Beyond Limits

by Laura Griffin

  The photo showed a row of guns lined up on the carpet, presumably in Palicek’s living room. He had an array of pistols, some short-barrel shotguns, half a dozen machine guns.

  Derek looked at Torres. “That a Honey Badger?”

  “Yep. Fully automatic,” Torres said, reading Derek’s mind.

  “You got a picture of this guy?”

  Torres flipped to another photo, and this one looked like a mug shot. “This is Palicek. He got popped for drunk driving a couple years ago.”

  “Mind sending it to me?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  More footsteps on the stairs, and Derek glanced up to see Elizabeth. She looked quite a bit different from when he’d last seen her, starting with the fact that she wasn’t naked. She wore a crisp white blouse, and her look today was all business. Her gaze landed on him as she reached the sidewalk.

  “Are you here to give a statement?” she asked.

  “Already gave it back at your office.” He studied her face, trying to read her expression. “You have a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  He followed her across the lot to her car. She tossed her purse inside and turned to face him. Her hair was pulled back in a smooth ponytail, not a strand out of place.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked coolly.

  “Information gathering.”

  She cast a look over his shoulder. Clearly, she didn’t want her boss to see him here.

  “I hear he has a pretty good stash up there,” he said. “Any idea who his gun connection is?”

  “We’re working on it. I can’t really talk right now, though. I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “The office. I may have a lead on where Ameen’s been staying, but I need to run down the details.”

  Derek held her gaze. Silence stretched out until he could tell she wasn’t thinking about the case anymore. “Sorry about earlier,” he said.

  “Forget it.” She looked away.

  “Your phone was going crazy on the table, and I figured someone was going to show up looking for you. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Still no eye contact, and he knew it definitely wasn’t fine. The hot, eager sex goddess from last night was long gone, replaced by this buttoned-up federal agent who wouldn’t even look at him.

  He eased closer so she had no choice but to lift her gaze or stare straight at his chest. “I want to see you tonight.”

  “I’ll probably have to work late.”

  “After work. Whenever you’re done. I’ll take you to dinner.”

  “Tonight’s going to be really busy.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  Something sparked in her eyes, but then they went cold again. “Tomorrow’s busy, too.”

  “So what, then? That’s it?”

  “Derek—” She blew out a sigh. “Aren’t you leaving in a few days?”

  “Yeah. In the meantime, I want to see you.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “I want to see you when you’re not busy. It can be late. After your work wraps.”

  She shook her head and glanced away.

  “Liz, look at me.”

  She did.

  “Last night was incredible.”

  She turned away.

  “We were off the charts together,” he said, and she still wouldn’t look at him. “If you tell me you don’t want that again, you’re flat-out lying.”

  “Derek—”

  “Look at me.”

  “Fine. God.” She looked up at him now, eyes blazing, and he saw a glimpse of the woman he’d had sex with all night.

  He still couldn’t believe it. It was like she just ignited right there in his arms, and he had to keep putting the fire out, again and again.

  “Let me ask you something,” she said now. “How do you see this playing out?”

  Okay. Clearly, she wasn’t feeling so fiery at the moment. She was in analysis mode.

  “I’ve got six days left,” he said patiently. “I plan to spend them working on this case, same as you. But when we’re not working, I want to spend time with you. Alone.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ve got an eight-week training cycle.” And after that, he was going to come straight back to Texas to see her again.

  She was gazing up at him now, but he couldn’t read her expression. She shook her head and glanced across the parking lot. “Derek—”

  “Derek what? Spit it out.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “I’m not like you.” She glared at him. “I can’t have sex with someone over and over without getting attached. I’m not wired that way. And I know you’re not looking for . . . attachments. So I don’t see the point.”

  “Attachments as in a relationship?”

  “Yes.”

  The R-word should have been a big red stop sign, but he kept going. “Are you looking for a relationship?”

  “I don’t know—maybe. Certainly not with you!”

  He drew back, stung. “Well, shit. Tell me what you really think.”

  She glanced away, shaking her head again, and anger welled in his chest. The rational part of his brain told him to let it go. Now wasn’t the time to argue with her. They were both sleep-deprived and stressed and surrounded by other people, and he knew he shouldn’t get offended, but God damn it, he couldn’t help it.

  “I’m not relationship material. Is that what you’re saying?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re not here. That’s what I’m saying. You’re gone all the time—off on training missions or overseas. And when you are here, you slip into my hotel room at three in the morning and then sneak out at sunrise, and that’s not a relationship.”

  “I knew you were pissed about that.”

  “Fine! Yes, I’m pissed. You made me feel sleazy and . . . forgettable.”

  Forgettable. The hurt look in her eyes was like a knife in his gut. She had no idea how amazingly unforgettable she was to him.

