20
Max swore. Loudly.
He was reading a secondary report he’d just received on the Belle Beason sighting at the campground in LaPine. Deputies had found the family; the blond child was a boy.
His cell phone buzzed.
“Agent Rhodes? I’m John Muse, police chief over here in Prineville. I was following up on the tip from the diner about the little missing girl and—”
Max rocked forward in his chair, pressing his phone against his ear. “What’d you find out?”
“Well, as far as that tip from Jeanine at the diner, I haven’t been able to find that little girl on video with the two adults.
I’ve pulled all the local businesses’ videos I could from last Friday, when she said she waited on them.
The problem is that the restaurant is on the far end of town.
Not many other buildings around it. But I checked all the logical places that had cameras, hoping they’d caught a view of a car or something. ”
Prineville wasn’t a big town. It was around thirty-five miles northeast of Bend with about eleven thousand people. Max wasn’t surprised that the follow-up came directly from the chief of police.
Disappointment filled him. Another solid-sounding tip that didn’t pan out. “I appreciate you looking into it and giving me a call, Chief.”
“I’ve got more, Agent Rhodes.”
“Apologies. Go on.”
“Last night one of my boys took a report at a motel east of town. They’d had some guests pay with a stolen credit card.
The people had stayed two nights and left before the card had been reported stolen.
While being interviewed, the motel owner told the officer that the couple had a little blonde girl with them.
He didn’t think much of it until today, when he heard about the missing girl, and that I was following up on a tip from the diner. ”
Two sightings in one small town.
A small glimmer of hope returned.
“Nice work. Were you able to get any images of the child from the motel?”
“No cameras on-site. But I just called the motel, and the room hasn’t been cleaned yet, so it’s available if you want someone to take a look at it.”
A motel room that’d probably had a thousand inhabitants and limited cleanings over the years. The chief would know this and assume the task force would want to do its own investigation of the room because evidence related to Belle Beason would be hard to distinguish.
“Absolutely. Tell them to keep everyone out of the room. I’ll let you know when I can send someone out.”
The chief gave a small cough. “The owner isn’t very happy that I’ve taken one of her rooms out of rotation. It’s a small place, and summer is her busiest time. Makes up for the rest of the year, you know.”
“Then I’ll get someone right over there. Today,” Max promised.
“Much appreciated.” The chief ended the call.
Max tapped his fingers on his desk and then sent a quick text to Evan.
Max: Got another tip in Prineville. Chief would like us to handle investigation. Might require some evidence collection
Evan: Good tip?
Max: Could be
Evan: We’re spread thin at the moment. Tomorrow ok?
Max: According to him, no. I’ll go. I can be back in a couple hours
Evan sent an emoji with a raised eyebrow.
Max: Been at my desk all day reading reports and taking calls
Evan: Me too. Go
Max was out the door two minutes later.
During the forty-minute drive to Prineville, he took three phone calls and answered a half dozen texts. It felt good to be out of the office. The sun was warm and the sky a deep blue.
But Belle Beason is still missing.
He drove slowly through downtown Prineville.
He spotted signs for a couple of national chain hotels, but several of the other places to stay appeared to be owner-run motels.
Their one- or two-story, simple building style reminded him of the 1960s and ’70s.
Most of the motels could have used some paint and new blacktop, but many had cheerful signs out front offering fresh cookies or espresso to tempt travelers.
It was a competitive business. Max turned off the main drag, drove a few blocks, and then spotted the Dreamland Motel.
The entire building was a pale turquoise.
The motel gave a mid-century vibe with its long facade of turquoise stucco arches lining a single level of motel rooms with pastel doors in yellow, pink, and green.
Something he didn’t see a lot of in the Pacific Northwest. It would have fit right in in Cocoa Beach, Florida.
The building was neat. No weeds or potholes in the parking lot.
There wasn’t a cookie or espresso sign; instead, the motel offered Clean Rooms.
Always a good thing.
But Max believed that every motel or hotel should automatically have clean rooms. Not imply it was a perk.
A Prineville PD unit was backed into a parking space before motel room 8.
Max assumed locking the door in the quiet town would have been sufficient to keep anyone out, but he appreciated the police presence.
It showed the case was being taken seriously.
A young officer got out of the SUV and approached Max.
“Agent Rhodes?”
