02 Avalanche Pass (5 page)

He noted her quick, professional glance around the foyer to make sure she wasn’t keeping other customers waiting while she chatted to him. He liked her for that. Matter of fact, he liked her for a lot more than that and he felt a sudden twinge of regret that he had come down here to check out. It would have been pleasant to have made the acquaintance of the delightful Miss Bowden (he could read her name tag) earlier in the week. Lee’s face came to mind again and he pushed it away. No harm just thinking, he told her mentally. She frowned at him and he knew she didn’t agree.

He realized he’d been standing there silently for slightly longer than might seem normal. The girl was looking at him curiously, not sure if the conversation was over.

He didn’t want it to be. “So, is everybody moving out tomorrow? Surely you must have some guests who want to stay longer than a week?”

“Some. Not many. A week is pretty well the standard ski vacation
in these parts.” She tapped a few keys on the computer and studied the screen.

“Let’s see… There’s a group from Vermont who got a special deal to stay on till Wednesday; then there are the people who took the two-week package.” She looked up quickly in explanation, “Not too many of them this late in the season.”

She punched another key and the display changed. “That’s about it: maybe fifteen people—a tour group from France, a few singles, oh, and the Senator’s Ski Buddies, of course.”

Jesse frowned in mild disbelief. “The Senator’s Ski Buddies?”

She laughed. “We cater to a lot of groups and conferences here. They often give themselves names. The Skiing Medics was one. The Ski Till You Die Conference was another.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Turned out they were a bunch of morticians.”

“So who are these senators who like to ski?” Jesse asked.

“Just one senator. Senator Carling, from Washington State. He comes every year, brings a group of businessmen and company presidents—very high-level stuff.” She glanced over his shoulder to the gift shop across the lobby, lowering her voice.

“There’s one of them now—Mr. Rockley.”

Jesse swiveled to look at the man, browsing among the greeting card stands in the gift shop. Sensing their attention, he looked up and smiled politely. It seemed he was accustomed to drawing curious glances from strangers.

“Is he important?” he asked.

“He’s rich,” she replied. “Mega-rich. So I guess that makes him important. He’s Calvin Rockley, president of Rockair Aviation—they make planes.”

He glanced again at the tall man. “Yeah,” he replied, “I’ve heard of them.”

“So Mr. Parker, you wanted to ask about checking out tomorrow?” she prompted and he nodded as he remembered his original reasons for coming to the lobby.

“Oh, yeah. I thought maybe I’d settle my account now and avoid the rush in the morning.”

“Good idea,” she said, her eyes down as she punched the keys
again and checked the screen. The printer below the desk smoothly ejected a page printed with Jesse’s details. She tore it free and handed it to him. He glanced over it quickly. There were few extras on the list. He preferred to pay in cash as he went.

“All okay?” she asked, and he nodded.

“No problems.”

She took the Mastercard he handed her, swiped it and typed in the final figures from his bill. She glanced up and smiled as the terminal whirred softly, then approved the transaction and rolled out a payment slip, passing it to him along with a Snow Eagles pen.

“Thanks,” he said, and scrawled a signature.

“My pleasure,” she replied automatically. She passed him his receipt. Paper flying in all directions, he thought, folding it and putting it in his shirt pocket.

“There’s an early shuttle down to Salt Lake City at eight thirty,” she told him. “Or we can organize a cab for you if you’d prefer?”

“I’ve got my own car,” he replied. “I’ll load it and maybe take a few last ski runs before I get away.” Now he said it, he thought that he would definitely take on The Wall again in the morning—and keep doing so until he beat it.

She frowned slightly as she saw something in his eyes—something that had taken him away from their conversation and the here and now.

“Fine then.” She punched the computer keys again. “There you go. As of now, you are officially a ghost. You no longer exist on the computer. I’ll keep your room keycard activated. Tell them to cancel it when you leave.”

“I’ll do that. And thanks for your help.”

“No problem. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here at the Canyon… Jesse.”

He flashed that grin at her again, registering the use of his first name. “Why, thank you, Miss Bowden,” he said and she grinned back at him as he turned and walked to the lift.

