Chapter 17
Max knocked on the motel room door again and wondered if Rachel was being passive-aggressive because he was late.
It was only ten minutes later than he’d told her he’d arrive.
Impatient and standing in the cold outside her door, he tried her cell phone again, but it went straight to voicemail, so he left another brief message and then pounded loudly on the door.
The door to the next room opened, and a dark-haired man wearing a cowboy hat and jeans but no shirt stepped out.
“Do you mind?” asked the man. “Tryin’ to hear the TV.”
“Sorry,” said Max, looking away from the clumsy tattoo of a woman’s face on the man’s right pec and wondering if the woman represented there truly resembled a female Seth Rogen. He kept his eyes on the door and knocked politely.
“You here earlier?” asked the cowboy.
“Uh, no. Why?”
The man grinned. “Just wanted to shake the feller’s hand.” He touched the brim of his hat.
Max briefly closed his eyes. “Wasn’t me.” He tried the doorknob. Locked.
“Hey! If she’s not letting you in, she’s got a good reason.” The cowboy took a protective barefoot step closer.
“I’ll check at the motel office.” Max strode away before the cowboy could say any more. He shouldn’t have tried the doorknob, but at that moment he’d wanted to escape the nosy neighbor.
The motel was an L-shaped one-story building.
Four cars were parked along the long part of the L, each most likely in front of its owner’s rented room.
The space in front of Rachel’s door was empty, but a small white Toyota pickup was two spots down, and he suspected it was the same one he’d seen at her and Cory’s home yesterday when he left.
As he passed, Max spotted several crystals dangling from the rearview mirror.
He pulled open the weathered door next to the hand-painted Office sign.
Somewhere behind the reception counter, a buzzer sounded as he stepped in, and the door creaked loudly as he yanked it closed.
The lobby smelled of popcorn, old coffee, and cigarette smoke.
The black-and-white-checked floor looked as if it belonged in an old diner and was dingy with layers of grime.
He waited for several seconds, noting there were at least a dozen different little odd bells lined up on the reception counter to choose from.
If no one came out soon, he decided he’d ring the one that looked like a turtle with a ringer button on top of its shell.
No . . . the goose one with the long neck and a clapper between its feet.
A plastic accordion door slid open behind the desk.
“Help you?” a teenager asked, her hands on her hips.
“Can you open room twelve for me?” Max held out his identification.
The girl stepped forward and peered at the ID.
She had the most elaborate and skillful eye makeup he’d ever seen.
The swirls of blue and black looked as if an artist had applied them.
Her dark hair was up in what Max thought looked like animal ears, but his sister had said they were called space buns.
“Uh-huh. Right. How do I know that’s real?” She rolled her eyes and reached for the energy drink next to the computer.
Max didn’t have a good answer. “It’s real.”
“Heard that before.”
“Rachel Johnson. Room twelve. I’ve knocked several times, and she’s not answering. She’s expecting me, and I’m concerned.”
The girl tapped on the keyboard with one hand. “Maybe she doesn’t want to see you. Or she’s busy.” Her tone suggestive. “Besides. No Rachel Johnson registered here.”
“She’s in room twelve. Don’t know what name she’s using, but that’s her real name.”
The teen looked at him and shrugged. “Dude. I can’t let you in there.”
“Call her room.”
She considered it for a moment and then picked up the desk phone and dialed. She held his gaze as she waited. “She’s not answering.”
“Give it a little longer.”
Eye roll. She hung up after another ten seconds. “Not there—well, not answering.”
“I’m concerned,” he repeated. “You could open the door—”
“Not opening the door,” she snapped. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave now.”
Good idea!
“Do you know Chief Daly?” Max asked.
“Of course. He or one of his guys has been out here dozens of times. And dropping his name doesn’t impress me at all.”
Max held back his comment about how the dozens of police visits reflected on the hotel. “How about this?” He scrolled through photos on his phone until he found one of the four of them from their recent dinner and held it out to her. “I work with his wife. She’s also FBI.”
The teen took the phone from his hand and enlarged the photo. “I’ve heard about her.” She swiped through a few of his photos.
“Hey!” He grabbed for the phone, but she stepped out of reach.
“Is that your wife?” She’d gone back to the dinner photo and held it up with Noelle’s face filling the frame.
“Girlfriend,” he said.
“Pretty.” She smirked as she handed him back the phone. “I’ll open the room.”
“Thank you.” He quickly checked his photos, wondering what else the desk clerk could have seen. Most were nothing unusual, but he had taken several dozen photos and videos of the car bomb crime scene that day.
The teen grabbed a key off a numbered board and stepped around the desk into the lobby.
Max stared at the board of room keys. “That doesn’t seem very safe.”
“I’ve told the owner that dozens of times,” she said as she passed him. “He doesn’t want to pay for a card system.”
“How about just move the board out of sight?” He followed her out the door.
“Brilliant.” She gave him a side-eye. “I’m sure no one’s suggested that.”
Max decided to stop talking. She led the way to number 12 and rapped on the door. “Ms. Johnson?” she hollered. “You in there?”
Silence.
She knocked again, and the cowboy opened his door. “Really, Oakleigh?” He had on boots now, but still no shirt.
“Shut your door, Mr. Mumford! You’re not supposed to be within a hundred yards of me!”
He slammed his door.
“Asshole,” whispered Oakleigh.
“You have a restraining order against him?” Max managed to ask.
“Nah. I should, though.”
Max was about to ask why, but she slipped the key in the lock and pushed the door open two inches. “Ms. Johnson?” the teen said into the room. She didn’t get an answer.
“Step out of the way,” Max said. The girl willingly did so, and he pushed the door fully open.
Rachel Johnson was on the floor, blood pooled around her head.
“Get back,” Max snapped at Oakleigh, who had stepped closer to get a look over his shoulder.
“Holy shit! Is she dead?”
The cowboy’s door opened, and his boots sounded on the concrete walkway. “What’s going on?”
“Get back. Both of you!” Max wanted to shut the door, but the room was almost pitch black. He spotted a light switch and flipped it with his elbow and then let the motel room door swing closed behind him. He’d drawn his weapon without even realizing it.
“She was all bloody!” he heard Oakleigh say outside.
“Was she naked?” asked the cowboy.
Max swore under his breath. He did a quick check of the bathroom, the closet, and the space under the bed. All clear. He holstered his weapon and squatted next to Rachel. He felt for a pulse even though he knew it was too late.
Her lifeless eyes and the bullet hole in her forehead had told him that.