  He’d left early, yes. But if she’d been some random woman, he wouldn’t even have stayed that long. Clearly, she wasn’t up on standard operating procedure for a meaningless hookup. Usually, he completely dodged the whole morning-after scene filled with needy looks and awkward conversation. But with Elizabeth, he would have liked to have been there. He’d definitely wanted to see her sex-mussed hair and her sleepy smile, but her phone had been blowing up, and he’d known without a doubt that someone on her team was about to come banging on her door, so he’d hightailed it out of there.

  And landed himself on her shit list.

  Although he might have landed there anyway, because if there was one thing he was learning from this conversation, it was that despite her hot and completely eager attitude toward him last night, she now had regrets, big time. She’d finally let her guard down with him—not just once but four times—and she was using his stealth exit as a reason to blow him off.

  She was uncomfortable. And if he ever wanted to see the sex goddess side of her again, he had some work to do. And he had to do it fast, because, as she’d correctly pointed out, he didn’t have much time left. And the thought of going back to base without touching her again was pretty much unbearable.

  Forgettable. She had no freaking idea.

  “I never meant to make you feel like that,” he said now.

  “Drop it. I’m done talking about this.”

  “I’m going to make it up to you.”

  “I don’t want you to make it up to me. I want you to drop it.”

  He took her hand. “Liz—”

  “I mean it. Just forget it, okay?” She pulled her hand away. “I need you to just leave me alone and let me do my job.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth was still rattled an hour later when she left the office. Some of it was from lack o
f sleep—she was going on day eight without a solid night, and her nerves were frayed—and part of it was the pressure of working a high-stakes case.

  But part of it was Derek, a big part. She couldn’t get him out of her mind, and whenever she tried to focus on work, all she could think about was the intent look on his face when he’d come to her room last night.

  Torres held the door open as they stepped into the midday sunshine. Another blazing-hot day that had already hit triple digits. Heat radiated up from the asphalt, and her clothes felt glued to her skin.

  “I’ll drive,” Torres said. “You’re a mess today.”

  She glanced at him as they crossed the parking lot. She hadn’t realized she looked quite as awful as she felt.

  “Sorry,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. She was doing something she never did, letting her personal life interfere with her work. She needed to focus. She checked her notes and programmed their destination into the GPS.

  “Looks like we’re taking the Southwest Freeway,” she said.

  Torres glanced at her as he pulled out of the lot. “You’ve got a thing going with that guy, don’t you?”

  She looked up. “Who, Derek?”

  “Yeah, Derek.” He smiled. “The guy you’ve been drooling over ever since California.”

  She glanced out the window, embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  She looked at him.

  “Relax, it’s not that obvious,” he said. “But I’ve known you longer than most of these people.”

  They picked up the freeway, and he veered into the left-hand lane. She was glad he was driving so she had a chance to get her thoughts under control.

  The timing of all this couldn’t have been worse. She’d been handpicked for the most important case of her career, and she’d decided to become infatuated with one of the men involved.

  She was now convinced, though, that the timing wasn’t accidental. At least, not on Gordon’s part. He’d selected her for this case. Her, a relative newbie compared with the other agents on the task force. And he’d done so knowing full well that she had a personal connection to one of the SEALs involved in the raid. There was an underlying plan there. Gordon didn’t do anything without a reason. And he didn’t miss much, either, which meant that he, like Torres, probably knew she now had a “thing” going with Derek.

  Elizabeth sighed. “What am I doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Torres looked completely relaxed behind the wheel. He was so low-key about everything that sometimes she had to remind herself she wasn’t talking to Lauren.

  He glanced at her. “Are you asking my advice?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have any?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  He swerved around a minivan. “You want my advice as your friend or as someone who’d like to take you out sometime?”

  “As my friend.” Whoa, talk about awkward. But he was grinning now, so she hoped he wasn’t taking any of this too seriously. She should have waited to talk to Lauren.

  “As your friend, my advice is to look at his rap sheet,” he said.

  “He doesn’t have a rap sheet.”

  “His personal rap sheet. You know, with girls. Women,” he corrected himself, cutting a glance at her. “Is he a love-’em-and-leave-’em type, or is he going to stick around? That’s what I tell my sisters to think about. If he’s the kind of guy who’s going to stick around and you like him . . .” He shrugged. “Then what the hell? Give him a shot.”

  She turned to look out the window. It sounded logical and not that far removed from what they’d been taught about human behavior at the Academy. People were predictable. And the best predictor of future criminal behavior was past criminal behavior.

  So what did Derek’s personal rap sheet tell her? She didn’t know. She didn’t know him well at all, which was one of the problems. But as for sticking around? That wasn’t happening. He wasn’t sticking anywhere—the SEALs were his life.

  She looked at Torres again, hoping to dispel any awkwardness by being direct with him. “So what’s your other advice?”

  He smiled. “That’s easy. Don’t waste your time with him. He’s a loser who’s going to break your heart and leave you in the dust.”

  She choked out a laugh. “Great. Something to look forward to.”

