Chapter 6
The sun was beginning to set when I pulled up in front of the Morrison Hotel, where Carter had indeed booked us.
I handed the valet attendant the keys to our car, and his quick glance—then the little pause—told me he wasn’t impressed.
Not that I was surprised. Our car was several tiers down from the luxury cars he was used to seeing.
We hadn’t thought through this part of the plan. Or, knowing James, he had and just didn’t care.
But why wouldn’t he care?
A new thought tried to claw its way into my brain—James’s low expectations for how all of this ended—but I shoved it back down. He didn’t strike me as suicidal. And he would never purposely put me in the Knoxes’ path.
He grabbed our bags out of the backseat, rejecting the bellhop’s offer to take them, then strode inside and up to the front desk.
We weren’t the only people in jeans in the marble-encased lobby under the six-foot-high chandelier, but I couldn’t help thinking we didn’t look like we belonged. Then again, maybe I was projecting.
After James checked in using a fake ID with the name Jeff Beachum and a matching credit card, he asked if they had a map of the city.
The woman pointed us to the concierge, who was talking to a couple about the best seafood restaurant within walking distance.
The couple headed out, arms intertwined and giddy about their plans, and the concierge turned his attention to us.
James asked for the map, and the older gentleman handed him a rectangular paper, then asked if he could help us with anything else, like restaurant suggestions, or things to do.
I expected James to say no thank you, but he surprised me by wrapping an arm around my back and tugging me to his side.
“Actually,” he said, warm and polite, “this is the first time in ages that my wife and I have had a few nights away from the kids. Are there any type of performances within walking distance? Like a play or musical? Maybe a symphony?”
If the concierge noticed neither of us was wearing wedding rings, he didn’t let on. “We at the Morrison are grateful you chose us for your stay. Unfortunately, there aren’t any performances tonight, but there’s a comedy club a few blocks away.”
James looked down at me, all soft and charm. “I know you had your heart set on a musical, but would that be okay?”
I had no idea what he was up to, but I could play along. I gave him a warm smile. “We could watch one of those mindless action movies you love so much for all I care. I’m just grateful to have some alone time with you.”
James turned back to the concierge. “Can you get us two tickets? And a suggestion for a restaurant nearby. Something nice.”
“Of course,” the concierge said. “I can make dinner reservations—”
“That’s okay,” James cut in. “We’re gonna spend some time up in our room, and I’m not sure how long we’ll be.”
The concierge’s smile turned knowing. “Of course. I’ll take care of the tickets and have them waiting for you at will call, sir.”
James dropped his arm from my back and pulled out his wallet. “Actually, we’d appreciate it if you had the tickets brought to our room. Just slide them under the door.” He handed the man two twenty-dollar bills. “Will that be a problem?”
The concierge looked at the bills in his hand, and his grin spread wider. “It would be my pleasure, Mr.…?”
“Beachum,” James said. “Room 564. Just charge the tickets to my room.”
“Will do, Mr. Beachum. You and Mrs. Beachum have a wonderful evening.”
“You too,” James said, then took my hand and headed for the elevator.
He rebuffed another bellhop’s offer to take our bags before we got on the empty elevator. We rode in silence to the fifth floor, then walked down the hall to our room. The electronic lock clicked when he waved his key card in front of it. He pushed the door open and held it, letting me enter first.
I took two steps inside, then stopped.
This wasn’t a hotel room. It was a suite.
“Nice enough?” he asked, sounding amused.
“It’s the nicest place I’ve ever stayed in my life.” I turned to face him. “This room must cost a fortune.”
“I figure I owe you after all the dumps we’ve stayed in this last week.”
I turned again, taking it all in. A seating area with a sofa and two armchairs framed a marble-topped coffee table.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Arkansas River.
To the right sat a four-poster, canopy bed draped in heavy burgundy velvet.
Next to the bed was an open doorway that revealed a marble-encased bathroom.
“I was hoping for an Embassy Suites, not the New York City Plaza Hotel.”
He dropped the bags on the floor and stepped up behind me, pressing his chest to my back and sliding his arms around my stomach. “The Embassy Suites was booked.”
“Liar.”
He pressed a kiss to my neck.
“Why the big show about the comedy club tickets?” I’d waited to ask, knowing there were cameras in the elevator.
“Alibi.” He pressed another kiss on my collarbone.
“But we’re not going.”
“I seriously doubt Knox is going to dig that deep. If he hears a couple who looked similar to us checked into the Morrison, then hears they booked tickets to the comedy club tonight, he’s not going to think it’s us.”
“We can’t be sure of that. We should be more careful.”
“Sometimes the safest place to hide is in plain sight.”
“We should make a plan for tonight.” He’d slept for most of the drive, so we hadn’t had a chance to discuss it. “I’m not sure if my contacts will know about Knox or be able to tell us how to find him, but they might have heard something about human trafficking.”
“It’s a good place to start.”
“My closest contact is a bartender at a bar within walking distance of the hotel. Hopefully, he’s working tonight.”
“Sounds good.” He dropped his arms and headed for the bathroom. “I think we should take a shower before we go.”
I leaned my face toward my armpit and sniffed. “Do I stink?”
He chuckled. “No, but it seems a shame to let a shower like this go to waste.”
I followed him into the bathroom, my mouth dropping open as I took in the multiple shower heads.
“Besides,” he said. “It seems a little early to contact your bartender source. We should wait a few hours.”
“And take a shower?” I asked dryly.
“Unless you have a better suggestion on how to fill the time.”
I lifted a brow. “Maybe some room service? I know we already had an early dinner, but I’d sell my soul for a piece of cheesecake.”
He reached for the hem of my shirt and started to lift it over my head. “That can be arranged.”
Part of me protested that I needed to focus on the case. This was a distraction.
But I’d lived my life for my job and look where it had gotten me—alone.
Maybe it was time to live a little.
Or a lot.
Especially since the odds were against us.