When Christine still hadn’t returned by six o’clock, I struggled between conflicting thoughts of waiting for her at the hotel or driving into Hamilton myself. Maybe she’d had an accident. Those damn mopeds, I thought, having found them fun and perfectly safe just the afternoon before.

I spotted a tall, slender woman entering through the front gates of the Belmont, walking against a background of hibiscus and oleander. I sighed with relief, but as I started down the front stairs, I saw that it wasn’t Christine.

Christine still hadn’t returned, or called the hotel, by six-thirty Or by seven o’clock.

I finally called the police.

Chapter 45

INSPECTOR PATRICK BUSBY from the Hamilton P.D. arrived at the Belmont Hotel around seven-thirty. He was a small balding man who from a distance looked to be in his late fifties or sixties. As he approached the front porch, though, I could tell he was no more than forty, around the same age as me.

He listened to my story, then said that visitors often lost track of time and of themselves in Bermuda. There were also occasional moped accidents on Middle Road. He promised me that Christine would show up soon, with a mild “road rash” or a “slightly turned ankle.”

I wouldn’t have any of it. She was always punctual, and at the very least, she would have called.

I knew that somehow she’d call if she had a minor accident. So the inspector and I rode together between the hotel and Hamilton, and then we toured the streets of the capital city, particularly Front and Reid streets. I was silent and solemn-faced as I stared out of the car, hoping to get a glimpse of Christine shopping on some side street, forgetful of the hour. But we didn’t see her anywhere, and she still hadn’t called the hotel.

When she still hadn’t turned up by nine, Inspector Busby reluctantly agreed that Christine might be missing. He asked a lot of questions that showed me he was a decent cop. He wanted to know if we’d had any kind of argument or disagreement.

“I’m a homicide detective in Washington, D.C.,” I finally told him. I’d been holding it back because I didn’t want this to get territorial. “I’ve been involved with high-profile cases involving mass murders in the past. I’ve known some very bad men. There might be a connection. I hope not, but that could be.”

“I see,” Busby said. He was such a precise, neat man with his thin pencil mustache. He looked more like a fussy schoolteacher than a cop, more like a psychologist than I did. “Are there any other surprises I should know about, Detective Cross?” he asked.

“No, that’s it. But you see why I’m worried, and why I called you. I’m working on a series of nasty murders in Washington right now.”