Chapter 3
3
T ucked in the corner, her back to the wall, Lina nursed a glass of mediocre but drinkable sake and stared at her phone. She needed to call her grandfather. By now, he’d know about his son’s death—he was annoyingly prescient that way—but he’d want to hear from her. That he hadn’t called her already?—
Her phone rang, the familiar UK country code flashing on her screen, cutting off that thought.
“Grandfather,” she answered.
“You know.”
“I found him. He left me a…” She struggled to find the word. “Clue,” she settled on. “And told me to run. I did.”
“Good.”
“Any news from the police?”
“They are bumbling. Doing the usual.”
“Bumbling into the truth happens more than we like.”
“ Americans bumbling into the truth happens more than we like,” he corrected in his King’s English. “ We do not bumble.”
She didn’t bother reminding him she was an American. With British parentage, her breeding won out in his mind.
“What did he leave you?” he asked.
“Twenty thousand dollars in cash and a map of Uncle Graham’s property.”
“Are you headed to California? The cash will help you remain discreet.” Maybe if she were in Afghanistan or Cuba, but walking into a hotel in the US and offering to pay cash—especially on the West Coast—would be a swift red flag. Not a discussion she wanted to have with her grandfather. They actually got on famously. She loved his intelligence and dry wit. But he could be tetchy about being corrected.
“I am,” she said. “Having a sake in his honor first. I’ll head out tomorrow.”
“The police are looking for you.”
“I assumed they would be. If they talk to my neighbor, she’ll tell them I like to take my bike on multiday trips. Especially when the weather is nice.”
“They’ll call you.”
“It’s amazing how spotty cell reception is in this country.”
He chuckled. “You’ll keep me updated.”
“I will.” She hesitated, then asked, “How are you?”
A beat of silence fell. He sighed. “We will find who did this and why,” was all he said before ending the call.
She took another sip of her drink and eyed the sparse crowd. Not a surprise this early in the evening. A man with an off-kilter mustache that reminded her of the cartoon character Yosemite Sam sat at the bar, nursing a beer while scrolling on his phone. A woman munched on chicken fingers at a table, a book in hand and a tall glass of soda on the table. A man about her age eyed her speculatively from his seat across the room. Not in an interested sort of way but more as if wondering what brought her to this particular roadside hotel bar.
Taking a page from the woman’s book, she signaled the waiter and asked for a plate of chicken tenders and a side of fries along with another drink. She wasn’t that hungry, but once she returned to her room, she didn’t plan on leaving again until the morning.
A third sake and a surprisingly good piece of apple pie later, she toed off her boots as the door of her room clicked shut behind her. Eyeing the go bag sitting on her bed, she mentally cataloged what it contained. She didn’t have a lot packed inside, but at least she’d have clean underwear tomorrow, and she considered that a win.
Her computer would have been a bonus, but she hadn’t needed it for her client meeting, so had left it at home that morning. Still, she had the TV for entertainment and her phone for news. She didn’t love staring at the tiny screen for long periods of time, but her need to know what—if anything—the police were doing about her father’s murder overrode any dislike.
Mentally bracing herself for what she might—or might not—find, she flopped onto the bed and began scrolling.
Another privacy curtain, another hotel, another parking lot view. She’d only made it as far as Redding, California before the front tire of her bike all but shredded. Thankfully, a reputable mechanic ran a shop on the south side of town. Unfortunately, after limping into said shop, she now found herself at another roadside hotel. Only this one was decidedly less well-maintained with exterior-facing doors, thin walls, and carpet that might have once been dark gray but was now spotted and faded with years of foot traffic. At least the sheets looked clean, and it was walking distance from the mechanic.
Two men on Harleys passed in front of her hotel, and irrational jealousy pricked at her as they rode smoothly down the road toward the highway. It wasn’t their fault she’d had the bad luck of running over the remains of an old car accident. Or that the replacement tire for her bike wouldn’t arrive until the next morning. In truth, she was lucky the pieces of debris that ruined it hadn’t flown up and hit her as the tire fell apart.
