They walked back to the entry and found an officer standing there.
“One of the CSIs sent me in to see you,” he started. “Said they’ve narrowed down the trajectory.”
They left Pryce’s condo with the officer and headed for the elevator. For Kelly, she couldn’t get on the ground floor fast enough.
-
Twenty-One
Paige and I were en route to Wilson Place when we got the call. We met up with Jack and Kelly in front of the building. They were accompanied by two CSIs and Captain Herrera. We walked up mid-conversation.
“As I was saying, it’s most likely our shooter struck from the northeast region.” A CSI with a handlebar mustache was pointing in the direction to support his words.
“What type of buildings are that way?” Paige blurted out.
Six sets of eyes went to her, including mine. Jack’s expression was one of surprise, and he glanced at me for an explanation.
“We tried reaching you,” I said. That wasn’t a lie; we had called on the way over and got voice mail.
“We found some interesting things in the packet Nadia had compiled.” Paige’s gaze danced over the CSIs and Captain Herrera, then back to Jack. “In the previous cases, the sniper’s nests were in hotels.” Paige looked at Handlebar. “Are there any hotels in the vicinity you mentioned?”
Handlebar’s eyes pinched in thought. “There are two that would afford the sniper with the right elevation they’d require.”
“Which would be…?” I prompted. “And what floor?” Though I had a good feeling I knew the answer I’d get.
“The shot would have had to come from the eighth to tenth floor.”
“The eighth,” both Paige and I said at the same time.
“The sniper nests in the three cases Nadia found were all on the eighth floor,” I elaborated.
“Could be coincidence,” Herrera said.
“Possible but not likely,” I replied. “There are notable patterns to the killings, and the location of the sniper nests would be no different. In all the cases, too, there was a circle cut out of the window for the barrel of the rifle to go through.”
Jack set his gaze on me and nodded. To Handlebar, he said, “Names of the two hotels.”
“The Colonial Hotel and the Royal Plaza.”
“I’ll get officers to help on the eighth floors,” Herrera volunteered.
“Sounds good.” Jack looked at Paige and me. “You two go to the Colonial Hotel. Kelly and I will hit the Royal Plaza.”
“Just thinking, Jack,” Kelly interjected. “The room where the sniper set up must show as occupied, probably with a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, or the cleaning crew would have found a window with a hole in it by now, and it would have been called in.”
Jack nodded. “Yes, good point. We need to talk to people who would have been there this morning, too, to see if they heard or saw anything.”
“And just so you know,” I began, “two of the hotel rooms the sniper used were paid for in cash, but the one used in New Mexico was paid for using a stolen credit card. A path that didn’t lead investigators anywhere.”
“No description from hotel employees on what the person looked like in any of the cases?” Jack regarded me with disbelief.
I shook my head. “Nope, and no surveillance cameras. The one where the stolen card was used, the hotel has an app that allows its guests to manage everything from check-in to check-out. They are given a code that they use to unlock their hotel rooms. That’s what our sniper used.”
“That’s a scary thought,” Herrera lamented. “And an absolute nightmare from a law enforcement standpoint.”
“Technology advances are sometimes overrated,” Jack said and was on the move.
“I’ll get the verbal search warrants for the rooms and get it followed up in writing, but at least you can get started.” Herrera put his phone to an ear, and the CSIs started packing up their equipment.
“Oh, Jack,” Paige called out, and he turned around. “Brandon and I think our sniper might be a woman.” She went on to tell them about Sherman waiting on someone who we suspected was the sniper.
“Wow, she set him up. Talk about brazen,” Kelly said. “She’s not afraid of showing her face to her victims.” She looked at Jack. “We really have to find Reid’s mistress.”
“Mistress?” My ears perked up, and personal guilt socked me in the gut. “We confirmed he had one?”
“Yeah.” Jack told Paige and me what had transpired before we arrived. “All right.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s move.”
Jack and Kelly set off.
Just as Page and I started to leave, Handlebar’s colleague mumbled, “Glad we could help.”
“You should be,” I snapped. “You could have just played a role in finding a serial killer.”
The CSI’s face went white. “I wasn’t being sarcastic.”
“Yeah, you were. You’re sulking because you never got a big, fat thank-you, but if you’re looking for one or a pat on the shoulder, you’re in the wrong line of work. Go be a barista.”
The CSI scowled and went back to work.
I headed toward our SUV, figuring we’d drive to the Colonial. “I can’t believe some people,” I seethed.
“Really? I thought you went off on—”
“That guy deserved it.”
“Ooookay….”
I looked over at her, and her eyes read, You sure this isn’t about something else?
“Let’s just get this shooter,” I said.
The Colonial Hotel was located three blocks north, and Paige parked in their underground garage. At the front desk, she gave them our information and purpose for being in their hotel and obtained a parking pass, which we’d flash on the way out.
Paige’s phone chimed, and she looked at it. “Text from Herrera. We’ve got the green light to search the rooms.”
