murdered.
He felt something hard under the sole of his boot. He backed up, then dug in the matted carpet. Caught under the orange fibers was a clear plastic cap, the kind used to cover the needle of a syringe.
It could have been there for years too.
He left the room, closing the door behind him. At the lobby desk, he found Willie. “I need a list of phone calls made from room six,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Willie said. “Invasion of privacy and all that.”
“Cut the crap,” Daniel said wearily. “Just get me the numbers.”
Willie went to the handprint-smeared computer and clicked a few keys. The printer hummed, then Willie tore off the paper and handed it to Daniel.
It wasn’t exactly a list. There were only two phone numbers on the paper-Daniel’s, and one with a Washington state area code. “Don’t clean room six,” he told Willie. Then he thought he’d better clarify that. “And don’t rent it to anybody.”
“That’s a waste of a perfectly good room,” Willie griped.
“The police department will pay for it.” Willie couldn’t refuse payment on a room nobody was using.
Back in the squad car, Daniel pulled out his cell phone and punched in the unknown phone number.
An answering machine. A man’s voice.
Daniel hung up. Brother? Almost had to be.
What a strange feeling, to have made love to a woman he knew absolutely nothing about.
He started the car and headed for the police station.
Chapter Twenty-One
Drugs sang in Cleo’s veins. If she’d cared to lift her head, she couldn’t have done it.
So tired. But it was a good kind of tired, the kind of tired that was the door to oblivion, to a numbness that was deeper than the deepest sleep. That numbness welcomed her. It wrapped its arms around her, pulling her down…
Daniel took the steps in front of the police station two at a time, so preoccupied with Cleo’s disappearance that he didn’t see Burton Campbell until he almost smacked into him.
“Heard your psychic skipped town,” Campbell said.
“Maybe,” Daniel said curtly. The last thing he wanted was to chitchat with Campbell.
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“I’m not convinced she left of her own free will.”
Campbell ’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Yeah?” He aimed his eager Boy Scout curiosity at Daniel. “You think somebody made her leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who would do that? And why? I’ll bet she skipped town. She was a flake. A con artist. You said so yourself.”
“I don’t seem to recall you backing me up on it.”
Campbell shrugged.
“I gotta go. I’ve got some calls to make.”
“If you need any help, let me know.”
Cleo tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. Her body ached from lying in one position for so long. Her skin hurt.
She opened her eyes.
Total darkness.
She rolled to her stomach, stirring up the straw beneath her, along with the smell of age and mold and dead mice. She waited for the pain to subside before shoving herself upright on bare feet. Blindly she reached out, her fingers coming in contact with rough, weathered wood. Searching for a door, her hands moved over boards and seams and corners.
No door.
She must have missed it.
She felt the walls again, panic increasing with each step, with each turn, counting four walls, going around again.
No door.
She dropped to her knees and dug through the straw, sweeping it away until her fingers scraped cold, damp earth.
She was underground.
Daniel checked out the phone number he’d gotten from Willie and found it had a Seattle prefix. Now, in his office, he tried the number again. This time Adrian Tyler answered.
“This is Daniel Sinclair,” he began. “I’m a police officer in Egypt, Missouri.”
“Cleo,” the man said immediately, almost as if he’d been expecting Daniel’s call. “Something’s happened to Cleo.”
“Nothing’s happened,” Daniel said quickly, hoping to reassure him. “Are you her brother?”
“Yeah.” The panic was still heavy in the man’s voice. “What’s going on? Is Cleo all right?”
“It looks like your sister left town before fulfilling her obligations, but I’m just making sure that’s all there is to it. Have you heard from her?”
“Not for several days. What do you mean, left town? You’re talking about my sister as if she’s running some kind of scam. Tell me what you know, tell me what’s going on.”
Daniel told him about the empty motel room, leaving out the blood and syringe cap since he didn’t know if there was any connection.
“Cleo wouldn’t just leave without good reason. There had to be some reason. Something you’re not telling me.”
Daniel thought about the night before, about how upset Cleo had been when she’d left his house. He should have gone after her. “There were some reasons, things I won’t go into right now, but I know she wanted to leave. It was no surprise to find her room empty.”
“She would have called. She always leaves a number where she can be reached.”
“If you hear from her, call me,” Daniel told him. He gave him three different phone numbers, then hung up.
Cleo heard scraping, like the sound of wood being dragged across wood. Suddenly the hatch above her head creaked open and light seeped into the small, underground room. Her heart beating frantically in her chest, Cleo played dead as she lay on the floor, watching from under her arm as a ladder was lowered.
Burton Campbell climbed down the ladder. He wore the same shiny shoes he’d worn in the motel room, the same dark jeans. He bounced a little when his feet hit the straw, and he made a rustling sound as he approached.
“Cleo?” The voice was near, just a few inches away. He shook her arm. He slapped the side of her face. He rolled her to her back.
She moaned, but didn’t open her eyes.
“I brought you some clothes.”
She heard the rustle of a paper bag.
