Identity

“We should plan a little trip. A few days away. Go to the beach,” Audrey continued. “Sit under umbrellas and drink mai tais.”

“Mom.” Morgan reached out to pat her mother’s hand. “The answer isn’t in beaches and mai tais. And it’s way too soon for me to take time off. I’m being careful. Everyone’s being careful, and it’s a pain in the ass. What I want? I want to be able to sit out here just like this, looking at the garden, watching the birds, and knowing Gavin Rozwell is sitting in a cell looking through bars. The day I can do that is going to be a happy day.”

“That’s a day we’ll drink mimosas instead of coffee,” Olivia stated. “Meanwhile, what’s this fight with Opal? She’s the head waitress in Après, right? I don’t really know her.”

“I offered her an air-it-out meeting, and we had it yesterday. For my part, I wasn’t in the best of moods with this credit card thing, but I didn’t feel I could cancel it. Anyway, doesn’t matter. She resents me. Resents that I got the manager slot through connections. She’s not altogether wrong on that, but I’m also qualified, and I’m doing a damn good job.”

“Of course you are.”

“You’d have to say that, Mom, but I am. She bitches I’m too slow behind the stick, which is bullshit, plus the revenue’s actually increased. Then she accuses me of flirting with men who come to the bar—especially the Jameson men.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Outrage shimmered in Audrey’s voice. “And so what if you did? Flirting’s not illegal in this country.”

“If it were, a lot of bartenders would be doing time. It’s not just about mixing drinks but making a connection. Making the customer feel special. Or being invisible if that’s what they want. She’s worked in Après long enough to know that.”

“What are you going to do about her?” Olivia wondered.

“Absolutely nothing. She wants to work while seething over her manager, that’s her problem. Plus, I know she expects me to write her up in her evaluation. I’m actually finishing those up today. Why would I do that? She’s good at her job. More than good. She doesn’t have to like me.”

“Smart girl. In any case, she sounds like a very unpleasant woman.”

“Only to me, apparently. From what I see, the waitstaff loves her, guests relate to her. Repeaters remember her, and the Jamesons value her.” Morgan shrugged. “I can deal with it.”

“Smart girl,” Olivia repeated. “And a Nash-tough woman.”

“Nash tough means tough. I’m actually going to go in and finish up those evaluations. I might as well get them to Nell a day early, since they’re all but done.”

“You could bring your laptop out here, enjoy the day while you’re at it.”

“Now that”—Morgan shot a finger at Audrey—“is a fine idea. I’ll be right back.”

Audrey watched her go inside, then looked over at her mother.

“She’ll be fine, baby. We’re right here.”

“I know she will. Or I almost know she will. But.”

“If worry’s protection, she’s wearing impervious armor.”

“God, that’s the truth. And at least we’re not worrying from a distance.”

“Not anymore.”





Chapter Sixteen



Special Agents Beck and Morrison stood in the two-stall bathroom at a bar called Bourbon Beat. Two weeks before, Jennie Glade walked in, looking for her friend, and found Kayleen Dressler dead on the floor of the first stall.

The investigation remained open, and stalled with the conclusion of a random attack.

The victim, visiting her friend from Mobile, Alabama, knew no one else in the bar, or in the city.

“Local LEOs see it as a fatal mugging. No sexual assault,” Morrison continued. “The assailant, likely male, followed her in, disabled her with a blow to the face, strangled her. Secondary blow, side of the head against the side of the stall, postmortem. She carried a small handbag, with ID, some cash—undetermined amount, but under two hundred—lipstick, a Visa card.”

“It’s Rozwell, Quentin.”

“Not his standard method or victim.”

“Neither was Nina Ramos. This one leans into that method. Strike, kill, strike after death. That’s frustration, that battering after he kills them. He didn’t get what he needed. Their fault.”

Because he felt the same, Morrison nodded. “The victim was blond, and in the preferred age range. But this is new, Tee. Crowded bar, someone could have walked in. Or certainly seen him go in or come out, giving a description.”

“He likely followed them. They hit several bars. He’s restless, on the prowl, thinking about Morgan Albright. The victim hits the dance floor. He watches. She heads back to the john. Her friend’s standing at the bar, talking to people, doesn’t notice Kayleen go toward the back.”

“People are drinking, dancing, looking to get laid,” Morrison continued. “Nobody notices Rozwell follow her. Nobody notices for about fifteen more minutes that she doesn’t come back—or notice Rozwell walk out, leave.”

Beck walked to the door. “He gives her a minute, follows her. Steps in. If someone else is in here besides his target, game over. It’s just oops, laugh, back off. But nobody was, so he’s in. Locks the door behind him.”

“He just has to wait until she opens the stall door,” Morrison continues. “Blow to the face.” He mimed a jab. “Knocks her back, down, dazes her. Music’s playing, and it’s loud.”

“Even if she cried out, who’d hear? He’s thinking about Morgan when he strangles Kayleen, Quentin, but it’s not Morgan, and it doesn’t give him that rush. So he slams her head against the stall wall, takes her bag, and leaves her. Back to his hotel, and he’s gone that night, or the next day.”

“Plays for me.”

“Yeah, it plays. Good hotel, a suite with a view in a good hotel. In the Quarter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Morrison agreed. “That’s his style.”

“Let’s find it. When we do, when we’re sure, I’ll contact Morgan.”



* * *



And the hits kept coming, Morgan thought as she set down her phone. She’d barely had thirty-six hours to adjust to the gut punch of the credit card bill, and now, another woman was dead.

By Rozwell’s hands.

Some poor woman who’d done nothing more than go out for a fun, foolish night with a friend. He hadn’t known her and, according to Beck, hadn’t researched her. He’d just picked her out of a crowd.

They’d found his hotel. Though he’d either dyed his hair or worn a red wig, they’d located his hotel. He’d checked out the afternoon after the murder—after doing a little shopping on the fake card with her name on it—and had taken a cab to the airport.

But he hadn’t gone inside, not according to the security feed.

Nothing she could do, Morgan reminded herself, but what she was doing. And that meant going to work.

A Friday night wedding rehearsal dinner meant an influx of wedding party post-dinner along with the weekend guests, the drinks-at-the-resort locals.

She had to thank the timing because it would keep her too busy to obsess.