6 P.M. “There’s no one here by that name, sir.” A young man with tousled brown hair frowned after examining the register. “Definitely no Sinclair registered here. Perhaps you have the wrong hotel?” “He would have checked in Wednesday,” I said, insistent. “Late afternoon, between four and five o’clock. He may not have used his own name.” The clerk’s hazel eyes grew wide. “But I can’t possibly check the record of every guest who checked in Wednesday afternoon. We’re the largest hotel in the world; we register over fifteen hundred guests a day.” I didn’t move. He scratched his chin. “Of course, I can try. Maybe you’ll recognize one of the names.” “Try the Astoria section first,” Isabella said, adding for my benefit, “It’s newer and more luxurious.” He rustled through his register, then began reciting names. Jacques Rimes. Anthony Black. Hugh Stowe. John Rhys. We shook our heads. Maybe this just wasn’t going to work. I scrambled to think of other options—from questioning the maid staff to tracking down the specific bellhop who delivered his luggage—as the clerk ran through more choices.
