Read Online What Time Devours by A. J. Hartley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A. J. Hartley
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“Obviously it doesn’t get me off the hook as far as Blackstone is concerned. If anything, it just puts me in the frame more. I came to you about Escolme, remember?”
The two of them stood there, staring at each other, until they became aware of a woman, preposterously dressed in mink, with a bellhop waiting at her elbow. They walked out.
“Come here,” said Thomas, leading her back to the concierge’s desk. She followed a couple of steps behind as Thomas tapped the computer screen.
“Is this hooked up to the Internet?” he demanded.
“Sure,” said the concierge, with another look at Polinski.
“Can I just . . .”, Thomas began, moving around the desk and inserting himself into the concierge’s chair. He felt the other two looking at each other, but he didn’t care. He Googled VFL and pulled up their home page.
“See,” he said, “look at the New York office.”
“What?” said Polinski, now at his shoulder.
“The list of agents . . . ,” Thomas began.
But there was no list of agents. And as he clicked hurriedly on the other branches, none of them listed their agents.
“His name was right here,” he said. “He had his own page.”
There it was again, that sense of walking on the ceiling: chandeliers where coffee tables should be, all the doors upside down. It made no sense.
“Can I use your phone?” said Polinski.
“Knock yourself out,” said the concierge, who was watching all this like she’d stumbled into a sideshow.
Thomas typed Escolme’s name into the search engine.
“There!” he said, triumphant. “David Escolme, Vernon Fredericks Literary.” He clicked on the link.
The computer hesitated, then loaded the page. It was instantly clear that this was not what Thomas had consulted before. At first he thought it was a weather site, but then realized that the weather map was merely filling space. The key piece of information was underneath it:
“Site unoccupied. If you are interested in purchasing this domain name . . .”
Beside him, Polinski was giving Escolme’s name to another switchboard operator. After a moment she said, “So it’s not company policy to post any information on agents? And this has not changed over the last few days?” There was a pause and she nodded and then said, “No, that’s fine. Thanks.”
She hung up.
“This is crazy,” said Thomas. “The page was right here.”
“Look at the URL,” said Polinski. “It’s not part of the VFL site. If there was a page for Escolme here, someone just copied the style of the agency, placed some links to it from their own page and posted it through some other provider. And there’s something else. We ran Escolme’s New York address.”
“And?”
“Seems he moved out. No forwarding.”
Thomas felt outmaneuvered. Nothing made him angrier.
“And you were planning to mention that, when?”
“I wasn’t.” She shrugged. “Because I’m the cop and you . . .”
“Aren’t,” he concluded for her. “So now what?”
“I’m going to talk to the concierge some more—privately—find out who was registered to room 304.”
“Meaning I should leave.”
“I expect you’ll be hearing from me soon,” said Polinski.
“Is this one of those ‘don’t leave town’ warnings?” said Thomas.
“It would be helpful if you made yourself available for further inquiry,” she said.
Thomas smiled.
“Of course,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my beer.”
But he didn’t go straight to the bar. He swung by the Shakespeare Conference’s notice board, snatched a lime-green flyer for a staged reading of some obscure Middleton play off an adjacent table, and scribbled on the back of it: “David Escolme (in case you’re skulking around here, masquerading as a Shakespearean). Re LLW or anything else. Don’t call me again. Ever. TK.”
With two furious slashes he underlined the Ever , took a thumbtack from the corkboard, and punched it through the paper with such
The two of them stood there, staring at each other, until they became aware of a woman, preposterously dressed in mink, with a bellhop waiting at her elbow. They walked out.
“Come here,” said Thomas, leading her back to the concierge’s desk. She followed a couple of steps behind as Thomas tapped the computer screen.
“Is this hooked up to the Internet?” he demanded.
“Sure,” said the concierge, with another look at Polinski.
“Can I just . . .”, Thomas began, moving around the desk and inserting himself into the concierge’s chair. He felt the other two looking at each other, but he didn’t care. He Googled VFL and pulled up their home page.
“See,” he said, “look at the New York office.”
“What?” said Polinski, now at his shoulder.
“The list of agents . . . ,” Thomas began.
But there was no list of agents. And as he clicked hurriedly on the other branches, none of them listed their agents.
“His name was right here,” he said. “He had his own page.”
There it was again, that sense of walking on the ceiling: chandeliers where coffee tables should be, all the doors upside down. It made no sense.
“Can I use your phone?” said Polinski.
“Knock yourself out,” said the concierge, who was watching all this like she’d stumbled into a sideshow.
Thomas typed Escolme’s name into the search engine.
“There!” he said, triumphant. “David Escolme, Vernon Fredericks Literary.” He clicked on the link.
The computer hesitated, then loaded the page. It was instantly clear that this was not what Thomas had consulted before. At first he thought it was a weather site, but then realized that the weather map was merely filling space. The key piece of information was underneath it:
“Site unoccupied. If you are interested in purchasing this domain name . . .”
Beside him, Polinski was giving Escolme’s name to another switchboard operator. After a moment she said, “So it’s not company policy to post any information on agents? And this has not changed over the last few days?” There was a pause and she nodded and then said, “No, that’s fine. Thanks.”
She hung up.
“This is crazy,” said Thomas. “The page was right here.”
“Look at the URL,” said Polinski. “It’s not part of the VFL site. If there was a page for Escolme here, someone just copied the style of the agency, placed some links to it from their own page and posted it through some other provider. And there’s something else. We ran Escolme’s New York address.”
“And?”
“Seems he moved out. No forwarding.”
Thomas felt outmaneuvered. Nothing made him angrier.
“And you were planning to mention that, when?”
“I wasn’t.” She shrugged. “Because I’m the cop and you . . .”
“Aren’t,” he concluded for her. “So now what?”
“I’m going to talk to the concierge some more—privately—find out who was registered to room 304.”
“Meaning I should leave.”
“I expect you’ll be hearing from me soon,” said Polinski.
“Is this one of those ‘don’t leave town’ warnings?” said Thomas.
“It would be helpful if you made yourself available for further inquiry,” she said.
Thomas smiled.
“Of course,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my beer.”
But he didn’t go straight to the bar. He swung by the Shakespeare Conference’s notice board, snatched a lime-green flyer for a staged reading of some obscure Middleton play off an adjacent table, and scribbled on the back of it: “David Escolme (in case you’re skulking around here, masquerading as a Shakespearean). Re LLW or anything else. Don’t call me again. Ever. TK.”
With two furious slashes he underlined the Ever , took a thumbtack from the corkboard, and punched it through the paper with such
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