She was still watching him, wishing that she’d noticed him earlier in the week, when Calvin Rockley interrupted her thoughts.

“Pardon me, miss. Can I pay for these here?”

The president of Rockair Aviation laid a spread of postcards on the countertop. Almost apologetically, he gestured toward the gift shop across the lobby.

“There’s no one on duty in the gift shop,” he explained. Tina smiled at him—a professional smile. No more. No less.

“Surely, Mr. Rockley. Now, how many do you have there?” She fanned out the half-dozen postcards, scanned the bar codes and totaled the bill.

“That’s six eighty-five with tax, Mr. Rockley. Do you want me to put it on your room?”

“No. I’ll pay now,” he said and handed her a ten. She made change, put the postcards in a paper bag for him and handed the change and the cards to him. He nodded his thanks and turned away, heading for the escalator. He’d gone six paces when she noticed the Mastercard on the countertop. At first, she thought it might have fallen out of his wallet and she took a breath, about to call him back. Then she saw the name on the card—J. Parker. She reached for the phone, then hesitated. She was off-duty in ten minutes. It might be the friendly thing to deliver the card in person. She smiled slowly, tapping the card on her palm. From what she had seen so far, she liked the idea of getting friendly with Mr. Jesse Parker.

J
esse was in his room, staring morosely at the TV, where a rerun of
Seinfeld
was playing. He should eat, he thought. But the idea of heading down to the dining room and sitting alone at a table, surrounded by diners talking and laughing, didn’t hold a lot of appeal. He picked up the room service menu and scanned it. Room service menus seemed to be the same in every hotel he’d ever stayed in. The meals available were always essentially the same, with a few geographical variations. The descriptions were flamboyant and effusive but they invariably left out a few important facts. The meal would take an excessively long time to come and when it did, the food would be lukewarm at best.

Maybe a burger, he thought. Even a room service kitchen couldn’t get a burger too wrong. So long as you liked lukewarm burgers and rapidly cooling fries.

There was a light tap at the door and he frowned. Housekeeping had visited the room hours ago to deliver new towels and give the room a quick going over.

He killed the TV, tossed the remote on the bed and moved toward the door, then hesitated. Long established habit made him wary. He’d been a cop for years and that meant there were a good many people out there who didn’t have cause to love him. And as the years passed, more and more of them were being released from the penitentiary. He glanced at the backpack beside the bed. His .45 ACP was in there. He never traveled anywhere without it. For a second, he thought of retrieving it and then he grinned to himself. Caution was all very well, but that was a little excessive. Odds were, it was some middle-aged woman from housekeeping who had forgotten to replace the mini shampoo bottle in the bathroom. If he
opened the door with a .45 in his hand, she might well go into shock.

The light tap on the door was repeated and he realized he’d been standing here looking at it for some time. He moved to it, lay his hand on the lever and said:

“Who is it?”

“Tina Bowden. From the desk.” He recognized her voice. Not a middle-aged woman from housekeeping after all, he thought. The young and very attractive woman from reception. He smiled to himself. He couldn’t recall ever sending anyone who looked like Miss Bowden to the Big House. And he was sure that if he had done so, he would remember. Definitely.

“Just a moment,” he called, and opened the door.

She smiled at him as the door opened to reveal her. She’d changed from the rather severe trousers and blazer of her uniform. Now she was wearing a short denim skirt that revealed her very good legs and a sleeveless white top whose V neckline did a similar job for her breasts.

All in all, he thought, Tina Bowden looked a damn sight more appetizing than any room service meal he’d ever seen. He smiled back at her, not sure why she was here.

“Did I forget my receipt?” he asked and she shook her head.

“No. But you did leave this behind.” She held out his Mastercard and his hand went to his back pocket in a reflex action as he reached for his wallet. Then he realized that there was no need to check. The card was there in front of him, after all.

“Oh,” he said, reaching out and taking it. He checked it quickly, making sure that it was his card. “Thanks. There was no need to bring it up personally. You could have phoned.”

