. He's not a control freak and can actually take direction. He'll be fine as far as handling the food for the Theodore. But he doesn't have the chops to oversee food service for all my hotels. That, my friend, would be you, if you want it.”

Brady blinked, stunned. This had not been what he'd expected.

Nate held up his hand. “Don't say no yet. I get that hotels are not your bag, and if it weren't for your current circumstances you'd likely be working toward starting your own trendy restaurant group. But it's time to come out of hiding, and this is a great opportunity, Brady. You'd have free rein over the kitchens and menus in my nine San Francisco hotels, the Lumber Baron, and Gold Mountain. Not to mention a huge budget and staff at your disposal. If somewhere down the line you want to do your own restaurant, that's a possibility too. Think of the investors you would have access to.”

“What about the Lumber Baron?”

“Obviously, you would no longer have time to be making breakfast and snacks for a twenty-room inn. You'd hire someone here.”

“Would I have to work out of Breyer Hotels' corporate office in San Francisco?”

“Some of the time, yeah. But you can do like Sam does and make your base here. We'll give you an office in the Lumber Baron. When you work in the city, we'll give you a suite to stay in at the Theodore.” That was Nate's flagship and one of the most decadent hotels Brady had ever seen.

Nate grabbed a Post-it pad and scribbled a figure on it. “This work for a salary?”

Brady's jaw about fell open. It was more than he'd ever made in his life—even at Pig and Tangelo, which paid just shy of six figures.

“That's not counting bonuses and benefits,” Nate said, and scribbled another figure on the pad before pushing it at Brady. “You're looking at a package worth at least that.”

Being an executive chef for a hotel corporation might not be as high profile as running a Michelin three-star restaurant, but it sure the hell paid better. And as long as Sandra was still on the loose, being low profile was a good thing. But would it be as creative? For the most part he'd be fine-tuning banquet and room service food. At least at the Lumber Baron he could modernize and tart up the kind of comfort dishes he'd grown up with. But hotels typically served continental cuisine in order to appeal to a large clientele. That really wasn't his thing.

“I've got to sleep on it,” he told Nate.

“Absolutely. Talk to Samantha about it too. As Breyer Hotels' event planner, she'd be working with you a great deal.”

They'd been buddies since his first day at the Lumber Baron, so that wouldn't be a problem. The truth was, he liked the whole Breyer clan. “I'll do that.”

First person he wanted to bounce it off, though, was Sloane. Not that she factored into his decision making. The only reason was that she'd tell him whether or not taking the job would be the same as selling out. He crossed the green to the police station.

“Did you come to see the bust?” Connie asked him.

“What bust?”

Connie grabbed his sleeve, dragged him into the conference room, and whipped a blanket off . . . someone's head.

“Whoa.” He jerked his head back, at first thinking it was real. “Is that the John Doe?”

“Yep. Freaky, right?”

He touched it. “It's realistic, that's for sure.”

“Who knows if it really looks like him, but it looks like someone. Matt Lauer called. He wants Sloane to go on the
Today
show.”

“So it's drumming up publicity, huh?”

“Harlee's story has been picked up all over the place, and the AP did something too. Apparently forensic facial reconstruction isn't all that common and it's kind of controversial as far as using it in court. Although you'd never know it from watching
CSI
.”

“Why's it controversial?”

“Because there are too many unknown variables and often the sculptor is relying on artistic interpretation. A lot of people think it's too subjective. But what the hell, right? It's worth a try.”

“Where's Sloane?” He hadn't seen her when he came in.

“She got called out on a DWHUA.” Connie must've known he had no idea what she was talking about and supplied, “Driving with head up ass.”

Brady laughed, then realized it might not be funny. Connie wasn't exactly sensitive. “Anyone hurt?”

“Nah.”

“That's good. Tell Sloane I dropped by, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

He decided to kill time at home and do some laundry before the afternoon service. His place could use a good cleaning too. Since he'd been spending most of his nights at Sloane's, he couldn't remember when he'd vacuumed last or thrown away the expired food in his refrigerator.

Today, he had Sloane's Rav4. She'd wanted him to drive it so it wouldn't get rusty. He parked it next to his van, did the usual security check on the windows and doors, and let himself in. The place was stuffy as hell. He opened a few windows despite it being about fifty degrees outside, and put a load of laundry in the washer. For the next half hour he tidied up, went through his mail, and cleaned the kitchen and bathroom. Sloane, he'd noticed, was a neat freak. In spite of her crazy hours, she managed to keep her place spic and span. He thought about all her ruffles, curlicues, and flowers, and smiled to himself. Yeah, he liked a girlie girl who could kick ass. Once again, he wondered what she'd think of his job offer.

If he decided to take it, the first thing he'd do was change the room-service menus. They were a good twenty years behind the times. Baked Alaska. Who did that anymore? He'd be willing to bet that not one had been sold in the last year or so. The menus needed to be seasonal. Dungeness crab in fall and winter. Squash in summer. Fresher, lighter food. For events, he'd do the same. The wedding fare at Breyer Hotels reminded him of something out of the eighties. Blackened seafood, salads drenched in raspberry vinaigrette, and pesto. Tons and tons of pesto.