Flight

by Laura Griffin

  Sunny sighed. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

  “Just a few more questions.” Nicole stuffed the pillow into the case. “Where’d you see him?”

  “Here.” She moved around the bed, expertly tucking the sheet under the mattress.

  “And the girlfriend? You remember what she looked like?” Nicole tossed the pillow on the chair and reached for another one.

  “Young. Blond. Hair to her butt.” She rolled her eyes. “You can’t miss her.”

  “And do you remember anything else about them? Did they have any visitors?”

  She whipped out the top sheet, and it floated down. “Not that I saw.”

  “You remember anything else about either of them?”

  “Yeah, they left their cigarette butts everywhere.” She tucked the sheet. “But they left me a tip, so I didn’t mention anything.”

  Nicole stuffed another pillowcase. “You remember which room they stayed in?”

  “On the end. Room 125. Now they’re in 102, I think.”

  Nicole froze. “Now?”

  “Yeah.” She reached for the last pillow and grabbed the case off the dresser. “They checked in again earlier.”

  “They’re here today?”

  “Yeah. At least, they were.” She tossed the pillow on the bed and glanced at the door. “Look, not to be a bitch, but I really need to finish this. If Marge sees me talking to you—”

  “Don’t worry. I’m gone.” She dropped the pillow on the bed. “Thanks, Sunny. I appreciate it.”

  She gave a weak smile. “Sure. And tell your brother I said hi. He was always a sweetie.”

  “I will.”

  Nicole scanned the patio for Marge before crossing the parking lot to her truck. She was in her personal vehicle because she wanted to keep a low profile. She slid behind the wheel and called Joel.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “At the station. Why?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Who’s here? Where are you?”

  “At the Sand Dollar. The desk guy and the housekeeper recognized Trevor Keen’s photo. The housekeeper said he and his girlfriend checked in earlier today.”

  “Black Honda?”

  “Yep. The manager told me Keen’s not registered, but maybe it’s under the woman’s name. Or maybe he’s using an alias and trying to keep his presence here under wraps. Anyway, their car’s not here right now, but they’re staying at this motel.”

  Silence on the other end. Nicole scanned all the cars in the lot but didn’t see a black Honda. She set her phone in her lap and started her truck.

  “Joel?”

  “You’re sure they’re not there?”

  She pulled around the side of the building and checked the alley. No cars.

  “Their vehicle isn’t here. And the room they’re supposedly in is dark. What do you want me to do?”

  “Sit on the place. I’ll put a BOLO on the car. Maybe they’re out.”

  “Okay. Should I talk to the management?”

  “No, I don’t trust them. Just sit tight. And park somewhere inconspicuous.”

  “What do you want me to do if they show up?”

  “Call me.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  Joel slid into Nicole’s pickup.

  “They pulled in twelve minutes ago,” Nicole informed him. “Room 102, the second one from the right.”

  He trained his binocs on the door. A black Honda with Colorado plates was parked in front of it. Nicole had found a good vantage point in the parking lot of a drive-through taco place across the street from the motel.

  “Just the two of them?” Joel asked.

  “Yep.”

  “They bring anything in with them?”

  “No luggage. They must have taken it inside already.”

  He lowered the binocs and looked at Nicole. “Emmet’s around back, watching the bathroom window in case either of them tries to slip out. We want to know everything they’ve been up to the past two weeks. Places, timing, everything. We’ll interview them separately and see if their stories match.”

  Nicole looked alarmed. “You just want to go over there and knock on the door?”

  “Yep.”

  “You wouldn’t rather take them to the station?”

  He looked at the motel. “I’ll read the situation, but probably not. My guess is we’ll get more information if we keep it low-key and talk to them here.”

  Joel looked at her, noting the tense set of her jaw.

  “You want to trade places with Emmet?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  Joel pulled out his Glock, checked it, then slipped it back into his holster as Nicole did the same.

  “You take the woman, I’ll talk to Keen.” Joel pushed open the door. “And keep an eye on their hands.”

  They walked half a block to the intersection and waited for the light to cross, even though traffic was thin for a Saturday night. Music from the nearest bar drifted over as they crossed the highway. The Sand Dollar was full, and someone’s party had spilled onto the breezeway on the second floor.

  Approaching room 102, Joel caught the flicker of a television through a gap in the curtains.

  He and Nicole stood on either side of the door, each with a hand on their weapon. Joel made eye contact with Nicole and then rapped on the door.

  Someone moved in front of the window. The door opened a fraction and a pair of pale blue eyes peered out over the security latch. The woman had long blond hair and wore a black bikini top and white cutoffs.

  “Who are you?” she asked with a frown.

  “Lost Beach Police, ma’am. We’d like a minute,” Joel said.

  “A minute for what?”

  “Open the door, please.”

  She closed the door, and Joel kept his hand on his weapon. The TV volume went off, and Joel watched through the gap in the curtains as a shirtless man got off the bed and crossed the room.

