Decker appeared to think a moment, but he knew what he was going to ask for. “Well, could you at least call maintenance and housekeeping and find out who was working on Sunday afternoon when she disappeared.”

A big sigh. “I can probably get you that, but it may take a little bit of time.”

“Is there someone we could talk to in maintenance and housekeeping to ease the burden?”

“That’s sweet. I’ll call up housekeeping and maintenance for you.”

“Thanks so much,” Decker said. “One more thing. The lot attendant in self-service parking told me he turns the day’s parking tickets into accounting when he’s finished. Where would we find that department?”

“It’s not a department anymore, it’s a person. Debra’s in the back. Would you like me to send her out?”

“It might be easier if you send us in,” Eliza said.

“I’ll ask her if she’s busy,” Grace said.

“Thanks. It’s important that we find this woman. She has a son.”

“Yes, the boy…Gabe. What a shame.” Grace shook her head. “This is terrible. Nothing like this has happened here before. It really gives the hotel a black eye.” She paused. “Then again, the whole place is being shut down for at least two years. Lucky for the new owners that people in this town have very short memories.”

THE HOSPITAL’S SECURITY office was in the basement of St. Tim’s—a futuristic, windowless area filled with black-and-white monitors, alarms, sensors, cassette and DVD players, and a wall-size panel of buttons. The cameras shone on the institution’s entrances and exits, the elevators, the stairwells, the interior hallways, and all the class-three drug cabinets. The space was cavelike: compact and dimmed to see the monitors. Marge hated dark and small, her abhorrence courtesy of a horrendous raid years ago when she was forced to crawl through a tunnel in order to evacuate children from a cult and a homicidal maniac. One of the superb things to come out of that mess was her adopted daughter, Vega. Oliver knew of this foible and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

The head of security was a Russian fellow named Ivan Povich. Currently, he was sharing the warren with a uniformed guard named Peter, who continually stared at the monitors and had yet to utter a sound. Povich spoke with a slight accent. “We also have a smaller security room on each floor.”

Marge was studying the images on the screens—people going in and out. It calmed her down. “But here’s where you monitor all of the hospital’s entrances and exits.”

“Yes,” Povich said. “And we always have someone watching them at all times. We take the job seriously. Usually it’s Peter.”

Peter gave a wave.

Oliver said, “What about lunch and bathroom breaks?”