Veronica Mars (4 page)

In other words, Veronica’s rates had just gone up dramatically.

“Why don’t you step into my office?” Veronica gestured to the open door.

Veronica’s office—
Keith’s
office—was brighter than the outer room, with two large windows facing east and south. The walls had been painted a sunny yellow, and her father’s model ships rested along the windowsills and on top of the filing cabinets. Landros walked ahead of Veronica, sitting down in one of the low chairs and crossing her long legs.
Veronica had just enough time to exchange baffled glances with Mac before shutting the door behind her.

“So, what can I do for you?” Veronica walked around the desk to sit in her father’s low leather chair. Sunlight streamed through the big window behind the desk, catching every diamond Landros wore so that she glittered with each gesture.

“I’m actually here on behalf of Neptune’s Chamber of Commerce. You may have seen the news this weekend.” The woman pursed her full lips. “Our beloved sheriff has created something of a PR nightmare.”

“You’re talking about Hayley Dewalt’s disappearance?”

Landros sighed. “Of course. We asked Lamb to keep everyone calm. Instead he managed to make us look like a town of callous sociopaths. And now Trish Turley has her teeth in the story, telling parents not to let their kids go to Neptune for spring break.”

Veronica’s eyebrows shot upward. “I see. So you wanted Lamb to downplay Hayley’s disappearance, but not in a way that made it look like you care more about tourism dollars than, say, a teenage girl’s life.”

“You’re really not a saleswoman, are you?” Landros raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. Her chair creaked slightly as she shifted her weight. “Look, I won’t bullshit you, Ms. Mars. My hotel and the tourism industry here in Neptune make almost forty percent of their total annual income during spring break. It’s not a piece of the pie we can afford to lose. So yes, we want this disappearance handled with some delicacy. But that doesn’t mean we don’t also want to find Hayley.”

Veronica leaned back in her chair, glancing out the window.
Even from the comparative quiet of the office, she could hear the thrumming of car radios, the peals of shrill laughter, and sounds of breaking glass from the commercial streets a few blocks away. “It doesn’t sound like you’re losing too much business.”

“A few city blocks of teenagers do not a spring break make,” Landros said calmly. “This crowd is nothing compared to last year. We’ve had hundreds of cancellations over the weekend alone. That’s not just hundreds of canceled rooms, but hundreds of drinks that won’t be ordered. Hundreds of meals that won’t be eaten. Hundreds of swimsuits and flip-flops that won’t be purchased. Hundreds of scuba masks and kayaks and scooters that won’t be rented. And every day Turley is out there telling parents that Neptune is unsafe, telling them their daughters will be kidnapped or raped or murdered if they set foot in the city limits.”

“So you want me to …?”

“Find Hayley Dewalt.”

Veronica gave her a long, flat look. “Isn’t that what the sheriff’s office should be doing?”

Petra leaned forward, looking Veronica hard in the eye. “Do you honestly think Lamb will be the one to find her?”

“Does this mean the Chamber of Commerce is retracting their endorsement of Sheriff Lamb?” Veronica asked sweetly.

Landros pursed her lips. Veronica read the answer in the woman’s face. Lamb, inept as he was, was just too handy for the COC to cast away. He looked after their interests too well. They’d fund his campaign even while hiring Veronica to do the real police work. To them, it was worth the expense.

“Will you do it?” Landros asked, avoiding the question.

Veronica listened to the roar of the crowd. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she could see Hayley Dewalt—the clean-scrubbed brunette whose face had been on every TV station since last week—and felt a sharp pang. She hadn’t known Hayley Dewalt, but she’d known girls like her.

“My rate is two hundred an hour, plus expenses. I’ll need a daily retainer of seven hundred for the duration of the case. If I find Hayley, I keep all associated reward money, in addition to my fee.” Veronica’s voice was hard and flat. She laced her fingers together in front of her chin.

She didn’t have the luxury of examining her motivations too closely. If there was that much money at stake, the Chamber would pay. And if she could find a missing girl in the process of keeping her father’s business open, even better.

They eyed each other across the desk for a moment. The light from the window caught on Landros’s left earring, and for a moment it was so overwhelmingly bright Veronica had to blink. Finally Landros nodded.