Still, the delay was annoying. Only three hours from her uncle’s property. Close, but not close enough.
Twitching the curtain back a bit more, she craned her head and scoped out the area. Two other hotels, a couple of gas stations, three fast-food restaurants, and one roadhouse bar. Judging by the smoke rising from behind the latter—and the aroma as she walked to the hotel—she anticipated a damn good barbecue dinner. Silver lining, she supposed.
Glancing at the digital clock on the bedside table, she debated whether to nap before heading out to eat. Other than scroll through her phone for more news, she had nothing else to do between now and dinner. Sighing, she started to step away from the window, but a man walking down the street caught her attention, and she turned back. On instinct, she dropped the curtain and shifted, staying out of view but still able to see through a small gap.
His lanky build looked familiar, and she studied him as he meandered down the sidewalk. Tall and gaunt, with a thick brown leather belt holding up his dark blue jeans. Black cowboy boots covered his feet, and he wore a long-sleeved, checked button-up. His hat rivaled Yosemite Sam’s.
She stiffened and willed the man to slow and look her way. She hadn’t thought about any cartoon in years. Decades probably. Now, in less than twenty-four hours, the image of Yosemite Sam had popped into her head twice. Not a good sign.
He ambled past the reception, his gaze fixed forward and the brim of his hat hiding his face. Halfway past her building, he paused.
She held her breath, then bit back a growl of frustration when he turned and studied the hotel across the street. Staring at his back, she mumbled quiet words he couldn’t hear, encouraging him to look her way. The longest twenty seconds of her life passed before he swung his body around. And faced her.
He couldn’t see her through the curtains, but she stilled, not wanting any movement to catch his attention. As he gazed at her building, she memorized his face. The same face, the same man from the hotel bar the evening before.
Briefly, she acknowledged that she might be acting paranoid. His features and build were very memorable, and he hadn’t done shit to try to blend in. Not the best strategy if he intended to follow her from the shadows.
But Redding was only six hours from Portland. Most people who traveled the I-5 corridor were only interested in getting from one point to another as quickly as possible. Stopping after six hours made no sense unless he reached his destination, which did not appear to be the case. Possibly, like her, he’d had car trouble. But the odds of that happening to both of them at the same time and in the same location were slim.
Shit.
When she hadn’t spotted anyone following her after leaving her dad’s house, she’d let her guard down. A rookie mistake. One she wouldn’t make again.
No one had followed her, though. She knew that for certain. Which meant he’d tracked her. Disgusted at her lack of vigilance, she left her spot by the window and picked up the little pink backpack lying on the bed. Dumping it out again, she examined every bundle of money and every inch of the map. Not finding any tracking device, she turned her attention to the bag itself. She spent twenty minutes taking it apart at the seams, and still, she found nothing.
From her position on the bed, she gazed out the window again. Sam had moved on, leaving only the hazy images of cars visible through the privacy curtain.
Her bike.
They—something told her Sam wasn’t working alone—must have put a tracker on her bike while she’d been inside her father’s house. It was the only way they could have found her.
Slowing her racing brain, she methodically sifted through the facts and reached only one conclusion: whoever killed her father was looking for something. They’d seen the map and thought it would lead them to it. But as detailed as the drawing was, it only marked a tiny area. An area that could be located anywhere in the world. They needed her to find it for them.
Fuck.
She needed to find whatever it was. She had a starting point—the property—but nothing in the drawing gave her any hint about where to look—or for what—when she got there.
How the hell would she dig around while keeping Sam and company off her trail? Especially now she had no transportation. She could remove the tracker from her bike when she picked it up, but Sam—and his assumed cohort—would likely be watching. Maybe she could lose them between Redding and the coast, but that was a risky bet. There weren’t many roads between I-5 and Eureka, making it easy to follow her and hard for her to lose them.
No, she needed new transport. She needed to leave her bike at the shop and let them think she remained in the area. And it wouldn’t hurt to have someone watching her back while she sussed out her father’s puzzle.
A pair of dark eyes and an easy smile popped into her head.
Without second-guessing herself, she picked up her phone and sent a text.