The male clerk at the front desk was wiry and had a long neck that went on inches above his collar. “I’ll get the manager for you right now.”
“His name?” I said stiffly.
“Her name is Anita Cannon.” The clerk talked slowly; his offense at my assuming gender was obvious. He picked up the handset on his phone and requested that Anita come to the front desk for the FBI.
Paige and I stepped back and let the clerk register a few guests.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked me.
“I’m fine. Let’s just focus on our jobs.”
She scanned my eyes, sighed, and hitched up her chin. “Very well. Why didn’t you mention how the rooms were paid for by the sniper before, back at the station?”
“It didn’t exactly come up. And you were so fixated on the eighth floor, then we rushed down—”
A woman in a tight, black skirt suit sashayed toward us, holding a tablet in one hand. Her wavy, dark hair fell over her shoulders and bounced with her steps. Her heels clacked on the marble flooring. She stopped in front of us and smiled pleasantly enough, but it was all business.
“You’re with the FBI?” she said, tucking the tablet under one of her arms.
“Special Agents Dawson and Fisher,” Paige said. “I’m right to assume you’re the manager, Anita Cannon?”
“You are.”
“We need access to all the south-facing rooms on your eighth floor,” I cut in, eager to move forward.
Cannon regarded me with indifference. “I’m sure you can understand that we can’t just let you into the rooms without a warrant.”
“We have a verbal one from Judge Whittaker, and one in writing is forthcoming. They just take a little more time—and that’s something we’re short on.”
Ms. Powertrip stood there, unmoved.
“There was a shooting three blocks south this morning. A man was killed. You might have heard it on t
he news?” I paused, seeing if Anita would give any sort of reaction. Not so much as a slow blink.
“Sure.” Spoken like a robot.
“We have reason to believe that the shooter might have set up in one of your rooms,” I laid out.
Anita’s mouth twitched like she wanted to say something but didn’t know what, giving the first sign that my words were hitting between her ears.
“Fine, come this—” Anita’s gaze went past us toward the doors.
I turned, and two uniformed officers were there, saw us, and headed over.
A whole two officers, Captain Herrera? There has to be—what?—ten plus rooms on the eighth floor.
“How many rooms face south on the eighth?” I asked Anita.
“I don’t have that fact at the top of my head, but I wouldn’t imagine any more than fifteen.”
“Agents,” one of the officers said by way of greeting when he reached us.
I didn’t respond. Paige said a simple, “Hi.”
“Ms. Cannon,” I started, “we’re especially interested in rooms that are currently rented out and that may have a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.”
Anita’s gaze drifted to the front desk, her face a mask of hesitancy, but she nodded. “I’ll have that information compiled for you. In the meantime, we can hit up every room, but I’m going to accompany you. I’ll deal with any guests we might encounter. There’s to be no word of a possible shooting taking place from here.”
“If we run into any guests, we’ll be asking them if they heard or saw anything unusual this morning about six o’clock,” I told her. “As well as during the time leading up to that and after.”
“I can appreciate you both have a job to do,” Anita said, seeming to leave the uniformed officers out of her statement, “but so do I. The guests of this hotel need to know that they are safe when they stay here.”
“And I can appreciate that,” I countered.
“Good, then let’s proceed.” Anita clacked her way to the elevator bank, the rest of us following.
I knew I had to shake my irritation and release my baggage. I had to pull from Jack’s inculcation: emotions had no real place in an investigation. I just wish I was as good as he was at holding them at bay. Then again, maybe if Jack was face-to-face with a trigger like I was when it came to working next to Paige, and on this case in particular, he might not be so cool either.
-
Twenty-Two
Kelly had always relished the rush that came with closing a case, finding a killer, getting justice. Ask anyone in law enforcement, and they’d tell you it was a high like no other. But her time as a homicide detective investigating, for the most part, single murders paled by comparison to hunting a killer who took out more than one person. She supposed the feeling was similar to when she’d had a part in taking a gang leader nicknamed Rock off the streets and hitting him with five murder charges. That had truly been a good day.
She was next to Jack as they scoured the eighth floor of the Royal Plaza. The place smelled of cleaner and chlorine—comfortable and familiar scents for a hotel. It made Kelly want to snuggle under a fluffy duvet, order pay-per-view and room service. If only.
Jack ignored the Do Not Disturb sign and knocked on room 819. They’d taken the rooms to the left of the elevator bank, and two officers went to the ones on the right. Jack made it clear to the uniforms they were to take detailed notes if they ran into any guests, and he provided them the basic questions they should ask.
A third officer watched the elevators and was to make sure no one left the floor until they were spoken to.
Jack knocked a second time, and footsteps approached the door. The chain slid across, and the door opened. A man in dress slacks and an unbuttoned shirt with a tie dangling loose around his neck was standing there looking bedraggled and smelling of whiskey. He perked up at the sight of Kelly.
“Well, hellllooo,” he said with a smile.
