“No, it's not,” I said.
“You're sure about this?”
“Yes.”
Linderman's shoulder twitched again. Then he pulled his keys out of his pocket, and I followed him out the door.
Traffic in Broward was as unpredictable as the weather. Although the Executive Suites was not far, the drive took twenty minutes. We pulled into the parking lot, cursing.
The FBI's surveillance van was parked in a handicap spot and was painted to look like a dry-cleaning service. Linderman tapped three times on the rear door. The door opened, and Saunders hopped out.
“Skell hasn't gone anywhere,” Saunders said, lighting a cigarette. “His suite is right in view, and there are no back windows he can escape through.”
“Has he had any visitors?” I asked.
“Chase Winters, the movie producer, paid him a visit fifteen minutes ago,” Saunders said. “He's also staying at the hotel.”
“What did he want?” I asked.
“He was bringing some stuff to Skell.”
“What kind of stuff?”
Saunders shook his head.
“Did you film Winters going into Skell's room?”
Saunders nodded while exhaling a large purple plume.
“I need to see it,” I said.
We climbed into the back of the van. The interior was filled with sophisticated electronic monitoring equipment. Saunders's partner sat up front wearing a pair of headphones, and he gave us the thumbs-up.
One wall of the van was nothing but digital monitors. Saunders played the tape of Winters going into Skell's suite. Winters wore loose-fitting designer clothes, a baseball cap, and shades. His diamond earring sparkled as he walked. Clutched to his chest was an open cardboard box containing several bottles of champagne. Dangling from his fingers was a plastic bag from CVS.
Winters used his foot to knock on the door to Skell's suite. The door opened, and Skell stuck his head out. He looked around, then put his arm around Winters's shoulder and ushered him inside.
The tape ended. Saunders hit a button, and the monitor switched back to real time.
“I want to know what's inside that bag from CVS,” I said.
Saunders looked at Linderman as if seeking confirmation.
“I think that's a good idea,” Linderman said.
Saunders called the CVS pharmacy on the corner. A minute later he had an answer.
“Chase Winters made six purchases on his Visa Card,” Saunders said. “Razors, shaving cream, a box of cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, a package of sewing needles, and a can of black shoe polish.”
Linderman looked at me. “What did he want with that stuff?”
I shook my head. There was no way of knowing what Skell was up to.
“The movie producer is coming out,” Saunders's partner announced.
On the monitor we saw Chase Winters emerge from Skell's suite. He was holding the cardboard box up to his chest, and his baseball cap was pulled down low. His diamond earring continued to sparkle. He walked to his own suite, unlocked the door, and went in.
Something didn't feel right. Without thinking I lifted my head, and banged the roof of the van. The pain made me see the discrepancy.
“Play the tape again,” I said.
Linderman and Saunders stared at me.
“Come on,” I said.
Saunders replayed the tape. I brought my face to the screen and stared at Winters's feet. He was wearing black tennis sneakers. They didn't match his outfit, and I was reminded of Shannon Dockery's abduction at Disney. Her abductors had painted her shoes instead of switching them because shoe sizes were hard to predict.
Then I knew. The man we'd just seen wasn't Chase Winters. It was Skell, wearing Winters's clothes and earring, his sneakers colored with dark shoe polish. He had staged his escape right beneath our noses.
“That's Skell,” I shouted.
The FBI agents beat me out of the van and across the lot.
With weapons drawn, they took down the door to Winters's suite. I waited a few seconds before following them inside. This was their show, not mine.
The living room was empty, save for the cardboard box lying on the floor. I walked into the bedroom and found Saunders and his partner climbing through an open window that led to a courtyard behind the motel. They had checked Skell's suite for escape windows, but not Winters's suite. My nightmare had become reality. Skell was free.
As Saunders and his partner ran across the courtyard in pursuit, Linderman frantically punched numbers into his cell phone and called for backup.
“Where's the other teams?” I asked.
Linderman looked at me, not understanding.
“You said there would be three teams of agents assigned to watch Skell. Where are the other two teams?”
Linderman shook his head. He didn't know. I cursed and started to leave.
“Where are you going?” Linderman asked.
“Next door,” I said. “I want to see what he did to them.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The door to Skell's suite was unlocked. So as not to taint the crime scene, I twisted the knob using my shirttail, then used my shoe to open the door.
I stuck my head into the darkened space. So did my dog, who'd climbed out of the 4Runner to join me.
The living room had its shades drawn, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The sounds of a man's tortured breathing filled the void and painted pictures in the dark too gruesome to describe. I opened the door all the way and let sunlight flood the room.
A hazy cloud of cigarette smoke hung lifelessly in the air, as did the sweet smell of champagne. I drew my Colt as I stepped inside.
The voice was muffled. My eyes scanned the room's interior. Leonard Snook sat in the corner, tied to a chair with a bedsheet. A sock was stuck in his mouth, and his face was turning a violent shade of blue. He had also soiled himself.
“How's the book coming?” I asked.
“I should let you die, you know that.”
I pulled the sock out of his mouth, and Snook sucked down air.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
Snook began to weep. The shock was so great he could not speak. I kicked the leg of the chair with my foot. The jolt made him sit upright.
“Start talking,” I said.
“Did he kill them in front of you?”
Snook shut his eyes, forcing out tears.
