Without a Whisper

There is a customer service desk, and behind it is a large window showing a gorgeous view of the lake. On the desk is a note saying ring for service, and next to it is a button. I press it, and the ding dong echoes from down a hall. Near the entrance it says employees only. I drum my fingers on the desk until I hear wheels rolling over the hard wood floor.

A man in a wheelchair rolls himself out from the employee area. I look over my shoulder, wondering when Lionel came back. Same long black hair only pulled behind his head into a ponytail. His upper body is also built like a brick shit house.

"Sorry for the wait. I came running the moment I heard the bell," he says. Seems to be in good humor about his condition. "I'm Lance, one of the owners. Do you have a reservation?"

"Not really. Hoping I can squeak in with the 'hit a pothole' special," I say. Lance chuckles a little and pulls out a tablet out from a pocket at his hip.

"Those two are still pulling that scam? They won't admit it, but I will. It's a scam. Sorry about them. Hate to say I'm related," he says. He taps the screen of the tablet and pulls up some information I can't see. "We got space. Give you the discount for the pothole of course."

"What's the damage?" I ask, and ready my wallet.

"First night is on us on account of my family. We usually run one hundred a night. Call it ninety. Card for the deposit?" Lance asks. First night free? Fine by me, so I hand him my credit card. "You got something else? We don't take Discover." I hand him my Visa. So much for my miles. We used that to pay for our trip to Japan last year to visit Jenn's parents.

"All the rooms face the lake, so you'll always have a view. Breakfast is from eight to ten just down the hall," he says, pointing down the atrium under the balcony. "Need a cart for your bags?"

"Didn't pack anything. Just the one on my shoulder," I say. I could have made a round trip after hours of interview in less than a day, but I had a hotel reserved in New York. Shit, I need to cancel that.

"Of course. Assholes," Lance says, and hands me a physical key from under the desk. I hear something snap shut, so he pulled it out from a safe. "In most ways, we've gone digital. But I feel real keys keep a certain level of charm." I agree.

"Room number?"

"Eight of eight. It's the corner room with the best windows. We don't get many people until summer," he says, and takes a second to direct me to the room. I'm sure he'd walk me over if he could walk.

With my room settled, I try to gauge the best time to be an investigator. Katie must have stayed here for at least a night after the Buick hit the pothole. Family-owned business tells me Lance could have been here when she was. I don't think any person I've meet in this town wasn't related now that I think about it.

I really hope there isn't some Deliverance shit going on here.

"You got a minute to talk?" I ask.

Lance looks around the atrium to demonstrate its emptiness. "I have a few customers to help first, but I might have time."

"You and Deputy Lionel related?" I ask.

"You noticed? He's my twin," he says, and I wonder why he didn't stop in just to say hello to his brother. "We don't talk much."

"How long have you worked here?" I ask.

"I've been working here around ten. Why'd you want to know?" he asks.

"Do you remember this girl?" I ask and show him the picture of Katie. His face recoils back, and he looks up at me.

"Yeah, I do. I think her name was Karen. Or Kathy. Something with a K."

"Katie," I say, and take the picture back. "You seem to be the only person with a memory in this town."

"My uncle will never remember anyone who hit that pothole. In a few days, you'll go down the memory hole too," he says, and I nod. "But yeah. She was here. She stayed in the same room you're about to. I've kind of reserved that as the apology room."

"Do you know where she went after she left here?" I ask.

"She drove out of town the day her car was fixed. I can probably find her invoice," Lance says, and I thank him for the offer.

Katie Grossman came off the exit for something. Maybe she stopped for a bathroom break or to get gas, but then she hit that pothole. She gets towed here and is forced to stay a few days while her car is fixed. Then she leaves, and her trail goes cold again. Then somehow, the gun she brought with her was fired once, and then thrown into an artificial pond in the opposite direction of her assumed travel. Unless she got rid of the gun on her way here, but that defeats the purpose of having it in the first place.

I don't think Katie left this town alive.

I find my way to the room on the second floor. Rooms one through four are on the first floor. Five through eight are on the second. It is located at the end of the hallway along the path of the balcony overlooking the atrium. The physical key gets me into the room, and I close the door behind me.

