Devon opens the door and says, “The look of shock when George sat down was a nice touch.”
“He told me in Fort Worth that ‘eyes are everywhere,’ but I never know if it’s him or someone else watching, so I was a little surprised when he sat down.” I sit in the chair next to him. “He said you’re losing your touch. Saw you come in through the service entrance.”
Devon’s upper lip curls back. “Does he think I just coincidentally entered the building the second y’all arrived?” He rolls his eyes and adds, “He only spots me when I want him to.”
Devon has a monitor and printer set up on the hotel room desk, and I study the images he has on the screen. Andrew and I are in the frame but we are not the main focus. George is. While I’m chatting with Andrew, he’s in the lobby, sitting in a wingback chair, holding up a newspaper but watching me.
“I’m assuming George got audio too. Was he able to hear everything Andrew and I said?”
Devon pushes another couple of buttons and replays the conversation between Andrew and me. “Yeah, the old man in the Titans cap. Guessing the mic was in his cane since he handed it over to George on the sidewalk outside the hotel after he left the table.”
I find him on the screen and sure enough, the cane is leaning against his table, angled toward me.
“I wasn’t sure how Andrew would react when he saw me, but it was the best I could have hoped for,” I say. It was a risk coming here, but it was clear six years ago that he felt like he owed me one so I was confident that sentiment would resurface. I just needed him to say it out loud, and he didn’t let me down. I’m also sure Mr. Smith will interpret it the way I want him to. He won’t think Andrew would help me just because he’s a nice guy, he’ll think Andrew has to because I’ve got something on him. Mr. Smith always thought I got dirt on Andrew Marshall but kept it for myself. Which is why it’s so easy for him to believe I did the same with the info on Victor Connolly. He thinks I retrieved it from Amy Holder and kept it for myself instead of turning it over to him.
Renting the safe deposit box seems to be what threw my loyalty into doubt.
And a guilty verdict means the only thing keeping me from taking a nose dive into the nearest body of water is the contents of a 5 x 7-inch box locked behind a bank vault door.
“Is Connolly just sitting back and waiting or should we be worried about him?” I ask.
A few keystrokes and the screen changes. “So far he’s sitting back, but I’m keeping a close eye on him.”
I stare at a picture of the man in question. From my own research, I know he’s sixty-seven, but he looks older in the images Devon has collected. What little bit of hair he has left is completely white, and years and years of sun exposure have not been kind to his skin. But while he may look like he’s some aging old man, there’s no doubt he’s extremely dangerous.
Connolly’s businesses are a mix of legitimate and illegitimate, as you would expect. You have to show how you can afford the fancy cars and private planes and houses scattered around the country. But the substantial income he claims on his tax return is nothing compared to what he brings in through nefarious means.
This is why Mr. Smith is going to such great lengths to make sure Victor Connolly remains a happy client.
And I don’t need Mr. Smith making me the sacrificial lamb to Connolly if he starts to become unhappy.
So now Devon and I are on the offensive.
I knew Mr. Smith had more evidence against me, but I didn’t want to wait until I was sitting across from those detectives to find out what it was, so I’m forcing him to burn it now. He thinks he’s going to scare me by sharing the rest of what he has on me with the police, but I’m glad I’m flushing it out while I can still do something about it. While I still have a chance to run if I need to.
“How soon before you have Mr. Smith identified?” I ask.
The detour to Oxford had three purposes. First, I wanted to look a bit unhinged. Wanted Mr. Smith to feel like I was out of control and worry about where I would go next. It’s harder to anticipate a person’s next move when they are acting erratically.
Second, we needed to determine how clients get in touch with him. I knew Coach Mitch would only have one person to turn to when I came knocking. Hello, King Harvest.
And lastly, we still don’t have Mr. Smith’s true identity, and we need that more than anything else. By discovering the fan site and Mr. Smith’s username, Devon is backing his way through the system, hoping to find something that will lead us to him.
“I’m close,” is all he says and I don’t push for more.
He pulls out the handwritten pages I left for him under the Twinkies yesterday. “It’s not your fault he killed the woman and James.”
I nod even though I should have known he’d go to those lengths and I should have said more to her that night before she left. Warned her in some way.
“You still think we should bail?”
He takes in a deep breath then lets it out while his eyes scan my face. “I’d rather bail and regroup than continue down a path that leads to you either being thrown in jail or killed.”
I’m shaking my head before he finishes. “Bailing now doesn’t save me from either of those options.”
The ding from the computer behind him interrupts whatever he was going to say. An alert has him changing the screen to show he’s finally gotten into the Atlanta PD system.
“I’ll pull up the file on Amy Holder and we can see what they’ve got.” A few images fill the screen, and Devon says, “According to the dates of these entries, these images were uploaded a month before you got to Lake Forbing, so they have to be the ones that supported the material witness warrant.”
We both move closer to the screen to get a better look.
“This pic of you dragging Amy from the car is not your finest moment,” he says.
“It couldn’t be helped.”
He continues to click through the images. “You do a really good job of angling yourself away from the camera. Did you know where your shadow was?”
George is rarely the one who follows me around during jobs unless it’s a particularly important one like when I was on my own for the first time for the Coach Mitch job. Being my shadow has a lot of down time and I’m sure he’s got more important things to do. Most times I can pick out who’s watching me, but other times, like that night, I couldn’t. It was too dark to see anything farther than three feet away.
Shaking my head, I say, “No. I mean, in most of these situations, I had a good guess of where they would be . . . where I would be if I was the one watching.”
“Okay, here we go. New images were just added to her file, so let’s see what Smith sent in. You must have really pissed him off. He didn’t waste any time.”
The note attached to the pics makes it look like it was sent by a detective from another department who stumbled on this critical piece of evidence while investigating another case. And while Devon could probably wipe it from their server right now, Mr. Smith would just resend it later. Best to leave it in play.
With a few keystrokes, we can see the latest piece of evidence against me.
It’s a video.
He pushes play and there I am.
Chapter 21
Present Day
It’s late afternoon when I pull into the motel parking lot. I see Ryan pacing back and forth in front of the open window of our room, phone to his ear. He ends his call then steps outside as soon as I’m parked.
Before I can shut off the engine, Ryan is at the car door.
“I kept trying to call you.” I can tell he’s agitated I ghosted him all day.
“I texted that I called the motel office earlier and got us another night,” I say, then lean in to kiss him before he can respond. We stay tangled up for a few minutes, long enough to soothe any worries that there is a problem between us. “Sorry, that took longer than I thought it would.”