Oh Lord! Too many men live up to the womanizer stereotype.
“My boss and I would like to talk to you for a minute,” she said, sensing from Jack it might work to their advantage if she handled this one.
A cocky grin. “Sure.” He opened the door wider.
Jack gestured for Kelly to go inside first. For the guy’s leering—and practically drooling—Kelly thought him harmless. Even if Jack wasn’t around, she could handle this loser herself.
“Have a hard day?” she asked, making light conversation.
“Very hard.”
She fought not to roll her eyes, but realized she’d opened the opportunity for a lewd innuendo. She pulled out her badge. “We’re agents with the FBI. I’m Kelly Marsh, and this is Supervisory Special Agent in Charge Jack Harper.”
“No shit.” The man clamped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. Jack tensed, and the man removed his hand.
Kelly’s guess was Jack preferred not to be touched. “How long have you been staying here?” she asked, though she knew the answer. Before they set out on the eighth floor, they got all the guest information from the front desk, in gratitude to a cooperative hotel manager.
“Since last night.”
“Nice. Just to get away for the weekend early?” Kelly was looking past him. The bed was disheveled. The comforter bunched to one side, half on the floor. A glass with amber liquid was on the nightstand, and across the room, a near-empty bottle of Jim Beam sat on a table in front of the window. The drapes had been pulled in about two feet on both sides.
“I lost my job.” He belched.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Hey, you’re a bright spot.”
Kelly pasted on a smile. “We just need to take a look around. Okay?”
“Whatever you want, sunshine.” He grabbed his glass.
Kelly walked farther into the room, headed toward the window. She looked down and could see that it had a clear line of sight to Wilson Place, and she swept back the drapes. No hole. She shook her head at Jack, and they went to leave.
“You’re leaving already? You just got here.”
“Don’t destroy your liver just because some boss couldn’t appreciate you,” she said. “You should be thanking them for letting you go. Now you can take your life in a direction it was meant to go.”
The man stood straighter, and a grin spread across his lips. “No shit. You some guru or something?”
Or something… “Take care,” she said, closing the door behind her and Jack.
“We can mark room 819 off our list,” she said.
“No shit.” Jack smiled, and she giggled.
-
Twenty-Three
Paige wished Brandon would let go of the chip on his shoulder before she had to knock his block off. He was going through some personal crisis, and it was affecting the way he was approaching the case. He’d attacked that CSI, and then he’d been brash with the hotel manager. The longer Anita Cannon shadowed them, though, she was starting to get under Paige’s skin, too.
Anita insisted on accompanying them to every door and was adamant she be the one to greet the guests when they first answered. Being a responsible manager was one thing, but this over-the-shoulder supervision was another. By the time they reached the thirteenth room, which happened to be number 850, Paige had about enough—but it didn’t matter. The terms were Anita was to be with them. Due to that, Paige had asked the officers to position themselves at the elevators and not let anyone go down unless they could confirm they’d been spoken to. Anyone arriving on the floor was to be escorted to their rooms, and Anita, Paige, and Brandon were to be notified.
Somewhere between the ground floor and the first door they knocked on, Anita announced she had the list of guest names, their room numbers, and when they’d checked in. They’d knocked on several doors already, only to find them empty and with no holes in the windows.
Anita pointed a long finger toward room 850 and consulted her tablet. “This one has been unoccupied for the last five days.”
“Then the last time maid service would have been in there was when?” Brandon asked.
“Five days ago. Actually, six.”
“Is it normal to have a room sit unoccupied for so long?” It seemed odd to Paige.
“It can happen. It all depends on what people want and the way the computer assigns the rooms.”
Anita took a step down the hall.
“Wait.” Paige remained planted in front of 850. They’d had in mind the sniper had rented a room, like in previous cases, but what if that wasn’t the case this time? And what if their expertise extended past a rifle to technology? Had they messed with the hotel’s system somehow? Paige flicked a finger toward the door for 850. “Let’s take a look inside.”
Anita stopped walking and spun. “Do you think that’s necessary?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have said it.”
“Fine then.” Anita rapped her knuckles on the door and explained herself. “It’s protocol before entering any room in the hotel.” There was no response, and Anita proceeded to press the keycard to the lock pad, and the light turned green.
Paige pushed down on the handle and went inside. She’d followed a gut feeling coming in here, but she’d learned early on as an FBI agent to exhaust every possible lead.
The curtains were open most of the way, and the lights from the city skyline cast a reflection on the glass and added a subtle glow to the room. She went straight for the window.
The lights were turned on, and when she glanced back, she saw it had been Brandon to flip the switch.
Paige looked outside, and she had a clear line of sight to Wilson Place. She let her gaze go to the left, then right along the length of the window. The curtain on the right was blowing inward just lightly—and for good reason. Her heart hammered upon seeing the hole in the glass. “Brandon,” she called him over.
“What is it?” Anita hastily asked.
Past Deeds Page 13