“Not a saleswoman, but certainly a businesswoman.” She smiled. “All right, Ms. Mars. You have a deal.”

Veronica pulled a pen from the barrel-shaped holder on the desk. “What do you know about the case? Where was Hayley last seen?”

“At a party up on Manzanita Drive. None of the girls she was with seems to know whose house it was, but according to Lamb it belongs to a rental agency. He’s supposed to be looking into who had it rented.” She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear with a careless hand. “I’ve donated the main conference room of the Neptune Grand for the search efforts. We’ve also set up a website for tips and donations
to help fund the search—you’ve probably heard Trish Turley talking about it. It’s pulled in nearly a half million in three days, and it doesn’t show signs of slowing down. We’ve siphoned off ten thousand dollars as reward money, so if you do find Hayley, there’s an extra incentive for you.”

“Where’s her family staying?”

“I have them in one of the business suites. They can put you in touch with the friends who were with Hayley at the time.”

“Have there been any tips yet? Anything credible?”

Landros snorted. “The usual disgusting pranks. If I had any particular faith in humanity, the messages I’ve seen come in from anonymous ‘tipsters’ would have shaken it. So far we’ve at least kept her parents from seeing them—we have volunteers filtering through the inbox.” She adjusted a delicate bracelet on her wrist. “I’ve set up a meeting with Sheriff Lamb this afternoon. I’d like you to come.”

Veronica tapped her pen lightly on the desk. “I’m not exactly his favorite person.”

“Neither am I.” Her smile was a tight, humorless curve on her face. “But you’re technically working in tandem on this case, and I want to make sure it goes as smoothly as possible. Besides, he can bring you up to speed on the details better than I can.”

She stood up. For a moment, Veronica could picture what she must have been like on a runway, hips pivoting to the beat of a cranked-up techno soundtrack, feather wings strapped to her back in a pure white spray. She fought a smile. This was a woman who’d figured out how to be fearless, even standing in her underwear.

Landros smoothed her skirt. “I need to get back to work.
Have your girl e-mail me the contract and I’ll have it in your inbox by the end of the day.”

“Of course.” Veronica followed Landros to the front door and opened it for her. The woman paused for a moment, then turned to face her.

“Do me a favor, though, Ms. Mars. Please do try to keep a low profile on this. We want answers. Not theater.”

Veronica smiled. “Understood.”

They shook hands once more. Then Petra Landros was gone.

Veronica pivoted slowly around. Mac sat at her desk, her mouth hanging slack. Their eyes met, and Veronica couldn’t help it. She grinned.

“Feel like working for Mars Investigations a little longer?”

Mac’s cheeks flushed with dawning excitement. “We’ve got a case?”

“A big one.” She strode across the room and leaned down on Mac’s desk to look at her, face to face. “I’m going to need background checks on Hayley Dewalt’s immediate family members, along with Hayley’s phone records and e-mails for the past few months. But first things first. Where are we ordering lunch from today? Because I’m starving … and Neptune is buying.”

Later that afternoon, Veronica pulled up in front of the regal brick-and-sandstone entrance of the Neptune Grand. She handed the BMW’s keys to a valet in a pillbox hat and pushed through the enormous revolving door.

The lobby glinted with brass and brocade, the low trill of a jazz piano wafting from the speakers overhead. The Neptune Grand had undergone some changes in the past few years—Petra Landros had built a gleaming tower on the north side of the courtyard, ten stories higher than the original structure, with a glass-sided elevator looking down over the luxurious gardens below. But here, in the “Old Grand,” the lobby looked the same as it ever had, with cream-colored walls and marble surfaces. Veronica had spent the better part of her senior year in this place, first visiting her old boyfriend Duncan Kane in his penthouse suite and, later, Logan.

Reception wasn’t nearly as busy as she would have expected for the Monday of spring break. A few girls with silk caftans draped over their swimsuits bounced out of the elevators, and a bored-looking boy wearing Gucci shades and a UCLA sweatshirt leaned against the reception desk, waiting for his key. The Neptune Grand wasn’t generally spring break central—only the trust-funded would be able to afford
a room there during peak season—but true to Petra’s word, it felt strangely quiet.

Veronica took the elevator to the ninth floor, then followed the red-and-gold chevron-print carpet to room 902 and knocked softly. From the other side of the door she could just make out a female voice, low and muffled. After a moment the door swung open, and a woman stood in the doorway.