  The door opened fully, and Trevor Keen stood beside the blonde. Keen wore blue board shorts, no shirt. Both of them had bare feet.

  “Lost Beach Police,” Joel said. “Could you step outside, please?”

  “Why?” Keen asked.

  “Step outside.”

  Keen stepped out, followed by the woman, and Joel looked them over to make sure no one had a weapon tucked in the back of their shorts. They weren’t wearing enough clothes to conceal much of anything.

  Joel flashed his police ID. “Are you Trevor Keen?” he asked.

  His gaze narrowed. “Yeah. Why?”

  Joel looked at the woman. “And your name?”

  She darted a look at her boyfriend. “Gillian Copeland.”

  “We’re investigating an incident from several days ago,” Joel said. “We’d like a word with both of you.”

  “Care to come with me, ma’am?” Nicole said to the woman.

  She darted a look at Trevor, and he turned to Joel. “What’s this about?”

  “Just a few questions. We can ask them here or at the police station, your call.”

  Trevor’s expression hardened. He shot a look at his girlfriend.

  “Sure, whatever.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

  Joel stepped through the doorway, positioning himself between Trevor and anything he might decide to reach for.

  “Ma’am, we’ll talk outside,” Nicole said. “Step over here, please.”

  She and her boyfriend exchanged looks, and then Trevor closed the door. He turned around and looked at Joel, folding his arms over his chest. Joel noticed the serpent tattoo on his left shoulder.

  Joel did a quick scan of the room. A duffel bag was parked on the floor beside
the closet and a silver laptop computer sat open on the bed. Cigarette butts filled a soap dish on the nightstand.

  “What’s this about?” Trevor asked.

  “Have a seat,” Joel said, nodding at the chair by the door. He wanted the man well away from the nightstand and the duffel, just in case he might have a weapon stashed nearby.

  Trevor walked over to the chair and sat down. “Did Romero tell you to talk to me?”

  “Who’s Romero?”

  Trevor’s gaze narrowed.

  “That your PO?”

  His jaw tightened. “I don’t have a PO.”

  Joel stepped over to the cheap wooden dresser, eyeing the duffel bag on the floor. His interest in it seemed to make Trevor uncomfortable.

  “Who’s Romero?” Joel repeated.

  “No one. Forget it. Ask me your questions.”

  Joel watched him for a long moment, trying to read his expression. He leaned back against the dresser and rested his palms on it.

  “So, Trevor, where you been the last few weeks?”

  His look turned wary. “Why?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “We’re on a road trip.”

  “Where?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “California. Arizona. Texas.”

  “How long you been down here?”

  Another shrug. “I don’t know. Couple of weeks.”

  “Were you part of a protest at Joshua Tree National Park last month?”

  Surprise flickered across his face, but he covered it. “Yeah. So?”

  “And Gillian?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joel folded his arms over his chest. “What about a protest at the Saguaro Hills golf resort in Sedona, Arizona?”

  Trevor didn’t respond.

  “Were you there, too? On April fifth?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Gillian?”

  “Yeah. So what? It’s a free country.”

  Joel nodded. “And when, exactly, did you first arrive on the island?”

  He sighed and seemed annoyed. “I don’t know, man. We’ve been driving a lot.”

  “Think about it.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. Joel watched him staring down at the dingy blue carpeting. “Ten days ago. Last Wednesday.”

  “Two days before the protest.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And where’d you stay when you were in town?”

  “Here.”

  “And then where’d you go?”

  He sighed. “Padre Island. We went there Sunday afternoon. And we stayed at a Motel 6 there, case you’re wondering.”

  Joel tugged a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. “Do you recognize either of these two people?” He stepped over and handed Trevor the paper.

  Trevor frowned down at the driver’s license pictures of Elizabeth Lark and Will Stovak. He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “Nope. Don’t recognize them.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Who are they?” He handed back the paper, and Joel folded it and tucked it back into his pocket.

  “Elizabeth Lark and Will Stovak. Both from Oregon.” Joel watched the kid’s expression. “They were found dead in their canoe on Monday.”

  “I heard about that. What’s it got to do with me and Gillian?”

  Joel watched him carefully. He seemed uneasy now. But not as nervous as Joel would have expected if he’d been involved in the murders.

  “They’re both members of your group.”

  “My group?”

  “Alpha Omega Now,” Joel said.

  “We have a lot of members. I’ve never met them.”

  “How many?”

  “You want, like, an exact number?”

  “Ballpark.”

  “I don’t know. About five fifty, maybe six hundred.”

  Joel nodded. “Including you and Gillian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And are you the group leader?”

  “Me? No. No, I’m not.”

  “Who is?” Joel asked.

  “We don’t have one.”

  “Oh yeah? Then who’s in charge?”

  “No one. Everyone.” He shrugged again. “We’re pretty egalitarian.”

