Stone Barrington 06-11

door.
    “That’s why he got past you,” Stone said to Lundquist. “I’d like to see his room, please.”
    The man pressed a few buttons on a machine, and a plastic card was spat out. “It’s suite four-oh-four. Help yourself,” he said.
    Stone led the way to the elevator and pressed four. A moment later they were standing outside the suite, and Stone got the door open.
    “Easy there,” Lundquist said, pushing past Stone. “I’d better go first.”
    “It’s not a crime scene,” Stone said, following him. “Unless there’s a corpse stashed under the bed.”
    Lundquist looked under the bed. “Nothing.”
    “No kidding?” Stone looked around. The room had already been cleaned that morning, and the bed had not been used since. He went around the room, looking in closets and opening drawers.
    “What are you looking for?” Lundquist asked.
    “I don’t know,” Stone replied.
    “Whatever he can find,” Dino said.
    Lundquist started opening drawers, too.
    Stone went back into the sitting room and looked around. The place was neat as a pin, the wastebaskets were empty, and there was not so much as a trace of Paul Bartlett, or whoever he was.
    “What now?” Lundquist asked.
    “The airport,” Stone replied. “He told the clerk he had to catch a plane.”
    The three men left the hotel, and Lundquist got into the rear seat of Stone’s convertible.
    “I should be wearing sunscreen,” Lundquist said as they pulled out of the parking lot.
    “Yeah, that pale Scandinavian skin will fry every time,” Dino said, half to himself, chuckling. “World’s whitest white men.”
    “That’s what you call me,” Stone said.
    “You, too.”

    At the airport, they went to the nearest ticket counter, and Lundquist flashed his badge and asked about flights to Minneapolis.
    “None of the airlines flies directly to Minneapolis from Palm Beach,” the woman behind the counter said. “You’d have to change, probably in Atlanta.”
    “Will you check reservations for a Paul Bartlett?” Lundquist asked.
    The woman turned to her computer terminal, tapped a few keys and looked at the screen. “I’ll do a search for the name,” she said, tapping more keys. “Nope, nobody by that name.”
    “Try Paul Manning,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
    She tapped the keys again. “Nope, no Manning.”
    “Do you recall, in the past hour or so, a tall man, six-three or -four, mid-to-late forties, dark hair going gray, fairly good-looking?”
    “No, and I think I’d have noticed,” the woman said, smiling.
    “Thanks for your help,” Stone said. He turned to Lundquist and Dino. “Let’s hit the charter services.”
    “How do we find those?” Lundquist asked.
    “There’s a big sign outside, pointing to them all,” Stone replied.
    They went outside and checked the sign; there were half a dozen.
    “Ebbe, you go in the car with Riley and check the north side of the field; Dino and I will check the south side.”
    “Okay.” Lundquist jumped into the car with Riley.
    “Well,” Dino said as they got into the Mercedes. “Lundquist isn’t the brightest tulip in the garden, is he?”
    “Tulips are Dutch, not Scandinavian, and remember, he’s a lieutenant, like you.”
    “Well, he can’t be all bad,” Dino said.

    They checked all four companies on the south side of the field and came up with nothing. As they left the last one, Lundquist and Riley drove up.
    “Nothing on the north side,” Riley said.
    “Nothing over here, either,” Stone said. “Where’s the chief?”
    “Probably in his office,” Riley replied.
    Stone punched the number into his cell phone and asked for Griggs.
    “Chief, Bartlett has checked out of the Colony.”
    “Well, shit,” Griggs said. “You think he’s left town?”
    “He told the desk clerk he had a plane to catch, but we’re at the airport now, and he didn’t fly out of here.”
    “I guess he could have driven to Miami,” Griggs said. “It’s only an hour and a half to the airport.”
    “Can you check the flights out of there for a Bartlett or Manning?”
    “I’ll put somebody on it. Where do you think he went?”
    “The only address we have is Minneapolis, but I don’t think he’s there.”
    “Where do you think he is?”
    “I think he’s still in Palm Beach. Remember, he checked out of the Chesterfield, too, without leaving a forwarding address, and he went directly to the Colony. Maybe, before you check the Miami