Page 70 of The Grave Artist
Zebrowski had confirmed the man Grange hauled from the boat was Hal Pratt, one of their employees.
So, 99 percent likelihood he wasn’t HK—who was too smart to hunt this close to home.
Of course, he might be an accomplice, or a witness, but even if so, he was not in a cooperative mood.
She gave him a stern look. “Mr. Zebrowski told me no one was scheduled to be out on the lagoon at night unless they were making a room service run. Which you weren’t. That’s for the guests’ privacy. Explain.”
Pratt’s knee bounced up and down as he sat in the swivel chair across from hers. “Is that, like, a crime?”
The color had drained from his face, making his freckles appear livid against his pale skin. He was tall and stocky, although, at twenty-four, he already had the look of a former high school athlete gone to seed.
“‘Crime’? How’s that responsive to my question? It’s against your employer’s policy. So, again, explain.”
More knee bouncing. More thinking. “I’m supposed to take the honeymoon couple out on an excursion in the morning. I wanted to get everything prepped ahead of time.”
She recalled they did have a trip planned. But she had to ask the obvious. “At nearly midnight?”
“I’m kind of a night owl. I’d rather stay up late than get up early. So I was out at a bar, just hanging, you know? Then I figured I’d stop here and get the boat ready on the way home. That way, I could sleep in longer.” Speaking fast, and overexplaining.
“Name of the bar?”
“Um. The Rabbit’s Hat. Alvarado Street.”
“And if we contacted them, will they confirm you were there tonight?” She gave Heron a significant look and he began typing on his tablet. Which probably was gibberish and only for show.
Pratt stared at him and fidgeted some more. “I was kind of sitting near the back. Could be nobody saw me.” He swallowed. “I’m the kind of guy people don’t notice.”
“What about the server?” she asked. “And your check?”
“I paid cash.”
Convenient.
“When did you deliver the champagne and chocolates to the honeymoon suite?” She looked at her own tablet. “The exact time.”
She had phrased the question as if the answer were a foregone conclusion. During an interview, it was important to keep the subject in the dark about how much you knew. They were aware of his actions and would make him try to justify them. On the other hand, he would have no clue what she meant if he hadn’t done it.
“What? No, no, I didn’t take anything to the honeymoon suite. The kitchen and room service staff are the only ones who do food and beverage. I do the entertainment packages, that’s it.”
She wasn’t surprised, and moved on, switching subjects to keep him off-balance. “Where were you last Saturday night?”
The change in direction sparked a blink. “Um, Saturday? Working.”
She stood and stepped to the corner of the room. Heron followed. She said softly, “He’s not HK, obviously. But something’s not right.”
He said, “You want me to get a phone call?”
“Yeah, good.”
She returned to Pratt and started to ask him about his employment history, observing him closely—and making sure he sawherdoing so.
Even in the chill of the room he was sweating, and there wasn’t a square inch of the place that his nervous eyes had not darted to.
She heard a trill and she and Pratt looked toward Heron. He had hit a ringtone button and was pretending to take a call. He made a few sounds along the order of “uh-huh,” and “yeah,” all the while frowning as he stared at Pratt. He disconnected and crossed the room to whisper in Carmen’s ear. “How was that? I’d say it was another Academy Award performance.”
She nodded and turned stern eyes on Pratt, rising and packing up her tablet. A glance at Heron. “So. That confirms it. Which detention center?”
Heron said, “La Brea, I’d say.”
