Page 42 of No More Billionaires

“There’s no way they have any vacancy. A bunch of people here said they already tried—it’s completely full.”

“Well, maybe there’s a back office with a cot or a lounge chair by the indoor pool or something—”

“Planning to make them an offer they can’t refuse, Richie Rich?” I teased.

His face darkened in an instant guilty blush. So hehadbeen planning to apply the master fix-it tool—his thick wallet.

“Well, we can’t stayhereall night. You can barely stand, and I’m wiped, too. You’ll be okay here until I get back?”

The genuine concern on his face made my throat tighten. Maybe it was just the exhaustion.

“Sure. I’ll be fine. Good luck.”

“I’ll be back soon.” He started toward the door, looking over his shoulder at me. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

I gave him a tired smile. “I’ll be where the working toilets are.”

I’d expected him to return within fifteen minutes—it doesn’t take long to get a “no vacancy means no vacancy”—but it was more like forty-five minutes before Larson came back through the door.

His hair and clothing were soaked, he looked half-frozen and sported some impressive under-eye bags, but he was smiling.

The bribery must have worked.

“Come with me,” he said softly from the doorway, motioning with his hand.

I walked out of the restaurant with him to the parking lot, cringing at being out in the sleet again.

“They gave you a room?”

“Ifounda room,” he answered cryptically. “But it’s not at the hotel.”

“Where then?”

“It’s not far. Come on. There’s a horizontal surface with your name on it only minutes away.”

FIFTEEN

Refuge

“It’s not the Ritz.” Larson shrugged in apology.

We stood on the concrete front steps of a tiny, white wood-frame home set just back from the road about a quarter mile past the hotel.

It looked like one of those places I’d always wondered about, a residence sticking out like a sore thumb in a busy commercial area.

The house was old, clearly pre-dating the businesses that had popped up to accommodate modern highway travelers. The owners had probably been the lone holdouts when developers started buying up the land.

The muted glow of candlelight was visible in the clouded windows, and the din of barking dogs—several very large ones from the sound of it—came from the back yard.

“I can’t believe you just knocked on the door,” I said. “And they opened it.”

“All that small-market reporting experience came in handy. I was trained to boldly knock where no one’s dared to knock before. Brace yourself—this lady’s a little—”

The door swung open, revealing a large woman in her late seventies or early eighties with fuzzy white hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore bifocals, fleece pajama pants with a sock monkey pattern, an oversized One Direction t-shirt, and slippers.

“There you are, honey! I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back. Come in, come in. Ah, and here’s your lady friend.”

“Co-worker,” I corrected as she stepped back from the door and welcomed us into a dimly lit living room that smelled strongly of floral potpourri.

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