She shrugged. “All part of the service. I do a delivery run most nights,” she told him and he examined her a little more carefully, taking in the impossibly high heels on the slingback shoes she was now wearing. Earlier, in uniform, she would have been wearing low shoes. She seemed a little taller, and the high heels accentuated the excellent muscle tone and shape of her calves.

“Do you always dress up to do it?” he asked. “Or are you heading somewhere special?”

Her smile widened. She was pleased that he’d noticed she’d changed. She did a small pirouette for him.

“You like?” she asked, and he nodded his head slowly.

“Very much,” he told her. “Beats the hell out of a FedEx uniform.”

She seemed in no hurry to leave so he opened the door a little wider.

“Would you like to come in?”

She inclined her head to one side, studying him for a few seconds, then replied, “Yes. I think I would.”

He stepped aside and gestured to one of the chairs at a small circular table by the window. She sat gracefully, crossing her legs. They were very good legs, he thought once more—and they got better the more he looked at them. He wondered where this was heading.

“Drink?” he asked. He nodded toward the side table. “All I’ve got is Jim Beam.”

“That’ll be fine. With ice, please,” she said. He fixed the drinks and brought them to the table, sitting opposite her. They touched glasses and drank. She leaned forward slightly and he felt a stirring sensation as the movement revealed a little more of her cleavage. Good legs. Good breasts. Pretty. And friendly. What more could a man ask for?

“I was wondering,” she said, and he hastily raised his eyes to meet hers. She smiled again, letting him know that she knew what he’d been looking at and it was fine by her. “Did you have any plans for dinner?”

He grinned and indicated the room service menu where he’d tossed it on the bureau.

“I was thinking of a burger,” he said.

She frowned in disapproval. “Not the thing to have on your last night in Snow Eagles,” she replied. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

“Well, it’s just I don’t like eating alone in restaurants,” he told her. She tossed off the rest of her drink and stood.

“Problem solved. I’m buying you dinner. Or rather, the hotel is.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Do the desk clerks here get an entertainment allowance?” She put one elegant finger up to her lips and pretended to look around for eavesdroppers.

“Big secret,” she said. “I’m not usually on the desk. I’m the Security Officer here. And since you’re a cop…”

“I am?” he interrupted and she nodded.

“That’s what it said on your booking sheet. You’re with the Routt County sheriff’s office, right?” He nodded and she went on. “Right. So we can say we were discussing policing and security matters over dinner. That means we both get a decent meal and the hotel pays. I don’t know how that strikes you, but it sounds kind of win–win to me.”

He smiled. “And will we be discussing policing and security matters?”

“Maybe we’ll give it five or ten seconds,” she told him, her face mock serious. “So, are you ready?”

T
he dinner was excellent and Tina was a good companion. It was strange, he thought, but because she was a relative stranger, and a sympathetic listener, he found it was easy to unburden himself a little to her, about why he had come to Snow Eagles, about the accident and about the lingering doubts in his mind.

She listened quietly as he spoke and when he paused, she set down her wineglass and leaned toward him.

“It’s logical that your mind would do this,” she said. “You just have to build up to it. Don’t try to do it all in one hit. Work up to it with ski runs that get progressively harder until you stop thinking about what might happen and begin to do it instinctively again.”

He regarded her curiously for a moment. “You sound like you know something about this sort of thing,” he said. She nodded.

“Before I did this, I was in the Marines. I joined as an athlete, playing softball. I was pretty close to Olympic selection one year when I fell running between bases and tore up my elbow really badly—tendons, ligaments, the lot. Ruined my pitching.

“Once the medics had patched it up, it took me months to get
up the nerve to pitch full out again. At the last minute, I’d back off, afraid I’d throw the whole thing out again.”

“So how did you solve it?”

“I built up to it. I’d pitch at three-quarter pace until it had become instinctive again. Then I’d up the pace a little. Then more. Nothing too soon and nothing too sudden—just a gradual increase every few days or so. That’s what you should try.”

He nodded. It made sense. Up till now he’d been going at it, balls to the wall, trying to regain his former skill and confidence all at once. Maybe he should build up to it after all. Then he made a gesture dismissing his problems.