As promised, I have an incredible view of the lake. The sun is starting to set, and the lake looks ablaze in orange fire. This room also has a corner balcony I can step onto through a sliding glass door. The full-sized bed is inviting right about now with a thick goose down blanket, and I resist the urge to collapse on it. A short dresser is against the wall with a large mirror above it. I look as bad as I feel. The bathroom has a standing shower with a glass enclosure, and fresh towels.

I place my backpack next to the bed and sit on one of the chairs next to the small table. I call Jenn to give her an update.

"You checked into the hotel?" Jenn asks.

"Yeah," I say. I remove my prosthetic to evaluate the damage. I did a lot more walking today than I normally do, and I didn't do it with my running blade. I tug the leg sock off. My stump is red and irritated and the exposure to the air makes it itchy. "I might stay an extra few days."

"Why? Did you find something?" Jenn asks.

"Katie Grossman was definitely in this town," I say. "Get this. The owner of the garage, him and his son have been digging that pothole for the better part of a decade. Katie hit it, ten years ago, and got stranded just like me."

"You are a shit magnet, you know that, right?" Jenn asks.

"I know," I say. I dig through my bag and find the lotion for my leg. Basic moisturizer, nothing special. My stump is wrapped in a sock all day and rubs against the prosthetic, so the lotion helps with irritation and cleanliness.

"Any idea why she took that exit?" Jenn asks.

"None. Bathroom or gas maybe. I can't say for sure either way."

"She was pregnant, so bathroom is highly possible," she says. Can't disagree with a pregnant woman. "Speaking of which, my appointment went well."

"Do we have a William Luke or a Krista Amanda?" I ask. William for my old partner, Krista for Jenn's mother.

"Not telling you," she teases. "Contractor is saying the addition could be complete by mid-June."

"They're behind schedule then," I say.

"A contractor behind schedule? No way!" she says, and I laugh. "What's your plan?"

"Ask around town. See if anyone remembers a girl who showed up ten years ago. I got a bad feeling about it though. Something is wrong about this entire thing," I say. It's a feeling I would get when I still had a badge too. Those instincts can go dull, but they never fully vanish.

Someone knocks on my door, and I try to stand up, and tumble forward because I only have one leg. Thankfully, I land on the bed. I'm sure everyone forgets they're not wearing their leg.

"You okay?" Jenn asks.

"Yeah, I'll call you back," I say, and we both hang up. I hop on one leg to the door and open it while balancing myself on the dresser. It's Lance in his wheelchair with a sheet of paper on his lap. They must have a service elevator I didn't see.

"You getting settled in?" he asks.

"Getting there," I say. He looks at my lack of a leg, but then hands me the sheet of paper without addressing it.

"I think I found her invoice," he says.

"Thanks," I say, and quickly scan it while he's still here. Katie paid a whopping twenty-eight dollars. A dollar a day for twenty-eight days. 10 July to 7 August 2009. "Katie was here for almost a month?" Someone must have remembered her if she was here for that long.

"Looks like it. Sorry I don't remember much more about her. I just remember my mother took pity on her," Lance says.

"No kidding," I say. I'm paying a reduced price as well, but certainly not a dollar a day. I read it again and see something I didn't see on my quick scan. The invoice is for a Katie Rodgers. "Rodgers?"

"It must have been what her driver's license said," Lance says. The dates add up, and it makes sense. Get a fake ID and runaway. Any state police looking for a reservation made by a Katie Grossman wouldn't be found. She likely used her father's first name for the last name.

"How'd you lose the leg? If you don't mind me asking," Lance says. I look down at my stump, then at his own handicap. "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine."

"I was a cop, a few years ago. Car crash," I say.

"Fell off a ladder cleaning the second-floor windows. Not as flashy as yours. Mom always said have someone hold the ladder. That's what happens when you don't listen to your mom," he says with a chuckle and a smile. Lionel wasn't kidding when he said he was in good spirits.

"Tends to bite you in the ass," I say.

"Bit me right on the spine," he says. "I'll see if I can find anything else on her for you."

"I'd appreciate it," I say. Lance gives me a nod and rolls himself down the hallway. I lean out to watch him leave and close the door once he's out of my line of sight.

--

Tuesday -- April 14, 2020: Four Days Gone

~Midge Appletree~

Sheriff Arthur Knight informs us that Chase stayed at the Whisper Lake Lodge, the only place to stay in the area. We already know this because digital receipts exist, but he's the only person in this town who hasn't tried to blatantly lie to us. Even with the Morts trying to bullshit us, I don't know what that means yet. People lie for dumb reasons, even when they don't have to. You can ask them a question about one thing, and they're lying to hide something else. They could have no idea where Chase is and are just lying to protect their pothole racket.

