“Better let you get to it, then.” Noah has one hand on the door, looking ready to slam it in Kristian’s face. I’m not used to this sharper side of him. It’s nice to know he has one, and even nicer to know he’s never felt the need to use it on me, no matter how abrasive I’ve been toward him.
Even if Kristian is just doing his job, I can’t help but feel like he’s doing me a personal favor. Maybe I should be nicer to him. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Noah watches Kristian through narrowed eyes as the FBI agent strolls down the steps and path, stopping to talk with Bill.
“You really don’t like him.”
“He rubs me the wrong way,” he admits, a brooding frown creasing his forehead.
“At least he’s smart enough to bring the expensive coffee when it’s this early.”
“He’s trying to convince us that he’s a good guy.” Noah smirks, echoing my earlier accusation as he collects the tray, handing me mine.
“And you don’t think he is?”
“He could be,” he admits reluctantly. “But I have this gut feeling that he’s after more than just Mantis’s head.”
I hesitate. “Like whose? The chief?”
“There is no chief. Well, there’s the interim, but he wouldn’t be after him.”
“No, I mean the one who was chief when my dad died,” I say as casually as I can.
“Who, Canning?” Noah seems to think on that. “Maybe. I don’t know how far he’ll get with that. Everyone loves that guy.”
Not everyone. Not Klein. “Have you met him?”
“He was at Silas’s when I went for dinner last week.” Noah shrugs. “He seems like a good guy. You know, one of those people who throws out an open invitation to his ranch and means it.”
“He actually did that? Invited you out?”
“Yeah . . .” He frowns. “Why?”
If I repeat what Kristian said about Canning’s motives for wanting my dad gone, will Noah then go and tell his uncle? And, if his uncle is as good friends with Canning as Kristian suggested, will he warn Canning that Kristian is on to him? “You don’t let a suspect know that they’re a suspect until you’ve already caught them.”
Then why the hell would Kristian tell me in the first place? He knows there’s something going on between Noah and me, so he has to also assume I’d tell Noah about this. Is he testing me?
I can’t figure that guy out. It’s like I’m playing a game with him, where the stakes are high but I don’t know the rules.
“Gracie?”
“No reason. So, where is this FBI office? Is The Lucky Nine on the way?” Or Paradise Lane, as the motel is now called.
“Not really . . .”
I take a sip of my coffee, peering up at him with my best attempt at begging eyes. “Can it be?”
He grins. “Maybe. But you heard Klein. He said—”
“Do not pass go.” I shrug. “We’re not. We’re passing a seedy hooker motel.”
Noah rolls his eyes. “Fine. We’ll stop.” He points at Kristian’s car as it pulls away. “And, for the record, I do not trust him.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around,” I mumble under my breath as Bill the FBI evidence guy climbs the steps.
* * *
The vibrant feel of Austin’s downtown is long gone by the time we spot the green neon sign that towers over Paradise Lane, advertising daily, weekly, and monthly rates. The shady motel is located on the far outskirts of Austin’s lower-class suburbs, past the plain strip malls and sketchy chain gas stations, beside a freeway where a steady stream of cars buzzes by, off to other parts of Texas.
Noah turns into the parking lot, his SUV dipping and jumping over the uneven pavement and potholes. Ahead of us are three long beige buildings, positioned in a U shape—aptly named Building One, Building Two, and Building Three, according to the signs. Each is lined with dirty pea-soup-green room doors.
It feels as oppressive as The Hollow.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks gently, pulling into a spot near the reception lobby.
“I have to. Don’t you feel like we have to?” I scan the door numbers. I can’t see Room 116 from here.
Noah’s gaze drifts over the sparsely filled parking lot. “It’s weird, isn’t it? That he died here.”
“Of all places.” I climb out of the SUV. “Do you think they’ll let us into the room?”
“Depends on how good you are at talking,” a familiar voice calls out from behind me, making me jump.
“Don’t you have people to see?” I snap as Kristian saunters toward us. How did we miss his sedan?
“I was going to say the same thing to you.” His steely eyes lock on Noah, whose glare looks sharp enough to pierce skin. “What are you two doing here?”
“I wanted to see the place where my father died. We’re heading in to give our statements right after this.”
“And what do you hope to get out of it?”
“Closure.” Is that even possible? I doubt it—not until I see Mantis, and anyone else who was involved, punished. “What are you doing here?”
Klein’s brow quirks. “Investigating a murder . . . remember?”
“Where’s Tareen?” Noah asks, looking around.
“On his way. Come on.” He begins heading for the lobby door, warning over his shoulder, “Let me do the talking.”
“Good luck with that,” Noah murmurs under his breath, a smug smirk curling his lips.
We follow him inside, Noah behind me, his hand on the small of my back, as usual. I can’t believe it used to bother me. I get it now—it’s a protective gesture, and not in the “Gracie can’t take care of herself” way, but an “if someone’s going to get hurt, I won’t let it be her” way.
The lobby is cramped and depressing, the blinds covering the front window soiled with years of dust and bent from prying fingertips. The low hum of voices from the ancient TV competes with the constant rattle of a vending machine in the corner. It looks like they’ve attempted to update the space, laying new green faux-marble linoleum tiles down over the old beige ones. But they didn’t cut the pieces properly, and the beige is still visible along the walls.
There’s a staleness to the air that I can’t pinpoint—a combination of burnt coffee, musty cardboard, and tobacco, lingering from years gone by when it was acceptable for a receptionist to check you in while puffing on a cigarette.
Not that a place like this would be too worried about respecting laws even now.
Kristian sets his elbows on the front desk counter and leans, causing the entire unit to shift. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, his focus on the heavyset woman working behind the counter, a crime thriller in her hands. “Miss Glorya Ruiz!” he says in a cheerful voice.
She closes her book and eyes him like I would eye anyone who came here—suspiciously. “You can read name badges. Good for you.”
“How long have you worked here, Glorya?”
“Nine years. Why?” There’s a challenge in her tone.
“Just curious.”
“You gonna waste my time or get a room?” She glances over at me, then at Noah standing behind me. “I figure she ain’t cheap, but I’m not givin’ you no deal for sweet-talkin’ me.”
Glorya thinks I’m a hooker. An expensive one, but a hooker all the same.
I open my mouth to blast her, but Noah’s arm curls around my waist. He pulls me back against him and leans in to whisper, so close to my ear that his lips graze my lobe, “Let him handle this.”
Even in the sordid setting, the intimate contact sends a thrill down my spine. I instinctively sink into his body.
“So, Glorya . . . do you remember that big shooting here?”
She flashes a wicked smile that highlights all her missing teeth. “Darling, which one? There’s been a few over the years.”
“May third, 2003. An off-duty police officer was shot. It was a big deal. The owner changed the motel’s name not long after that. Too much bad press, I guess.”
“Right. I might’ve heard about that one.”
“What’d you hear?”
She gives him a flat look. “That a cop got shot.”
“In Room 116, right?”
She shrugs. “Sure. Why not.”
“Listen, I was wondering if we could take a quick look in there.”
“If it’s available.” She glances over at the key rack where the room keys hang. They clearly haven’t upgraded . . . anything. “It’s available.”
“Great! We’ll only be—”
“That’s forty bucks for the two-hour rate.”
“The two-hour rate?” I blurt out. “Is that a thing?”