  “Hey, you asked.”

  “You need to exit up here.”

  Torres cut across two lanes of traffic and took the exit that would lead them to the Happy Trails Motel.

  Situated between a Smoke ’n Toke and an adult video store, the place was high-class all the way. Elizabeth had found the phone number for it scrawled on a takeout menu in Matt Palicek’s apartment, which had prompted her to wonder if there was a chance they’d get lucky and learn that Ameen had been staying here at some point.

  Torres slid into a space beside a souped-up black Cadillac with gold rims.

  He straightened his tie. “I’m feeling a little underdressed,” he joked as they got out.

  They approached the front office. The window beside the door sported a spiderweb crack and a hole clearly made by a bullet.

  “Nice.” Torres pulled open the door. “Think they have a restaurant here? I’m craving crab cakes for lunch, maybe a little chardonnay.”

  They stepped inside.

  “Sixty a night, twenty an hour,” droned the man at the desk. He didn’t look up from his crossword puzzle as they approached him.

  “Are you the manager?” Elizabeth asked.

  He frowned at her over his reading glasses. “Who’s asking?”

  She pulled out her ID, and he muttered something under his breath. His gaze slid to Torres.

  “Your people were here yesterday. I told them I didn’t see the guy.”

  “Which guy?” Torres leaned a palm on the counter.

  “Are you here about the drug bust?”

  “Nope.”

  The manager frowned at Elizabeth again as she pulled a photo from the pocket of her blazer. “We’re looking for this man.” She slid the picture of Ameen across the counter.

  “Never seen him.”

  “What about this man?” She pulled out a second photo, this one of Rasheed. He gave it a glance.

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?” Torres asked. “Take a good look.”

  The man stared at him stonily.

  “They may have been driving a blue Chevy Cavalier or possibly a maroon Nissan Sentra.”

  Elizabeth caught a flash of movement in the office behind the manager. A woman rolled back in a desk chair.

  “A blue Cavalier?” she asked through the doorway.

  “That’s right.”

  Elizabeth’s nerves fluttered as the woman heaved herself out of her chair and waddled over. The manager glared at her as she picked up the picture, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  “We had a blue Cavalier in last week.” She tucked a frizzy gray curl behind her ear. “I don’t recognize either of them, though.”

  “It had a dinged back quarter-panel,” Elizabeth added.

  “And big tires. I remember it.”

  Torres shot a look at her. Score.

  “You know the guest’s name?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No,” the manager said, adamant now as he glowered at the woman beside him, presumably his wife.

  “You don’t keep names of your guests?” Torres asked, heavy on the disbelief.

  “The guests, not the cars,” the manager said.

  “But it definitely wasn’t these guys.” The woman handed back the picture. “I’ve got a memory for faces.”

  “You notice who was driving the car?” Torres asked her.

  “No, but Jamie probably did. She was on nights last week, wasn’t she? So she might’ve checked them in.” She looked at her husband, who grunted a confirmation.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Torres said,
“we’d like to see a list of your guests last week.” Instead of a warrant, he offered her one of his friendly smiles, which Elizabeth hoped would work, because she didn’t want to face any more red tape today.

  “No trouble at all.”

  Hallelujah. The day was looking up.

  Fifteen minutes later, they stood before room 112. The motel was running at sixty-percent capacity, and the room hadn’t been occupied since the previous guest had left Friday. That was the good news. The bad news was that the guest had paid in cash and checked in under the name John Smith, a name that no doubt appeared frequently on the motel’s register. And the clerk who had checked him in had conveniently neglected to take a driver’s license number.

  “Think she’ll remember them?” Torres asked as he opened the door with a keycard.

  Elizabeth donned a pair of paper booties before following him inside. An evidence response team would be over soon to comb through the place, but until then, they wanted to have a quick look around.

  “Depends,” Elizabeth said, scanning the room. Gray walls, faded bedspreads. She glanced up. Brown water stain on the ceiling that she really didn’t want to think about. “If they slipped her a fifty for a quickie, no-hassle check-in, then she probably remembers them.”

  “Fifty? I’d think she’d remember for twenty.” Torres walked over to the nightstand and opened the drawer with a gloved hand. “Girl makes minimum wage.”

  “The dancer at the Pussycat said these guys are big tippers.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the channel guide propped on top of the TV alongside the remote control—which happened to be number one of the top five locations to look for fingerprints in a hotel room.

  She sighed. “The crime-scene techs are going to hate this place.”

  Hotel rooms, particularly those that weren’t cleaned well or often, yielded a mountain of forensic evidence. Fingerprints, hair, DNA—the sheer volume made it difficult to process.

  Torres crouched down and looked under the bed. “I can already hear the bitching and moaning. This place hasn’t been vacuumed since 1985.”

  Elizabeth peered into a trash can. Empty, but that didn’t mean the techs wouldn’t find something there. An alternative light source would probably reveal trace biological evidence.