We decide to check into the bed & breakfast later, and instead go to the coffee shop the Sheriff says he met Chase at the morning after he arrived. Careless Whisker. Cute name. When you step in, you are punched in the face by the scent of fresh baked goods and caffeine. My knees go weak, but I recover.

"That smell is orgasmic," I say as the Sheriff holds the door open for the lady, and then myself.

"Donuts and coffee make a cop cum? You're kidding," Yvonne says as we stop at the long counter that takes up almost the entire length of the room. Donuts, bagels, pastries, and other goodness is displayed for purchase under the counter behind glass. I can hear movement in the back room where the ovens are. A woman is running ten things at once to prepare drinks for customers like a one-woman assembly line.

"One moment, be with you shortly," she says while pressing down the grounds for an espresso. It was the early afternoon, but the store was at half capacity. Mostly teenagers and old folk here for the free Wi-Fi.

The barista finishes the espressos into two shot glasses and pours them into two separate cups. She pours, mixes, and completes with whipped cream. She then washes her hands and returns to the counter. She's a cute brunette with her hair in a short bob.

"What can I get you?" she asks Yvonne first. Her eyes slide to the Sheriff, and she hides them bulging with a blink. The stitching on her apron tells me her name is Stephanie. Early twenties with a college dropout vibe.

"Americano and twenty minutes with anyone who remembers this guy," Yvonne says, putting down a five-dollar bill and Chase's picture. Stephanie rings up the order and looks at the picture. It was subtle. Her head stayed still but her eyes jumped to the Sheriff. When she speaks, her volume is lower than when she was taking an order.

"I remember him. Can it be after work, I'm still on shift," she says. Yvonne shows her badge. FBI certainly gives her pause, and I see her eyes move to the Sheriff again. She is outwardly calm, but her eyes are nervous.

"Make time," Yvonne says sternly. Wrong kind of person for that tactic, Yvonne.

Stephanie places Yvonne's coffee at a square table. Yvonne sits across from her, and I sit across from Sheriff Knight. Every table in the café is decorated with a single white lily.

Stephanie places a placard on the register saying she was on a break. "FBI? This is serious then?" Stephanie asks.

"Serious as a heart attack. Mr. Kramner was in town last we knew, four days ago. Was he here?" Yvonne asks.

"He was. Maybe, a day before that. Looking for a girl. I was like twelve when she was here, but my mom remembered her. She's baking in the back right now."

"Get her," Yvonne says in the tone of an order. Stephanie reluctantly, but surely, goes to the back to get her mother.

"Hey," I say to Yvonne, and she turns to me. "Not how you talk to these people."

"Too much?" Yvonne asks as friendly as a nun. It's all an act with her. Stephanie could have easily just told us to go fuck ourselves, and there would be nothing we could do about it. Yvonne is an excellent profiler, but she's too eager to get back into the field. She's making rookie mistakes today.

"Too much. People in a town like this, they lock up if they feel threatened. Especially the women. FBI doesn't help, because to them, the F means Foreign."

"I thought small towns trust police," she said, just like a city girl.

"Small towns trust their police. They trust him," I say, and point at Sheriff Knight. "You elected?"

"Every five years for the last twenty-five," Sheriff Knight confirms. "When I need to talk with someone, I bring donuts and just talk to them. Kill them with kindness."

"Once a small-town girl, always a small-town girl," I say, pointing toward myself with both thumbs. "I got it."

"All you," she says, surrendering control to me for the time being.

"What is this all about? FBI?" an older woman asks on the approach. "I got stuff in the oven, make it fast." I'd say the woman is just past fifty. Her once vibrant red hair has taken the hue of an aged red brick. Her size suggests she samples a lot of her products. Not enormous, but she's hefty. The surface area of her apron where her name is stitched on is stretched so far, it makes you think Evelyn is pronounced with six syllables.

"I'm Detective Appletree, this is Agent Grimsdotter with the FBI," I say, and Yvonne kicks my foot because I left out the Special. "We need to borrow a little bit of your time?"

"Borrow? You gonna give it back to me?" Evelyn asks sarcastically.

