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“I appreciate that. Did you stay at a motel named the Bluebird Inn?”
“I stayed at a lot of places. Maybe one of them was called the Bluebird Inn, but I don’t recall the name.”
“A real run-down motel,” I said. “Thirty rooms, vending machines in the lobby.”
Thibault laughed. “I tend not to spend money on frivolities. All I need is a place to sleep. Life is about experiences, not material things.”
“I have a picture if it would help to jog your memory.”
“Sure, I will look.”
I’d printed a selection of images before we left the US—the motel, Kaylin, the vehicle in question, the victim, and both of the Cavallaro brothers. I handed them to Thibault.
“Let me know if anything looks familiar.”
He thumbed through the stack, pausing to study each image. “I have a vague memory of the place, but I don’t recognise the people. What is this about?”
“There was a hit-and-run near the motel on the last night you stayed there. A man walking home from a family dinner was knocked down, and this lady…” I tapped Kaylin’s picture. “She got blamed, but we believe she’s innocent. Somebody took her car.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. It happened late? If I’m remembering correctly, on my last night there, I went to bed early—eight or nine o’clock—because we had to catch a bus north in the early hours. Have you ever been to New England? People say that fall is the best time to visit, or summer, but winter didn’t disappoint.”
Dammit. We’d travelled across two continents to the middle of freaking nowhere, and it had all been a waste. Alain Thibault wasn’t a witness. He was just another piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. And if he’d gone to bed early, he would have missed Beatrix and her client.
“While you were at the Bluebird Inn, did you speak with a couple named Joe and Rachel Smith? They had a young baby.”
“The names, they are not familiar, but I recall a couple with a baby. I asked if I could take their picture, but they didn’t want that. I’m afraid I didn’t speak with them further. They were…how do you say it? Cagey?”
“Right. Cagey.”
Another dead end, and I hadn’t even seen a rhino. Not that I was sure I wanted to, but everyone back home was gonna ask.
“We?” Collier asked.
“Pardon?” Thibault’s accent was definitely easy on the ears.
“You said ‘we’ caught a bus north. You weren’t alone?”
I quickly replayed the conversation in my head. We. Yes, he had said that, and I’d totally missed it. Was it important?
“Ah, non. I was with a friend, but she had her own room.”
“At the Bluebird Inn?”
“Yes, just for one night.”
“What was her name?”
A pause. “Ellen. Her name was Ellen.”
Ellen? Who the heck was Ellen?
“There isn’t an Ellen on the list of guests we have,” Collier said.
Thibault waved a hand. “She probably used a different name. The staff weren’t the type to care, I don’t think. And she was worried about her boyfriend finding her.”
“Beatrix? Did she ever use that name?”
“Beatrice, maybe? It’s her middle name.”
