Walking into the lobby was like walking into my grandparents’ long-ago living room in the north end of Seattle. It was filled with homey upholstered furniture. There was a cupboard crowded with all sorts of teas. In front of the tea display was a buffet with an electric kettle on it as well as an assortment of cups. A hand-lettered sign invited guest to help themselves. The varnished front desk was straight out of the fifties, with the clerk standing behind a window like an old-fashioned bank teller.
When I got upstairs, my “view” room, like the lobby, was homey and comfortable if not particularly posh, and in the dark of night the view part of the description was entirely meaningless. I showered off that day’s layer of secondhand smoke, donned the terry-cloth robe I found hanging in the closet, and settled in to give Mel a call.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about us,” she said.
“I’ve been busy,” I said. “What have you been doing?”
“Sarah and I just came in from playing fetch out in the snow. At first she was very reluctant, but I finally managed to convince her that walking in snow won’t kill her. Right now, though, she’s completely tuckered out and snoozing in front of the fireplace. What have you been up to?”
For the next twenty minutes or so, I recounted my day’s worth of work.
“What are you going to do about all this?” Mel asked when I finished.
“Beats me. I’ve been asking myself the same question.”
“If you think Roger is in imminent danger, you could always call in a welfare check.”
“I could, I suppose, but I don’t have any real reason to do so. Other than looking like he hasn’t had a decent meal in years, there’s no reason to think he’s in immediate jeopardy. Incapacitated? Yes. Should he be under a doctor’s care? Absolutely. And if he’s in danger of wandering outside on his own, barefoot in the snow, then the use of restraints of some kind is probably justifiable. But still, something’s out of whack in that household, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
“JDLR,” Mel said.
I chuckled at that little bit of law-enforcement lingo. “Yes, I agreed. It just doesn’t look right.”
“If Shelley was able to manage carrying on an extramarital affair for years without her husband’s ever figuring it out,” Mel surmised, “she’s most likely one pretty cagey operator. If Homer PD sent out some newbie patrol officer to do a welfare check on Roger, she’d be able to pull the wool over the cop’s eyes without having to think twice about it. In which case you’d be the one with egg on your face.”
“That’s my assessment, too.”
“What about Danitza?” Mel asked. “Have you called to let her know what’s going on?”
“Not so far.”
“Maybe you should. She’s an RN, right?”
“Correct.”
“Just by seeing Roger in person, she might be able assess what’s going on with him from a medical standpoint. And as his daughter she might be able to override Shelley’s veto of medical intervention. Besides . . .”
Mel’s voice faded away for a moment.
“Besides what?” I asked.
“The sudden weight loss you described sounds similar to what happened to my dad. According to his wife, he’d been trying to shed pounds unsuccessfully for years, so initially he was really happy about losing weight. By the time he went to see a doctor who finally figured out what was really happening, he was already in acute kidney failure. By then it was too late for him and for me, too. I’ve always regretted that I didn’t try to patch things up with him while I still could.”
Since this was Mel speaking, I knew I was hearing the voice of bitter experience.
“You’re probably right about my bringing Danitza into the picture,” I agreed. “Once I can give her a final answer about whatever happened to Chris, I’ll let her know about what’s going on with her father.”
The sound of an arriving text pinged on my phone, and the notification in the corner said it was from Todd.
“Hold on a sec,” I told Mel. “Todd just sent me a text.” When the text was open, I read his short message aloud. “‘No U.S. passports ever issued under the name Christopher Anthony Danielson.’”
Once I finished reading it aloud, Mel and I remained silent for a moment while we both considered the message’s implications.
“So even with that ten-thousand-dollar bribe in his pocket, you don’t believe Chris ever made it out of the state alive,” Mel concluded finally.