“Yes.” Max held out his hand and the man shook it.
“Officer Fryar. Chief asked me to stick around until someone showed up.”
“Locking the door wouldn’t be enough?”
Fryar glanced toward the motel lobby. “Ms. Crawford was pretty vocal about wanting to rent the room. Chief didn’t want to take any chances.”
Max frowned. “I’ll talk to her. You have the key?”
“No. You’ll need to ask Ms. Crawford for it. She’s the owner.”
“It sounds as if your main objective has been to keep the owner out.”
“You could say that. She’s asked me a half dozen times when you’d get here.”
Max scanned the parking lot. There were four vehicles, including his and the Prineville police department’s unit. There didn’t appear to be an immediate need for rooms.
“You can head out,” Max told the officer. “I’ve got it from here.”
Fryar glanced at the lobby again. “You sure? I can stick around a bit. It’s no problem at all.”
What am I walking into?
“Thanks. But go ahead and leave if the need arises.” Max headed toward the motel lobby, feeling the officer’s gaze on his back.
He opened the glass door, and bells jingled overhead.
A woman immediately popped up from where she’d been hidden behind the tall reception counter.
Max wondered if she was even five feet tall.
Energy radiated from her wiry form. Her short, curly hair was dyed a matte black, and her eyeshadow matched the turquoise of the building.
He wasn’t sure of her age. Somewhere close to his grandmother’s.
“You the FBI?” she asked. Tough, dark eyes glared at him. A thin stream of smoke rose from behind the counter, where he assumed she’d set down a cigarette, which had created the primary scent in the motel lobby.
“Yes. Max Rhodes.” He held out his identification, and she studied it carefully, looking to his face several times to compare it with the photo.
“You got a gun?” she asked.
“Why?” The question surprised him.
“You’re on my property. I got a right to know.”
He shifted his arm, which opened his jacket the littlest bit, just enough to let her see he was armed.
“Me too.” She gestured behind the counter, and he stepped forward to see she’d indicated an over-and-under shotgun leaning against a shelf near a full ashtray.
“Nice gun,” he said, wondering how she lifted it when it was nearly as big as she was.
“That’s the decoy.”
He looked back at her and was surprised by a small pistol that had appeared in her hand, balanced flat on her palm. He had no idea where it’d come from. “That’s a smooth trick,” he said, impressed.
“Been doing this forty-five years. I’ve been held up six times,” she told him as the pistol vanished into a fanny pack under her thick cardigan.
“After the first time, I knew I had to look out for myself. The last five guys didn’t get a dime from me.
Not that people pay cash much anymore. Everyone’s got a card.
” She sniffed. “Fucking banks making a fortune.”
“Anything happen to the last five guys?” Max asked, amused at her disgust and realizing his grandmother had a similar cardigan.
“You asking if I shot any of them?”
“Did you?” he asked with a smile. Ms. Crawford might have intimidated Officer Fryar, but Max found her threatening sort of demeanor to be quite charming. Sort of like that of an angry kitten with sharp claws.
“Nah. Wanted to. But they all ran at the first sight of my guns and I let them go.” Disappointment flashed. “I didn’t want to have to explain to the police chief why they’d been shot in the ass. That’s a big no-no, you know.”
“I do know. They teach us that at the academy,” he said, keeping a straight face.
Ms. Crawford snorted, but mirth flashed in her gaze.
“Ready to show me the room?” he asked.
“This is about that little girl, right?”
“Yes. Belle Beason. Did you see her here?”
“Didn’t realize she was missing when Officer Fryar took my report about the stolen credit card. I guess he was the one who put two and two together today. I wish I’d seen her on the news before I checked them in. I would have figured it out.” She frowned, clearly chastising herself.
“If you checked them in on Saturday, we didn’t know she was missing yet. You didn’t get any camera views of them, right?”
“Nope. Too expensive to install and maintain. Don’t have their license plate either.
I stopped asking about vehicles long ago when registering guests.
There was no point. I’ve got plenty of parking, and if something happened to someone’s car, it was easy enough to figure out who it belonged to. Just had to bang on a few doors.”
“What do you remember about the little girl?” he asked to get her back on track.
“Quiet. Curious. The child kept playing with the water cooler. Parents didn’t say a word when she splashed water everywhere.” She furrowed her brows. “I guess they weren’t her parents, though.”