Around noon, though, Fitz got a lead: a hot dog vendor glanced at the red carpet photo and said that he’d seen him going into a nearby hotel—and just a half hour ago.
Which meant it was time for coffee.
Fitz knew desk clerks wouldn’t give him any information; they might even call the police, reporting that a fat, balding old man in a dusty, wrinkled suit was asking about guests—which had happened several times during his career. So he’d simply surveil. He bought a large Starbucks, black, and wandered into the lobby, sipping coffee and browsing the gift shop and pretending to talk into his cell phone, looking for the Hawke look-alike.
When he had no luck, he sat on a couch that overlooked the lobby. And waited.
Years ago, Fitz had been told he resembled a spy. He was doing a story on a former CIA officer who had become a thriller writer. The man had said that the best assets—the name for undercover agents in the field—were nondescript, never flashy, dull, actually. They blended into the woodwork. Fitz would be a good one, the former secret agent had said.
He wasn’t sure whether he should consider that a compliment or not.
Time passed. The coffee grew cold, as Fitz would eye the lobby and check on his phone for updates on the case, of which there were none.
At around two p.m., the elevator door opened and Hawke—as he thought of him now—passed through the lobby. Fitz took a last sip of coffee and rose, never looking the fellow’s way. The man was focused and walked in a determined manner. He radiated the confidence of a successful salesman or public relations man. His suit was expensive and cut perfectly (amusing Fitz, who had to debate long and hard about splurging on a suit at Macy’s).
Fitz didn’t approach the man now; he needed more information: his name, a license plate, the identities of other people he might meet. If Fitz approached him, he might bolt, check out of the hotel and be gone forever.
He was hoping the man didn’t take a cab or car service. Long gone were the days when you jumped in a yellow taxi and shouted, “Follow that car!” If those days ever existed at all.
But Hawke just kept striding down the street, as if on the way to close a big sale. He kept looking at his phone. His body language suggested he wasn’t reading texts but was following a pedestrian route on Google Maps.
Breathless, Fitz struggled to keep up.
Fifteen minutes from the hotel the man glanced up and noted a dive of a bar. He stopped.
Please let this be where he’s headed. I can’t take much more.
And, yes, Hawke turned inside.
Fitz rested for three minutes or so, extracted a fisherman’s cap from his inside jacket pocket and pulled it on—every inch the spy. He stepped inside and, eyes on the floor, made his way to a table directly behind where the man sat at the bar. Fitz ordered a bourbon from the server, a slim gray-haired woman. Hawke ordered a cola.
Next steps? Try to steal the name from his credit card receipt? Listen carefully when the person he was meeting arrived?
Just a name, all I want is a name . . .
The man made a call on his mobile. He tilted his head, as one does when the callee picks up.
“Is he available, please? . . . Well, tell him it’s Peter Tile.”
Ah, striking gold . . .
After a brief conversation about some travel plans to Ohio, Tile disconnected. Fitz picked up his drink and joined him.
“Peter Tile?”
The man blinked, frowning.
Fitz showed his press credentials and explained who he was. “I know you were the witness who told the Violent Crimes Task Force about the Gravedigger’s second victim.”
This was a bluff, of course.
But when the man blurted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the performance fell flat.
Tile knew this himself, it seemed, and appeared dismayed. “How?”
“Talked to some people who saw you at the site of the kidnapping around the time it happened. I followed you here and heard you on the phone just now.”
The man’s lips tightened. “Look, mister, I have a family. That psycho’s still out there.”
Fitz lifted a hand. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I haven’t told the police or anyone else.”
“I’m not saying anything to the press. I told the cops everything I know. It was all over in ten seconds. This guy’s getting in his car and somebody comes up and hits him over the head and drags him into the bushes, then leaves a note on the windshield. There’s nothing else.”
“You’re in a hotel. You’re not from here.”
“No. I’m . . . I’m here on business.”
Fitz smiled at the evasion. “You know, Mr. Tile, I’ve been interviewing people for close to forty-five years. And one thing I’ve found is that there’s always something else, some little fact, a tidbit that people can remember about an incident.”
“Well, there is nothing.”
“Tell me again what happened. You’re obviously a Good Samaritan. You wanted this guy caught.”
“Yeah, right, you have my name,” he said bitterly. “You going to threaten to release it publicly if I don’t help?”
Fitz responded immediately. “I have never once revealed the name of a source who wanted to stay anonymous.”
This was true and Tile apparently sensed the sincerity. He sipped the soda and wiped his hand on a bar napkin. He seemed calmer. “God, I’m claustrophobic. I don’t even want to think what that guy’s going through. Underground. What’s his name again?”
“Jasper Coyle.” Fitz did the silence trick again.
“He was white, tall, blond hair. Jeans and a dark shirt. Sunglasses.”
“What kind?”
“Sunglasses? I don’t remember the brand or anything. Who knows anyway?”
“What did he do, exactly?”
“Coyle was walking to his car and this man steps out of the bushes and hits him over the head.”
“With what?”
Tile paused a moment. “It’s funny, you know. I didn’t think about what he used before. But I can kind of picture it now. It was dark, maybe cloth, almost like a sock. There was something in it.”
Fitz had once written about guards abusing prisoners. One of their tricks was to fill a sock with bolts or washers or coins and use that as a cudgel. It hurt like hell, but left no marks. Maybe the Gravedigger had done jail time.
Tile’s eyes were focused on a stain on the table. Then he blurted, “Oh, wait. He’s left-handed.”
Memory is such an odd creature.
“Definitely left-handed.”
Fitz took his notebook out slowly, as if approaching a dog he didn’t want to spook. He opened it and jotted down the two new facts. “Go on.”
“Then he took something out of his pocket, a plastic tube. It’d be the needle, the syringe, you know. I read he injected them with a drug.”
“That’s right. Which pocket?”
“What?”
“Of the jacket?”
“Oh. Inside.”
“What color was it?”
“The jacket? Light blue.” Then he laughed as if surprised that he hadn’t remembered earlier.
More jottings.
“Did it seem that they knew each other?”
“No.”