She was short and plump, wearing a UC Berkeley sweatshirt that was two sizes too big. Her hair had been dyed a brassy blond, but the roots—dull brown with a few threads of gray—were starting to peek out. Ruddy bags were stamped underneath her eyes, and her face had the moist, crumpled look of someone who had been crying too much. She gave Veronica a weak, tentative smile as she stepped back from the door.

“You’re the private investigator?” Her voice was high-pitched, a little bit girlish. “I’m Margie, Hayley’s mom.”

“Yes. Veronica Mars. I’m so sorry for all you’re going through, Mrs. Dewalt.” Veronica stuck out her hand.

Margie looked at Veronica’s fingers with a distant, wondering expression. Veronica was just about to let her hand fall awkwardly back to her side when Hayley’s mother grasped it and shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I’m exhausted. Come on in.”

The suite was laid out like a small luxury apartment, decorated in tones of gray and red. The central room was a combination living room and kitchenette, separated by a small round dining table. A tall, bearded man in a flannel shirt sat at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. He barely looked up when Margie led Veronica into the room, his eyes
distant and red rimmed. Veronica recognized him as Mike Dewalt, Hayley’s dad, from the press conference they’d held last week.

A young man, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, slouched on the scarlet sofa staring at a plasma screen TV on the wall. He was thickset, with wide, muscular shoulders and the beginnings of a beer gut, his premature jowls bristling with unshaven growth. He held the remote against one knee but seemed engrossed in a nature program where a wiry British man stood hip deep in a muddy river describing the way a tigerfish stripped its prey of flesh. On the other side of the couch sat a gangly-limbed teenager, her mousy brown hair long and limp around her face. She seemed intent on a hole in the knee of her blue jeans, probing it carefully with her fingertips.

“The investigator is here,” Margie said. Only her husband looked up and nodded briefly at her. “Miss … March, did you say?”

“Mars.” Veronica stood next to the kitchenette island, taking in the room. “But please, call me Veronica.”

She noticed a large digital picture frame plugged in at one end of the island. It cycled slowly through a number of pictures, one fading into the next. Small Hayley Dewalt, riding a pink bike up a driveway. A preteen version with braces on her teeth and greasy bangs flattened across her forehead. One of her playing flute in what looked like a church. Another of her, older, in a cap and gown for graduation. She’d turned into a pretty girl, with dark hair and a sunny, easy smile that struck Veronica as unguarded, vulnerable.
You’ve got to put up your dukes, kid
, she thought, though she wasn’t sure if the advice was for Hayley—or herself.

“The investigator is here,” Margie repeated more loudly. The girl looked up from the couch, then back down at her jeans. The young man on the couch didn’t respond.

“Turn off the goddamn TV!” Mike Dewalt exploded, his voice furious and booming.

Silently, slowly, the boy lifted the remote and turned off the TV just as the nature program cut to a clip of muscular fish thrashing around in a feeding frenzy. The screen went dark.

For a moment the silence in the room had weight. Margie covered her face with her hands. Veronica noticed that her fingernails were painted Easter-egg blue, the polish chipped and cracked. Veronica pegged her as a classic, self-proclaimed “fun” mom, the kind who thinks of herself as her daughter’s best friend.
Just like dear old Mom
. Veronica’s alcoholic mother, Lianne, had been the same way before she walked out on their family.

When Margie pulled her hands away from her face, she seemed calmer, her breath slow and careful. She pointed to the couch. “That’s Ella—she’s Hayley’s little sister—and my stepson, Crane.”

Ella pulled her knees up to her chin. Crane straightened up and looked at Veronica, his dark hazel eyes taking her in.

Veronica placed her bag on the floor and sat on a small upholstered armchair facing both of them. “How are you guys holding up?”

“You know. We’re worried about our sister.” Crane’s eyes darted toward Margie as she sat down in another chair catty-corner from Veronica. It might just have been his way of dealing with stress, but Crane’s body was taut with pent-up energy. His knee jiggled up and down, and while he clasped
his hands politely in his lap, the knuckles were white. “Well, she’s only my half sister,” he continued, “but I’m just as upset as everyone else.”