Cutting Edge

18

Since taking over the front desk from his wife thirty minutes earlier, Demetri Karounos had found plenty of time to ruminate — the front door of the Calais Lodge had not opened once.

They’d owned the place for two years now, and their dream of running a B&B in a small town — one whose tourist base was heavily seasonal — was fading with each utility bill. They’d done their best to make things right — the rooms had been refurbished, the lobby floor replaced, and they’d even found a Filipina maid who doubled as a cook, filling both squares admirably. Unfortunately, the roof was another matter, as was the crumbling parking lot, and their website was notorious for crashing on anyone who tried to book a room.

So it was, when three men walked in wearing heavy boots and work clothes, Karounos beamed a smile that could not have been more heartfelt. It was after eleven o’clock, the hour at which walk-in traffic normally went dead.

“Good evening!” he said.

“Hi,” said the man in front, a rangy sort with close-cropped hair. “We’re in town for a little survey work — the power company’s relocating some electric lines. Need a place for my crew to stay tonight.”

The other two men wandered into the lobby and gravitated toward the television, which was tuned to a West Coast college football game.

“How many rooms?”

“Only one. We’d prefer the one in front, on the third floor — it might actually help with our survey. How many beds in that room?”

“Well, that unit has two doubles. But I’m sure you’d be more comfortable with two—”

“That’ll be fine. Like I said, we like the view.”

Karounos stared dumbly at the man, then at his two burly compatriots who were glued to the game — they’d each taken an apple from a welcome bowl on the coffee table. The view from 306 was decent, looking out across the river, but nobody had ever asked for it with that in mind.

“Are you sure I can’t—”

“I’m sure,” said the man, this time insistently.

“Of course,” Karounos agreed.

He was sure these men were private contractors — or consultants, or freelancers, or whatever they called themselves these days. Karounos was familiar with the type, and they were not his favorite. They didn’t have the backing of corporate expense accounts, which meant they did everything on the cheap. He was sure all three would show up at the free breakfast — it was advertised on the marquis outside, so he had to provide it — and eat everything in sight.

“There are two other guys who might come later with some equipment,” the front man said.

Here Karounos laid down the law. “Sir, fire regulations do not allow more than four to a room.”

“And we won’t ever have more than three.”

The guest handed over a credit card, and out of ideas, a defeated Karounos took it. While he ran the card, the man asked, “Looks quiet around here. You have any other guests tonight?”

“Only one other room,” Karounos said, trying not to sound embarrassed.

“It’s not a young guy with light hair, is it? We were expecting a power company rep to meet us.”

Karounos repeated what his wife had told him, “I only know it is a young couple.”

The man nodded. “Well, then … that wouldn’t be our rep.”

When the men disappeared minutes later, a resolute Karounos thought, If all five raid the buffet tomorrow, I am going to charge them extra.

DeBolt was awakened by a herd of buffalo. That was what it sounded like, anyway, heavy boots stomping around the room above him. He looked at the bedside clock. 11:21 P.M.

He pulled a pillow over his head.

They began rearranging the furniture.

“You’ve gotta be kidding!” he muttered to no one.

He had an urge to bang on the ceiling. Or he could pick up the phone, call the room, and tell whomever it was that people were trying to sleep. Better yet, he could call the front desk and complain, let them deal with it. Any of that would feel good. But he knew better. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in a shouting match with strangers. Or worse yet, have the night manager, or even a sheriff’s deputy, come knocking on his door.

So DeBolt rolled over.

The noise kept coming.

He distracted himself by imagining less conventional responses. A year ago he’d taken an online class on network systems, an elective overview course for nonmajors. Among the subjects covered was SCADA — supervisory control and data acquisition. SCADA was an operating structure, both software and hardware, used to control complex industrial and commercial systems. As an academic subject it had been dry and tedious, but now, given his new talents, DeBolt saw SCADA in an all new light. It seemed a veritable playground of possibility. Of course, he doubted that a small bed-and-breakfast in Maine would have such a network in place. All the same, he imagined commanding the doors on the room above to lock. Imagined cranking the heater full blast and lighting the gas fireplace. He could turn out the lights … or better yet, cause them to blink on and off at some seizure-inducing hertz.

His mind began to drift, and the noise above lessened. Soon DeBolt was asleep again, a scant trace of amusement on the margins of his lips.

So energized was Lund, she stayed at the office until nearly midnight. As a civilian, she was expected to be on duty no more than eights hour a day. Unfortunately, the demands of law enforcement rarely meshed with any kind of civilized nine-to-five schedule. In truth, she hadn’t looked at a clock since getting off the phone with LaSalle.

Washington County, Maine.

She’d looked on a map to see where it was, and had no trouble finding the place. Unfortunately, that added nothing to her understanding. Trey DeBolt? Was he really still alive? Swimming at a beach on the other side of the lower forty-eight?

Late that afternoon she’d gone into town, and reached the credit union as the manager was locking the door. He made the mistake of letting her in, and she made an inquiry about DeBolt’s account. Lund said she was on official business, which wasn’t quite true, but the branch manager, a suit-clad bastion of procedure named Norm Peterson, had surprisingly shown her the records. He probably shouldn’t have, since she didn’t have a specific warrant, but she knew Norm from previous investigations, and anyway, Kodiak was Kodiak. In the end it had amounted to nothing. DeBolt’s last outflow had been the day before he’d died, a charge for $12.61 at the Safeway on Mill Bay Road. There had been no mysterious withdrawals since, say from an ATM in Maine. The truth was never so easy.

AT&T was more troublesome — the phone company declined to give up DeBolt’s records without official authorization. Not sure if she could get it, Lund took a more direct course, going straight to his unit and meeting with his skipper, Commander Erin Urlacker. Urlacker was happy to help: DeBolt had left his phone in his locker, she said, and it was still there waiting to be claimed. After a month the handset was dead, of course, but it used a universal charger, and within minutes Lund was able to access the call log. The last time the phone had been used was on the morning of the accident, and there had never been a call placed to a Maine area code. A look through the contact list was equally unproductive — no connections to Washington County.

At that point, Lund had thanked Urlacker and gone back to her office. She’d trolled social media sites, and found a handful of accounts, but DeBolt had never been very active, and there was no usage whatsoever since his alleged passing. She did get hung up briefly on his Facebook profile picture: a rescue swimmer in midair jumping out of a helicopter, the sea below a maelstrom of white in the rotor wash. She thought it might be a stock photo, dramatic as it was, but then she discerned DeBolt’s name stenciled on the back of his survival suit.

In the end, her hours of work went for naught. She could find no evidence to support the idea that DeBolt was still alive. The only things she had to work with: an apartment that had been searched, fingerprints on a doorknob thousands of miles away, and a young girl who’d seen a swimmer. Perhaps most mysterious of all, a Learjet flown to parts unknown.

It gnawed at Lund late into that evening, until she finally told herself it was nothing more than false hope. She rarely let cases get to her, but this one was an exception. Exhausted, she decided to go home. Before she did, however, one last thought flickered to mind. She pulled out her phone, added a new contact, and left a brief voice mail.

It was, without doubt, the most ridiculous thing she’d done in her investigative career.