  Joel watched his expression, looking for signs that he was lying. He didn’t like Joel being here, but that didn’t make him guilty of murder.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Trevor darted a look at it.

  “That’s probably our pizza,” he said.

  Joel stepped over and checked the peephole. A young guy in a red cap stood at the door holding a pizza box.

  Joel looked at Trevor and caught him glancing at the duffel bag again.

  “How long you guys in town this time?” Joel asked.

  “A couple of days.”

  “Are you here for a protest?”

  His jaw tightened.

  “The golf resort going in down by the lighthouse maybe?” Joel asked. “They’re scheduled to break ground on Tuesday morning.”

  Another knock, and Trevor looked at the door, then at Joel. “Like I said, it’s a free country. I assume you’re familiar with the First Amendment? There’s nothing illegal about congregating with like-minded people.”

  Joel stepped over and opened the door, startling the pizza kid, who was scrolling through his phone.

  Joel turned and gave Trevor a long, hard look. “Stay out of trouble, Trevor. Gillian, too.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  Damn,” Nicole said. “How’d you know?”

  Joel drove with the windows down, letting in the warm breeze off the Gulf. The rain had blown through and the strip was now in full swing.

  “Just a hunch,” he told Nicole over the phone. “What did you find?”

  “Special Agent Brian Romero. He’s in the Houston field office. Looks like . . . the counterterrorism division. That’s weird.”

  “Not really,” he said. “They’ve probably been on the radar for domestic terrorism since they planted that pipe bomb at that logging company.” He scanned the sidewalks for any trouble. Saturday was typically their peak night for arrests, mostly on drinking-related charges.

  “Do you want me to call him up?” she asked. “It’s almost midnight.”

  “Text me his info and I’ll do it in the morning,” Joel said. “We don’t want to piss him off right before we ask for a favor.”

  “And what’s the favor?”

  “We need him to share whatever he’s got on Trevor Keen.”

  “Assuming he has anything. Could be a coincidence that there’s an FBI agent in Houston with this name.”

  “Working counterterrorism?”

  She didn’t respond, probably because she knew it was a stretch. Joel pictured Trevor in the motel room. He’d had his guard up. Did Romero tell you to talk to me? From the way he’d asked the question, Joel could tell Romero was a cop.

  “I’ll call him early,” Joel said. “See what I can dig up.”

  “Ask about the girlfriend, too. Maybe she’s in the mix.”

  “I will. And good work tracking down Keen.”

  “Sure. Thanks for the assist.”

  Joel ended the call as he neared the entrance to Caribbean Sands. He passed the pastel-colored houses in tidy rows. North of the neighborhood was the turnoff to Miranda’s, and Joel slowed, muttering a curse when he saw that her house was dark. He made the turn anyway and switched off his headlights as he bumped over the gravel road. Rolling to a stop, he looked up at the little cabin.

  She was asleep, which was probably good. The past two days had been crazy, and she’d been up all last night working a crime scene.

  Joel glanced at the seat beside him. A ziplock bag sa
t beside his binoculars. Inside it was the folded piece of paper with the two murder victims’ pictures. Joel wanted Miranda to lift Trevor Keen’s fingerprints from the paper. But it could wait until tomorrow.

  Joel studied Miranda’s house, and emotions churned through him. Worry. Impatience. Frustration.

  Lust.

  He wanted to see her. All day—and all night, too—he’d been thinking about her, even at the crime scene. It was distracting as hell, but he couldn’t help it.

  We can’t keep doing this. She’d said that minutes after climbing into his lap.

  Joel knew she was torn. He was, too. He understood full well that sex was going to complicate their working relationship. But so what? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way about anyone, even Elaina, and he and Elaina had been together for three years. It didn’t make sense, but this thing with Miranda felt different. Joel didn’t know why.

  But he knew that he liked her. A lot. He liked spending time with her, even though he knew spending time with her was distracting him from his case. He didn’t want to stop. If anything, he wanted more of her.

  Joel glanced at the plastic bag again. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t wake her up right now, not for something she could just as easily do tomorrow morning.

  Joel put his truck in reverse and turned around. In his rearview mirror, Miranda’s house got smaller.

  Hooking a left onto the highway, he headed south back toward town. As he neared the turnoff into his neighborhood, he spied a familiar black Honda parked in front of the island’s only twenty-four-hour convenience store.

  Joel whipped into the lot. He pulled into an empty space beside the Honda and looked past the neon Bud Light sign hanging in the store window. He got out of his truck and waited.

  Two minutes later, Gillian Copeland emerged from the store. She had a six-pack in one hand and a carton of cigarettes under her arm. She wore the same bikini-top-and-shorts outfit, but now she had on silver flip-flops.

  “Hey, Gillian.”

  She glanced up from her phone and halted.

  “Got a minute?”

  She cast a furtive look toward the highway in the direction of the Sand Dollar Inn, confirming Joel’s guess that she was alone.

  “What do you want?” She tucked her phone into her pocket and pulled out a set of keys.