“That’s your man,” the bar manager said, tapping the screen.
Novak watched as the man ordered a mixed drink and within a few minutes was talking to Lana. She grinned at him. Bonnie was also engaged in the conversation. The man was careful to keep his face turned from the camera so that it never captured a good view.
“Have any idea what they were talking about?” Novak asked.
“No. I was slammed with customers, but I could see all three of them were having a good time. They ended up leaving together. I figured the ladies had set up some kind of date with him.”
“Do you have credit card information on Bonnie?”
“Let me look.” He punched into the computer. “Yeah. Bonnie Jenkins. Computer doesn’t save the credit card number. I remember the guy put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar for his orders. Left a nice tip. Does that help?”
Novak recorded the name in his notebook. “It’s a start.”
Julia and Novak thanked the bar manager and after leaving their cards stepped outside. Julia drew in a breath. “Andrews can find Bonnie Jenkins quickly.”
“Call him.”
Julia dialed Andrews’s number. When he picked up, she told him what she needed. He asked her to stand by. One minute later he had the address of a motel where Bonnie was staying.
“He’s a handy guy to know,” Novak said.
“So I’m discovering,” she said.
Bonnie’s hotel was located on Route 1 about fifteen miles north of the city. The area was known for its run-down motels, drugs, and prostitution. When Julia had been in uniform, she’d assisted local police a couple of times in the area.
Novak drove them to the motel, which was a two-story brick building located behind a gas station and a fast-food restaurant. It was one mile from the interstate, which meant plenty of traffic from truckers and the endless stream of drug dealers and human traffickers who traveled the I-95 corridor.
They made their way to the small office located closest to the parking lot entrance. Novak pushed the front door, allowing Julia to pass before him. The office smelled of stale cigarettes and booze. There was a condom machine to the right and a vinyl sofa patched in several spots with duct tape. Behind the counter stood a reed-thin man with reddish hair and a pockmarked face. They showed their badges to him, but he barely glanced at them.
“I’m looking for Bonnie Jenkins,” Novak said. “Is she registered here?”
“Yeah, Bonnie’s here.” He sniffed, reaching for a cigarette and a lighter. Smoke swirled around his head.
“What room?”
“I can’t be giving out customers’ room numbers,” the manager said.
“I can get a warrant,” Novak said.
“And in the meantime, I can have a dozen state police cruisers parked in your lot, lights flashing. That will do a lot for business,” Julia said.
“We have reason to think she might be in danger,” Novak said. “At the very least, she’s a material witness in an active murder investigation.” When the manager hesitated, Novak added, “I might slow walk that warrant, so her state police buddies can hang around and meet the neighbors. And when it does arrive, I won’t be in a happy mood because of the delay. I hate to think what I’ll find in your office if I get the warrant to cover that.”
Cigarette dangling from his lips, the manager rose. “No need to get shitty. I’ll let you look inside the room.” The manager coded a key card for the room and led the way to the elevators.
They walked up the stairs to the second floor, and the manager knocked hard on the paint-chipped door. “Ma’am, it’s the management.” When there was no answer, he swiped his key and switched on the light.
“Ma’am, it’s the management,” he said again.
Novak reached past him and pushed open the bathroom door. Makeup was arranged neatly on the counter along with a collection of hairbrushes as well as a straightener and curling iron.
“When is she supposed to check out?”
“Today,” the manager said.
Novak edged open the closet and found a half-dozen dresses and several sets of heels. “Has housekeeping been in the room today?”
The manager raised a two-way radio to his mouth. “Housekeeping. Has room 206 been turned over?”
After a pause. “No. Waiting for front desk to confirm checkout.”
“Which was fifteen minutes ago,” Julia said. “Did she call for a late checkout?”
“No.”
“So where is she?” Julia asked.
“You really are going to have to get a warrant before I let you go any further,” the manager said. “I could lose my job over this.”
Novak flexed his fingers. “I’ll be back this afternoon with one.” He handed the manager his card. “If she returns, call me. And don’t let housekeeping in here.”
“Sure,” the manager said. “I can do that.”
When they were in his SUV, Julia said, “She’s met this guy who’s likely calling himself Jim Vargas. She might be able to tell us who he is or at least what he looks like.” She reached for her phone and called the local sheriff’s office. She explained who she was looking for and asked for a deputy to watch the motel for the next couple of hours. “Great. Thanks. Call me if you see her.”
Novak checked his watch. “We’ll need to hustle to get to Shield by one.”
The drive to the Shield office took just under two hours with the light Sunday-morning traffic. During the drive, Novak put out a BOLO—be on the lookout—for Bonnie Jenkins. When they arrived, Andrews met them in the lobby and escorted them upstairs.
“I have the DNA results from the original cases,” he said.
“Great.”
“Any luck on Bonnie Jenkins?” Andrews asked.
“As of a couple of minutes ago she has not returned to her motel room. She doesn’t have a cell phone registered to her, so we aren’t able to ping her location. But we have local cops watching out for her.”
“I’ve kept a flag on her credit card. If she uses it or takes a cash advance, I’ll be notified.”
“Good.”
Andrews pressed several buttons, and a large screen behind him illuminated. Pictured were the three Hangman victims of ’92. “DNA was found on the clothes, which were left in piles at the crime scenes. We pulled hair fibers from two of the three victims. One was from Tanner’s and one from Wayne’s clothes. The original team did an excellent job, and it’s unfortunate those samples were ruined. However, I could confirm that the hair fibers I found were from the same individual.”
“That’s not a big surprise,” Novak said.
“Yes, we expected those results.” Andrews clicked a button, and the images on the wall switched to Rita Gallagher’s picture. “But what was a nice surprise was a match to the fibers found on Rita Gallagher’s body.”
“What about the DNA found on Lana Ortega’s clothes?” Julia said.
Andrews’s eyes sparked with what could be called excitement for him. “It matched what I found on the Tanner, Wayne, and Gallagher bodies.”