"Figure of speech," I say, and then hand her the picture. "What do you remember about..."

"Mr. Kramner? Yeah, he was here. Pretty boy, looking for a pretty girl. I remember her too. Katie. Long time ago. Hit that pothole your worthless cousins keep digging," she says, looking straight at the Sheriff. There's a history in that look, I'm thinking they were in a relationship. "Why you asking?"

"He's missing," I say.

"All I know is, he ordered a black coffee and left a card," Evelyn says and pulls a card out of her apron pocket. It's Chase's Private Investigator card. "Besides the one time he was here, I never saw him again."

"What about Katie Grossman?"

"Grossman?" she asks with a perplexed expression. As if she recognizes that name from somewhere else. I show her a picture of Katie, and her eyes give the impression of calculating long division. She looks at her daughter who has her eyes on her lap. "She told me her name was Rodgers, but she stayed almost a full month. Lived at the lodge on Morgan's sympathies because the girl was expecting. Mort wasn't as nice, so I gave her a job until she could pay to fix the car. All under the table, so don't ask me for her pay stub. We hugged before she left, promised to get in touch, but she never called."

Katie Grossman got a fake ID before she ran away. I'm not sure how much those go for, but they sure as hell don't cost several thousand. From my road book, I know Katie could have had upwards to $3000 from her stepfather's items she sold at pawnshops. She went from carrying that amount of cash, to broke, in the time it took for her to drive into a pothole.

"Did she ever say where she was going? Her final destination?" I ask.

"New York to her father's. She told..." she says, and she pauses like she just figured something out. "...told me she was running away from a bad situation with her stepfather. Never went into detail and I never asked. Girl had her secrets, and I didn't pry," Evelyn explains.

This is the only firsthand knowledge for the reason Katie ran away we have. Everything up until this point was pure speculation and conjecture. Katie Grossman was here for a month, not just a few days as we originally speculated.

"What car was she driving?" I ask.

"Older car. One you'd see in a collection."

"1964 Buick Skylark?" I ask.

"That's just words to me. The only thing I know about my car is that the left pedal makes it go fast," she says. I hope that was a joke.

"This the car?" I ask and show her a picture of the car from the file.

"Looks like it. I remember the green," she says, and looks over her shoulder to the back. I listen more intently and hear an alarm for a timer. I developed sonar hearing after having Shawn. "Need to pull some brownies out."

"Of course," I say. Evelyn returns to the kitchen, and I look over at Stephanie. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"No problem," she says, and is visibly uncomfortable.

"College student?" I ask.

"Huh?" Stephanie spaced out fast, and I repeat myself. "Dropped out, but I'm taking online courses right now. But um...my boyfriend...uhh..." she stammers. Her speech pattern is unnatural, like someone trying to make something up. "...my boyfriend Hunter, he's still going, though. Ivy league."

"Since when do you have a boyfriend named Hunter?" the Sheriff asks.

"Hmmm?" Stephanie asks. Everyone knows everyone in a town like this. "Oh, I met him at school. He transferred to complete his graduate degree. He's not from around here."

"Ivy League. Impressive," I say without addressing how weird her speech is. "I got a daughter at Sarah Lawrence. Which school is Hunter in?"

"Which school?" she asks, and I nod slowly. "Oh...um...Dar...Dar...something."

"Darsomething? Dartmouth?" I ask.

"That's the one. Yeah. It's hard, but he's surviving," she says awkwardly. Her eyes tilt to the Sheriff, and dart away when he looks at her. You clever girl.

"That's all we got for now," I say, and Yvonne nearly jumps from her seat in shock I'm stopping so soon. I grab her knee from under the table to hold her down, and she squirms because I just learned she's ticklish.

"Okay," Stephanie says while standing up and tucking her chair under the seat.

"Last favor. You didn't give my friend a receipt. We need to keep them for travel reimbursement. We need all the help we can get," I say, and Yvonne swats my hand off her. Stephanie nods and returns to the register for the receipt. Only I notice her writing on it as the three of us stand to leave.

"What the fuck?" Yvonne asks from under her breath as we move toward the door. I make sure the Sheriff can't hear.

"Shut up for a few seconds and wait," I mutter and take the receipt Stephanie extends out to me. "Thank you. If you remember anything that could help, please call."

"If I remember anything," Stephanie says after accepting both of our cards.