To the Death

“She sure as hell is. But right now I personally don’t think she did it. And if she’d turned up for work on time, she wouldn’t be. Get me her phone number and address, will you?”

Jim Caborn flipped through his card index file where he kept details and locations for all of his staff. But he was basically wasting his time. Shakira had long ago removed her card, which bore her passport number, Social Security number, reference details, and the name of her “aunt’s” village, Bowler’s Wharf. She had replaced it with a simplified one, which listed only her address — the Estuary Hotel, Brockhurst.

Jim Caborn could not believe his eyes. He turned to Joe Segel and said, “I just cannot understand this.”

“Understand what?”

“I filled out a detailed card with a lot of stuff about Miss Martin, including her Social and passport numbers. I even wrote down the names, addresses, and phone numbers on her reference letters. I made a note of her aunt’s name in Bowler’s Wharf where she lived.”

“Did you get her car registration?”

“She never told me.”

“Did you ask?”

“Twice. And both times she said she’d get it and fill the card out for me. I assumed she’d done it.”

Joe Segel’s hackles were up and bristling. “I’m not being critical, Jim. Believe me. But I want to get this very clear. This girl gets a job here when?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

“Okay, and you’re sure you filled out that card?”

“’Course I’m sure. I’ve done it for everyone who’s ever worked here. Both her references were from London, England.”

“Okay. So here we have Little Miss Nobody. She destroys all her records, right here in this hotel. She writes out an address for your file, where she does not live. Someone gets murdered, an obvious sex crime, and Little Miss Nobody vanishes off the face of the earth.

“How old was she?”

“Now that I can recall. She was thirty. I remember looking at her birth date on her passport. It was May 1982. You know how I remember?”

“Lay it on me.”

“I graduated from college that month. But wait a minute, Joe. wait a minute. She said she was living with this aunt in Bowler’s Wharf. I think she said her name was Leno. Jean Leno. I remember. It reminded me of the Tonight Show.”

“Jim, let me tell you something. This lady went to a whole hell of a lot of trouble to brush away her footprints. Five dollars gets you a hundred if we find a Jean Leno in Bowler’s Wharf.”

“That’s a bet I’m not taking. Not now.”

“Was this Carla good-looking?”

“She never made much effort, but anyone would consider her really beautiful. Dark-skinned, black hair, slim with amazingly long legs. A lot of the guys could hardly take their eyes off her.”

“How about Matt?”

“Especially Matt.”

Detective Segel looked up. “Did she go out with him?”

“I don’t think so. I heard a couple of the guys joshing him a few days ago. You know, saying it was sad, a man of his stature getting blown off by the barmaid. So I guess she refused to go out with him.”

“Look, Jim, I’ve known Matt for years,” said Joe. “So have you. But I’ve learned you never really know everything about a person. You don’t think Matt attacked her, do you? Or tried to? And Miss Martin stabbed him to fend him off.”

“Matt!” The hotel manager was incredulous. “Hell, no. There wasn’t a shred of malice in him. He was a big soft puppy.”

“It might seem that way,” said Joe. “But he didn’t get that Porsche by being a big soft puppy.”

“He probably hadn’t paid for it,” chuckled Jim Caborn.

“Yes, he had.”

“How do you know?”

“We checked. This morning.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“It leaves us with one very large missing piece. Because everything any detective could want to find out about Matt Barker is right there on the table. We know his friends, his acquaintances, his customers, his relatives. I doubt there’s a suspect among them. They all live right around here.”

“And Carla’s the missing piece?”

“She sure as hell is. And what, Jim Caborn, was said by the greatest detective who ever lived?”

“You got me.”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, only the truth remains. Sherlock Holmes.”

“So what happens now? A nationwide manhunt for my barmaid?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But we sure as hell need to find her. And I’ve got a real strong feeling the lady ain’t coming to work.”

2225 (local) Tuesday Shannon, Southern Ireland

The Aer Lingus Airbus had completed its short stopover in the sprawling international airport of Shannon, which was for many years the first transatlantic refueling stop for every passenger aircraft incoming to Europe from the United States and Canada.

Even today it’s a favorite departure point for thousands of Americans wishing to visit Ireland’s great southwestern beauty spots — the Ring of Kerry, the Lakes of Killarney, and the coastline of West Cork. Which is why Aer Lingus flights from the United States stop there every day on the way to Dublin. And why an exhausted Shakira Rashood was sitting by the starboard-side window, almost alone, in first class, as the half-empty aircraft taxied to the end of the dark Shannon runway.