“I’m listening.”
And when Kincaid found out that the agent was in North Carolina, he realized it was destiny after all that was bringing them together.
And he was always glad to fulfill that.
50
As I crossed the street toward the federal building I noticed that the crime-scene investigation unit had finished with Margaret’s car. Nothing remained in the parking lot to tell the world a dead body had been there earlier in the day except for a discarded wisp of yellow police tape scurrying across the blacktop. I wondered how the CSIU team was doing with the remains of Grolin’s house and that cave. Probably had to hire a local vertical rescue and assist team to help them rappel into the cavern.
As I looked around the parking lot, I glanced back at my hotel and noticed the curtains flutter shut in a room on the second floor.
Wait a minute.
My room was on the second floor.
I counted the windows.
No maids would be in there this late in the day.
Someone was in my room.
For a split second I thought about charging into the federal building and trying to round up some help, but I discarded the idea immediately. No time. Whoever’s in my room will be long gone by the time we arrive.
I sprinted back across the street, bolted up the stairs to the second floor, and whipped out my SIG.
I opened the stairwell door and scanned the hall. No one.
Eased down the hallway.
Room 231.
Someone followed you this morning on your way into town.
Room 229… 227… 225…
Now someone’s in your hotel room.
223…221…219…
I leveled my gun.
… 217.
The door was closed, locked. I pressed my ear against it, listened. Yes, movement. Someone was definitely inside.
I slid my key into the lock and slowly nudged the door open. I couldn’t see the entire bedroom, just the entryway. Whoever was in there was around the corner out of sight, opening and closing drawers.
I cleared my throat. “I’m a federal agent. It’s been a really long day, and I’m holding a very wicked gun. So don’t move.” I don’t think those are the exact words we’re supposed to use, but it seemed to do the trick.
The sound of the drawers stopped.
“Do something stupid, and you’ll end up dead,” I said.
I heard whoever it was mumble something.
“Step out slowly.” I eased forward, steadied my gun. “Hands in the air.”
A tall, angular man, mid-forties, with a tangled sallow beard and big ears stepped into view. “Don’t shoot!” His hands were shaking. “I’m an investigator!”
“What?”
He reached for his pocket.
“Hands up! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He froze. “I’m just trying to get my wallet.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Lie down. And watch those hands.”
He lay on the floor. I smelled something sharp. Urine. The guy had wet his pants. Not quite what I would have expected from our killer.
He was facedown on the carpet now, his hands spread.
“Was that you this morning following me in your car?”
He nodded.
I reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped it open. “Reginald Trembley, private investigator? That you?”
He nodded.
Don’t be stupid, Pat, play it safe. Remember, the killer knows how to get close. To gain trust.
I pulled out some plastic cuffs and slipped them around his wrists, yanked them tight. He grunted, but I didn’t care. “This is just so we can talk without me having to hold a gun in your face the whole time. All right?”
He nodded again.
I holstered my gun and quickly frisked him to see if he was packing a piece or if he’d taken anything from my room. He seemed clean. I helped him up and sat him on the bed, then asked him, “So who are you working for? What are you doing in my room?”
He seemed to have regained some of his courage since emptying his bladder. He sneered at me. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I’d expected as much. “OK. I completely understand.” I picked up the room phone and dialed a number. “Yeah, Dante, it’s Pat. I’m at the hotel: room 217. Caught someone rummaging through my things. I want you to come over. He doesn’t want to talk. Bring the stuff.” I hung up the phone.
A wave of fear washed over Reginald Trembley’s face. “Who’s Dante?” he said. “What’s ‘the stuff’?”
I walked into the bathroom, pulled down the shower curtain, then returned to Trembley.
“Dante’s a friend.” I glanced at my watch. “He was right across the street. I’d say you have about two minutes before he gets here. If I were you, I’d talk now. Because when Dante gets here, things are going to get messy. Dante is really good at his job.”
I laid the shower curtain on the floor in front of Trembley and spread it smooth. His lips were quivering. The guy was about to cry. “Bethanie’s parents hired me,” he said.
“Bethanie? Bethanie Dixon?”
He nodded.
I went for some towels. “Why?”
“They think she was murdered. What’s that shower curtain for?”
“She was murdered. It’s to protect the carpet.”
“No, by the cult members from the group she was with out West.”
I returned with the towels. “Cult? I thought she was studying in a private college in New Mexico.”
“That’s the line they used to cover things up, to tell the family members.” He eyed the shower curtain spread out at his feet. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m not going to, Dante is. What else? You have ninety seconds.”
Trembley’s rate of delivery began to improve dramatically. “Bethanie joined this group. I’m not sure who the leader is; everyone just calls him the Father. He claims he was there at Jonestown, you know Jonestown?”
I got the iron out of the closet. “I’ve heard of it. Keep going.”
“Claims he was there as a kid and survived. I don’t know if it’s true or not. You don’t need that iron, OK? I’m talking, all right?”
I plugged it in.
“Her parents wanted me to get her out of the group; they were gonna sue, I think.” He was talking so fast now I could barely keep up. “But then he let her go, and she turned up dead. They’re pretty sure his group did it, but the cops said it was a serial killer.”
“What do you know about this guy they call the Father?” I glanced at my watch. “One minute.”
“I don’t know, I swear! I’m not really that good. I didn’t find out very much, and then when she ended up dead and-”
