Instead, he went to the reception desk and handed the iPad to the desk clerk, along with the request that it be delivered to Mr. Bartholomew.
Then, as a reward for his sweaty trek, he took himself to the lobby lounge, which was suitably dark and clubby-feeling, with leather booths and candlelit tables. He sat at the bar and ordered a New York strip, rare, with béarnaise sauce, pommes frites, and an eight-ounce pour of a Cabernet that the bartender promised was life-altering.
He was attacking the basket of warm bread when he heard a woman’s familiar laugh echoing in the high-ceilinged hotel lobby.
Mo swiveled his barstool slowly around and momentarily froze. The earthy laugh was familiar because it was coming from the Headline Hollywood reporter who’d interviewed him, hours earlier, at the Chatham Avenue house. She wasn’t alone. In fact, she was arm in arm with Trae Bartholomew.
He quickly spun his stool around before Trae could spot him spying. But he watched in the mirrored bar back as the two strolled to the elevator. When the elevator doors opened, they stepped inside, their bodies pressed closely together in an embrace so intimate Mo closed his eyes and took a slug of his Cab.
That pampered punk, he thought, would mess with Hattie’s mind. Maybe break her heart. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it.
45
The Ring of Truth
Makarowicz was at his desk in his tiny home office at nine the next morning. Jenny had furnished the room with a desk and chair, and a daybed, for when their daughter came to visit. A cat the color of marmalade lounged on the bed, looking bored.
The cat had shown up on his porch the week after Jenny’s funeral, and had displayed a remarkable talent for sneaking into his house every time he opened the door. Mak had never been a cat lover, but he did the responsible thing and had the damn thing fixed. The vet insisted the cat had to have a name, so now she was Agent Orange Makarowicz.
Technically, today was his day off. But what else did he have to do?
He leafed through the thick Lanier Ragan file he’d “borrowed” from the Savannah Police Department, until he found what he’d been looking for: Frank Ragan’s account of the clothing he thought his wife might have been wearing the night she vanished.
Victim last seen wearing navy blue or black track suit, Nike running shoes, or possibly blue jeans and a red hoodie, the report said.
He checked it against the inventory of the items that had been recovered along with Lanier Ragan’s remains. Purple vinyl ski jacket, women’s pink Nike tennis shoes, size four. Wedding ring found in pocket of jacket. The GBI had forwarded photographs of everything.
Mak gathered up the printouts of the photos. “Okay, Orangey,” he said, addressing the cat. “You’re in charge. Don’t talk to strangers.”
* * *
Emma Ragan said she understood when Mak told her he needed to question her father again.
“I need to show him some clothing items we found,” Mak said. “The sooner that happens, the sooner we can positively identify the body.”
“Okay,” she said finally. “I get it.”
Frank Ragan scowled when he saw the detective enter the sporting goods store. “I told you, I’m not talking to you again. Not unless you have a warrant or something.”
Mak shrugged. “I thought you’d want to know that we found some skeletal remains yesterday, and we have reason to believe the body is your wife.”
Ragan looked stunned. “You found Lanier?” His ruddy face paled and he swayed a little, grabbing onto a rack of running tights to regain his balance.
“Why don’t we go someplace quieter to talk about this?” Makarowicz said. “Is there an office, or a back room?”
* * *
He followed Ragan through a stockroom and into a shoebox-sized office with barely enough room for a small desk and two chairs.
“Where … where was she?” Ragan asked.
“We’ll talk about that later.” Makarowicz opened his briefcase and extracted the file folder he’d brought along, and tapped the record button on his phone. “Very little of the clothing we found was intact, except for a jacket and a pair of running shoes.” He placed two photographs on the desk in front of Ragan. “Do you recognize this jacket?”
Ragan’s hands trembled as he picked up the photograph. He stared at it for a long moment. “Yeah. This was Lanier’s.” He pointed at a small metal charm that dangled from the jacket’s zipper. “I think that’s a lift doohickey from when we went skiing in Beaver Creek, the year after we got married.” He sighed. “Typical southern girl. She hated skiing, but loved drinking hot buttered rum in the ski lodge.”