Erica Whaley sat at the end of the table with a glass of water in front of her. She was dressed in a heavy silk silver halter-neck that crossed over just under the neck. Ren could see gray pants legs and silver sandals. Her blonde hair was pinned up, but had fallen loose around her face. Her cheeks were red, the foundation washed away with tears and rubbed away with Kleenex, her mascara smudged under her eyes.
She looked up, blinking with panic … then hope. Ren had seen the reaction a thousand times, when a door opening took on an unimaginable significance.
You thought your night would end so differently.
Ren reached out her hand. ‘I’m Ren Bryce, I’m with the FBI; the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. We’ll be working alongside the Sheriff’s Department on this.’
‘Thank God,’ said Erica, standing up, shaking Ren’s hand. She glanced at Bob. ‘I didn’t mean that the Sheriff’s Office isn’t …’ She trailed off.
‘The Sheriff’s Office knows Breckenridge and the surrounding area inside out,’ said Ren. ‘As you know, their officers are already out there looking for your daughter. My colleagues from Denver will be processing the scene, seeing if we can get any information from that, interviewing staff members and guests, looking at CCTV footage, we’ll canvass the town, carry out road-side canvasses. And Sheriff Gage here has already emailed Laurie’s photo to every law enforcement agency in the country, and to the media.’
Erica nodded at almost every word.
‘OK … OK … thank you,’ she said.
‘Let’s sit down, Mrs Whaley. I’ve read through the statement you gave to Undersheriff Delaney. I’d just like you to go through everything with me again.’
‘I mean, it’s a regular thing to do, going to a hotel, getting a sitter, you just don’t think twice,’ said Erica. ‘It’s a four-star resort, you don’t question it, which seems ridiculous now. We were only downstairs, like my husband said. It’s kind of like being at home, isn’t it? You leave your kids upstairs when you’re at home, don’t you? It’s all the one building, a hotel at least has security, or should have had security. Now, of course, I’m thinking “how many people work at the hotel?”, sure I guess most of them are good people, but who are all these people? Are they pedophiles, druggies, wife beaters? Are they psychopaths? Are their jobs just nothing to them, just what they do to make money to pay for child porn? Is the owner of this place a do-gooder, savior of mankind who employs ex-cons, or—? What if there’s a guy who never touched a child, but suddenly decides, well, hell, I’ll take these girls, I get caught, I get caught, I’ll go out on a high, I’ll give in to my sick fantasies …’
She didn’t draw breath. She didn’t pause. It was as if someone had popped the latch on the part of her brain that held her worst fears, and out jumped the demons …
12
Ren’s heart-rate shot up as she listened to Erica Whaley. She hadn’t taken a breath herself.
Do not take on these emotions. Step away from the panic.
‘Mrs Whaley, if we talk through the evening,’ said Ren, ‘we’ll be able to see things more clearly.’
‘The first we saw of the sitter was when she showed up at our room,’ said Erica.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘And—’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Erica. ‘It’s like, “Hello, stranger, we know nothing about you. Here, why don’t you look after the most precious things in the world to us, please take them, we’ll see you in a few hours, while we’re living it up down in the restaurant.”’
‘How did—’
‘I mean, these days stranger babysitters are just part of the hotel’s menu, right? Facials, massages, sitters …’
‘Mrs Whaley—’
‘I think she took her,’ said Erica. ‘I think she took her to order for some skanky druggie boyfriend she has, or for some … desperate woman who can’t have kids … or …’ She started shaking.
‘Mrs Whaley,’ said Ren. ‘All over the world, parents leave their children with hotel babysitters.’
‘Would you?’ said Erica. ‘Do you have kids?’
‘I don’t have kids,’ said Ren, ‘but I would have no problem leaving them with a hotel babysitter.’ And if you were listening very carefully, the word ‘hotel’ cracked with the broken cadence of doubt.
Erica Whaley had been listening carefully.
Shit.
Erica Whaley started to cry.
‘Mrs Whaley,’ said Ren. ‘Now is not the time to beat yourself up. Please don’t turn this in on yourself—’
‘I drank a whole bottle of champagne tonight,’ she said. ‘I started on a second. I know what that probably looks like to you …’
Erica Whaley gave her version of events and it matched her husband’s until it came to their time in the restaurant, when it turned hazy.
‘Mrs Whaley, a witness has said that you and your husband argued over dinner.’ The server saw. And he saw your tears when he delivered your champagne.
Her eyes went wide. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was nothing. Just about his working hours. What woman doesn’t complain about her husband’s working hours?’
‘So, your husband spends a lot of time at the office?’ said Ren.
Erica nodded. ‘Yes – then locked away in the den at home.’
‘Can I confirm that you ordered the second bottle of champagne just before your husband left the table to check on the kids?’
‘Yes,’ said Erica.
‘Did you argue about the second bottle?’ said Ren. Been there.
‘I’m mortified,’ said Erica. ‘I rarely drink. And the one night that I do … No, Mark didn’t mind,’ said Erica. ‘He just reminded me about the championships tomorrow. He was just trying to spare me from a hangover.’
‘OK,’ said Ren.
‘I feel like we’re sounding like a different couple to who we are,’ said Erica. ‘That we’ve been caught at our worst or something. Fighting in a restaurant, drinking too much in my case …’
‘You were out for dinner. No-one’s judging you,’ said Ren. ‘How long do you think your husband was gone from the table?’
Erica paused. ‘Twenty minutes? Hold on, I’ve got a text here. I texted my sister when he got back to the restaurant.’ She picked up her cell phone. ‘That was at twelve fifteen.’
Ren glanced down at her notes. ‘The receipt for your second bottle of champagne says eleven thirty-five,’ said Ren. ‘Your husband was gone forty minutes, Mrs Whaley.’
Erica frowned. ‘Why did I drink all that champagne, I’m so fuzzy – my timing always gets a little skewed …’
Yet your sober husband said twenty minutes too.
‘May I look at your phone, please?’ said Ren.
Erica handed it over. Ren scrolled back through Erica’s texts. The previous one to her sister read:
Asked