Page 18 of The Shadow Friends

Jo thought of the people she’d just seen milling about on the lawn. They were older, most of them retirees, here to learn about global crises. No, she couldn’t see one of those genteel attendees stalking a middle-aged waitress as she walked to her car. Couldn’t imagine some man in a blazer and boat shoes dragging Karen O’Brien into his vehicle and driving away with her.

“If this wasn’t a crime of opportunity,” said Ingrid, “then maybe he chose her for a reason.”

They were silent for a moment as they surveyed the dozen cars in the employee parking lot. Nearby was the golf course, a manicured lawn rolling down to the sea, with no nearby bushes to hide a body. If Karen O’Brien had been attacked here, her body must have been moved. Or . . .

“The trunk,” said Ingrid.

They moved to the rear of the Toyota, and Jo pressed the release button. The trunk was painfully slow to open, as if the car were reluctant to surrender its secrets. Inch by inch the trunk lifted, revealing at first only a glimpse of blue carpet. Then the shoes appeared, white rubber soles, practical, followed by a pair of legs dressed in black pants, bent at the knees. The rest of the body, wearing a restaurant server’s blouse, was curled like a fetus nestled in a car-trunk womb. Jo didn’t have to feel for a pulse; the frozen limbs, and the steel knife handle protruding from the woman’s left eye, erased any doubt that Karen O’Brien was dead.

Gasping, Jo reeled back and averted her gaze. She focused instead on Ingrid, who was standing stock still. Most people, when confronted with such horror, would have uttered a cry and looked away, but Ingrid was staring into the car trunk, as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

But there was no making sense of this.

“Jesus,” Jo murmured. “A knife in the eye . . .”

“Not just any knife,” Ingrid said quietly. “It’s a stiletto.”

Jo frowned. “What difference does it make?”

“It’s not for cutting or slashing. It’s for thrusting. To penetrate vulnerable points of armor. Or a body.” For a moment Ingrid seemed paralyzed, unable to turn away from Karen O’Brien’s corpse. Then she abruptly pulled herself straight. “Excuse me,” she said and turned.

“Where are you going?” Jo called out as Ingrid walked away.

“I have to make a phone call.”

Chapter 7

Hannah

Mr. Fishman had a rebellion on his hands, and Hannah Murray was reluctant to take part in it. She was silent as she sat next to her housemate Andrei in a hotel conference room, along with two dozen other anxious Cod Cove employees. Some of these people had worked at the resort for decades, had raised their families on the salaries and tips earned from catering to wealthy summer tourists, but even the long-timers seemed ready to walk off the job, frightened by the ambulances and the invasion of Tyvek-garbed medical personnel.

“They’re saying this place is a hot zone,” said one of the restaurant cooks. “I’ve got grandkids. I don’t want to bring home some fatal virus!”

“That is merely a rumor,” said Mr. Fishman. “No one has confirmed anything.”

“Not yet, anyway.” The cook turned to Hannah. “You saw the sick man. How bad was he?”

“Honestly, I thought he was dead. And the smell . . .” Hannah shuddered. “Thank God I didn’t go in his room. But that lady did. And they took her to the hospital too.”

“See?” The cook looked at Fishman. “That’s how contagious they think this is.”

“Again,” said Fishman, “it was just a precaution. Maine CDC hasn’t said a word to me yet. In the meantime, we have three hundred paying guests we have to look after. They need to be our first priority.”

“Bullshit,” muttered the cook.

One of the housekeepers raised her hand. “We’re scared, Mr. Fishman,” she said. “And some of us . . .” She looked around the conference room at her fellow employees, at the cooks and the waitstaff, the front desk clerks and the housekeepers in their sky blue Cod Cove uniforms, like the one Hannah was wearing. “Some of us would rather quit than stay on the job right now. Especially in housekeeping. I mean, we’re the ones who clean the toilets and scrub the sinks. If there are germs in there, we’re going to catch them.”

Fishman sighed. “Okay, how about this? You only have to clean the rooms on the first and third floors. And the cottages as well. Our guests expect clean rooms. They paid for it. Let’s try to keep them happy.”

“What about keeping us happy?” said the cook.

“You’ll be perfectly safe in the restaurant. How’re you going to catch any germs?”

“Uh, sick people bringing their germs into the dining room?”

“That guest is now in the hospital. He’s not going to be eating in the restaurant.”

“But he did,” a voice said quietly.