“A park? Shit.”
They were right behind Harper now, Hugo could see his hair flopping as he ran. Ten yards from the intersection with Piccadilly, Hugo slowed, then stamped on the brake as a blue truck loomed on the right. But Harper barely paused, flitting between the back of the truck and a pair of motorcyclists who swerved in unison to miss him. He hopped the metal barrier that divided the road, and Hugo and Pendrith could do nothing but watch as he jogged across the street and disappeared into the trees.
CHAPTER SIX
The Cadillac swept along Constitution Hill, the rolling grounds of Buckingham Palace Gardens visible through the trees on their right. But the beauty of the carefully tended green space went ignored as Pendrith and Hugo stared into the gloom for a glimpse of Dayton Harper.
As they drew near the marble Victoria Memorial, Hugo swung into a gentle U-turn to head back the way they’d come. As he straightened up, they passed a policeman on a bicycle flagging down a red Mini for the exact same maneuver. Hugo had forgotten U-turns were illegal in England. He looked over at Pendrith and grimaced, then watched with concern as the Englishman pulled out his phone.
“Who are you calling?” Hugo asked.
“You’re not going to like it, but I think we need to get the police involved.” Pendrith held up a hand, “It’s not ideal, I know, but what else can we do?”
“Wait just a minute.” Hugo swerved to the side of the road and stopped. He stared at Pendrith. “About twenty seconds after you call the cops, the press will know that Dayton Harper, movie icon and farmer-killer, is wandering the streets of London. Every human being north of the equator will be out looking for him, and what do you think they’ll do when they find him?”
“I have no idea, old boy. Not been in this situation before.”
“Me neither, but a mob has three options: kill him, hide him, or turn him over to the authorities. You willing to gamble on them picking number three?”
“And your suggestion,” Pendrith said quietly, “would be to drive around London until we find him? How long do you think it’ll be before someone out there spots him and recognizes him?”
“That’s the truth.” Hugo sank back into his seat. “We need to find him in the next hour. After that we’ll call in the cavalry.”
“Agreed.” Pendrith rubbed his chin. “Those bloody reporters.”
Hugo had momentarily forgotten the reason Harper was able to run off — the journalists, who had witnessed firsthand Harper’s flight. “Let’s find them first.”
“Drop me off where we last saw them,” Pendrith said. “I’ll tackle those buggers while you look for Harper. If I don’t find them, I have some sway with their boss. Maybe I can hold the story up for a little while.”
“Good. Write your phone number down, and take mine.” Hugo rattled off his number as he pulled back into traffic. “I’ll start with the assumption he’s headed somewhere familiar. Maybe his hotel.”
“I believe he took rooms at the Ritz.”
“That’s right,” said Hugo. “But how did you know that?”
“Homework, old boy,” Pendrith said with a slight smile. “Always do your homework.”
Hugo drove slowly along Piccadilly, scanning the rain-soaked sidewalk for Harper, touching his brakes every now and again as pedestrians ducked across the road in front of him, scurrying toward the raised islands of safety between the waves of smog-chugging cars and buses. The blank faces of those on foot matched the featureless sky, and Hugo wondered briefly if the sun would ever shine again. Rain in Texas was a respite, a welcome and occasional relief from the ever-present threat of drought, a threat realized virtually every summer as the plains and hill country surrounding Austin baked, day after day, under a merciless sun.
But not here. In England, especially in London, it seemed as though a heavy sky and constant drizzle were part of the scenery, landmarks as permanent and gray as Parliament or Saint Paul’s Cathedral. He longed to escape, just for a weekend, and was convinced that his normally positive mood — his optimistic view of the world, even — had been slowly but surely worn down, eroded away by the relentless drizzle and perpetually overcast skies.
Soon the Ritz London Hotel loomed to his left, and not for the first time Hugo wondered why one of London’s most famous hotels had been built to resemble a French chateau. Not that he minded: the intricate stone architecture of Paris had always been more appealing to him than London’s mishmash of occasional beauty wedged alongside postwar mediocrity.
He pulled to the curb just before reaching a marked bus stop, hoping that his car wouldn’t be crushed or towed. As he climbed out, a white-gloved and uniformed employee swept toward him.
“Are you a guest, sir? I’m afraid the authorities don’t allow cars …”
Hugo pointed to the diplomatic plates on the front of the Cadillac and brushed past him with a smile. He didn’t like to abuse the privilege, but this was an emergency.
He trotted up the steps and nodded his thanks at the old man holding the door open for him. Three guests were waiting for service at the reception desk so he headed straight for the concierge, where two smartly dressed employees, a man and a woman, stood looking at computer screens and talking quietly.
“Yes, sir,” said the young man. He had tired, hungover eyes and a wedge of black hair thick with gel. A gold name tag identified him as Caleb. His female colleague was rail thin and very pale, with large, almond-shaped green eyes that spoke of Asian heritage, currently ringed with black eyeliner. Thick black hair was tied up and pulled behind her head. A Goth in her spare time? Hugo wondered. If so, she was a Goth named Merlyn, according to her tag.
Hugo looked around to buy himself some time. He realized he hadn’t planned what to say, how to figure out whether Harper had been here, without causing a stir. He looked back at the expectant faces and smiled.
“I work for the United States Embassy,” he said, slipping his credentials from his pocket and displaying them discreetly on the counter. “I’d like to know if Dayton Harper has a room here still.”
“Dayton Harper?” Caleb said. He swapped looks with his colleague. “He’s not been here for days. A week. I thought he was in some kind of trouble.”
“You could say that,” Hugo smiled. “I just need to know whether he has a room here still.”
Caleb glanced at Hugo’s badge and then his computer. “I don’t think I’m supposed to …”
“I understand,” Hugo said. “Celebrities and all, you need to respect their privacy.”
“Yes, sir, that’s exactly it,” Caleb said, clearly relieved.
“Which is why it would be much easier for you to tell me whether or not he has a room still, you know, to save the four armed policemen waiting outside from striding through here and accosting your supervisor.”
“Armed …?”
The English weren’t used to guns, Hugo knew, even in the hands of law enforcement, so the prospect of putting his boss in the firing line had rattled the kid.
“On the other hand,” Hugo said gently, “a simple yes or no could save everyone a lot of trouble, don’t you think?”
“He checked out two days ago,” Merlyn said, looking up from her computer. “Says here his reservation for the next two weeks was canceled, as well.”
Hugo nodded. “That’s all I needed to know, thanks.” He started to go, then turned back. “Wait. Does it say who checked him out and canceled the reservation?”
Merlyn looked down at the computer. “No, sorry.” She looked at him for a moment as she spoke, and Hugo had a feeling that he’d not quite asked the right question.
Hugo thanked them again and started back across the reception area, deep in thought and impervious to the glistening finery around him. In truth, he’d never much liked these luxurious hotels. Not only were they ludicrously expensive, but he’d always felt there to be an odd dynamic between most staff and customers, the former trying to impress with the poshness of the premises, the latter eager to show they were wealthy enough to belong. These kinds of hotels were havens for snobbery and inverse snobbery, and Hugo imagined both guests and employees walking around with their noses so high in the air the luxury around them was sniffed but not seen.