Chapter 3
Elara
“I ’ll get us checked in.” I say, getting out of the car. “Okay. I’ll get our duffels and meet you inside.” Ryder replies.
As I walk into the lobby, I’m enveloped by the smell of fresh pine. The walls are a dark blue, bouncing off the multicolored furniture. This place is definitely going for an eccentric look. I walk up to the desk and ring the bell. A man in dark jeans and a white dress shirt walks out of the back room, giving an inviting, yet very customer service smile. His name tag reads ‘Jonathan’ . “Hi, how can I help you?” He asks.
“Hi! I have a reservation. It should be under Cassidy, Elara Cassidy.” He nods and starts typing. I never know what to do or look at when I’m waiting for someone to check on something for me. A reservation, for instance. You don't stare at them, making them uncomfortable, but you also don't want to zone out either. It’s like when people are singing ‘happy birthday’ to you. Where do you look? What do you do? Then you end up with an awkward smile plastered on your face that makes you even more uncomfortable.
“Okay, here it is. I’ll just need you to sign some forms and I’ll get your keys. He prints out the document, grabbing a pen and hands them both over. Typical hotel agreement, ‘don’t smoke’, ‘don’t have any parties’, that kind of stuff.
Ryder walks in as I’m signing my initials and Jonathan puts the keys on the desk in front of me in a small cardboard folder. I find it odd that he puts keys for two different rooms in the same pocket, in case they counter each other and demagnetize. I open the small folder and see one number ‘513’. That’s it. No other room number. I hand the paper back to him as I mention the keys. “There should be two rooms.” He looks over the computer screen to check the reservation again.
“I’m sorry miss, there was only one room booked and we are otherwise at capacity.” I sigh, muttering, “For fuck's sake.” I should have known the FBI would take the cheap route, only booking one room. I begrudgingly thank Jonathan before taking the key and heading down the hall towards the elevators. I know it isn’t Jonathan’s fault, but this arrangement isn’t ideal.
While we wait for the elevator, I see Ryder rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Having one room is certainly a bump. I like having my space and not having to worry about intruding on someone else’s. Especially someone I just met. But as long as there’s two beds, it’s fine. Probably should have confirmed that with Jonathan. Goddammit . The elevator chimes as the doors open and we head to the fifth floor.
I open the door to our room and find… One bed. I suppose two if you count the rickety ass couch that looks like it’s for a toddler with how low to the ground it is. I sigh at the sight.
Before he can even say anything, I walk towards the couch and put my bag on the sagging cushion. “What are you doing?” Ryder asks, furrowing his brows.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking the couch.” I say, unzipping my duffel. He walks over and grabs my bag from me. I reach to take it back, but he moves it farther from my reach.
“Like hell you are. This thing is not a damn couch. Calling it a couch is an insult to couches.” I try taking the bag again, but he holds it up above his head so I can’t reach it. I’m about a foot shorter than him with his arms raised, so this is working to his advantage, but it’s only pissing me off. I huff as I jump up, making another failed attempt to get the bag. "I've slept in more uncomfortable situations. Hell, I can sleep standing up. I'll be fine on the couch."
"All the more reason for you to take the bed." He scoffs, throwing my bag over my head and onto the bed. "Do you have to be so fucking irritating and stubborn?" I ask, crossing my arms. "Yes. Now shut up and take the bed."
I roll my eyes and walk toward the bed, muttering, "Bossy fucker."
"I heard that." He says, not turning around. "Good, you were meant to." I say before I hear him quietly laugh to himself.
Once we settled in, we set up a makeshift evidence board with the desk in the room, not that we have much to start with. We know that Bardot and Holloway were investigating the death of Congressman Chanler. From their notes, as well as the medical examiner’s notes, it likely was a suicide. But they were still going through other possibilities because there was a discrepancy surrounding the physical cause and the fact that there was no note. He may not have meant to kill himself -if that is the true cause of death- but the toxicology report hasn’t come back yet. “We can’t make any wise assumptions without the tox report but, until then, we can look more into Bardot.” I start. “I’ll call the embassy and set up a meeting with Holloway so we can see if he knows anything.”
I grab my phone and walk to the other side of the room as Ryder continues looking over the file, skimming it over again to make sure we don’t miss anything. After three rings, someone answers and I give them my badge number and reason for calling. They quickly patch me through and the phone goes back to ringing a few more times before Holloway answers.
The call doesn’t last long. I tell him who I am and why I’m calling and we arrange a meeting to find out what he knows and hopefully figure out where Waylan is. His voice is nasally and his tone sounds worried. I don’t think he knew Bardot was going to just get up and leave. I think we at least can assume he was working alone.
“Okay, great. See you in the morning.” I finish the call and walk back over. “Is he cooperating, then?” Ryder asks, still staring at the papers. “Yeah, he seems to want to find him as much as we do. From his tone, I don’t think he’s got a clue where he is or why he just vanished.” Hopefully, talking to Holloway will get us somewhere.