Sunset Beach(100)

“Do you know who she texted that night?”

“It was a teacher at her daughter’s school. Nothing of interest.”

“No sign of Neesa,” Drue pointed out. “Which means she lied when she told me she and Jazmin got together during their break that night.”

The two women continued watching as Jazmin and her cart worked a route through the hotel hallways, each time stopping outside a room and consulting a printed list. Occasionally, Jazmin picked up a small handheld radio and spoke into it.

“Who’s she talking to?” Drue asked.

“The front desk. The clerks call housekeepers to determine whether a room has been cleaned and is ready for checkin, or they’ll call up to have more towels or soaps delivered to a room if a guest requests it,” Hernandez said.

“She cleaned a total of twelve rooms that night,” Hernandez said. “Trust me, there’s nothing more worth watching, so I’m gonna speed it up to show you the last room Jazmin cleaned that night, room 133, because I’m tired and I want to go home and see my family and take a bath.”

Drue thought better of protesting.

“Here we go,” Hernandez said, pausing the video at the 11:05 point.

The video showed a housekeeper in a Gulf Vista smock and baseball cap stopped outside a room. The woman passed her key card over the door’s lock and entered. At 1:32, she emerged from the room and set off down the hallway with the cart, getting into the elevator, then walking down the walkway to the laundry room.

“And that’s it,” Hernandez said. “The last time we have her on camera.”

“Can you back that up so I can see it again?” Drue asked.

Hernandez sighed dramatically but did as her guest asked.

Drue leaned in closer, staring at the computer screen. The angle of the security camera showed the housekeeper from above, but her face was obscured by the bill of the baseball cap.

“That last room she cleaned, did you guys find anything there?” Drue asked.

“Nothing. Turns out Jazmin was a really thorough worker,” Hernandez said. “We questioned the last guest who’d stayed in the room, but he didn’t know anything. He checked out late that afternoon because he had a family emergency. In fact, we checked all the rooms in that wing the next morning, and found zip.”

“Meaning, you never discovered where she was killed,” Drue said.

“It’s a big property. Two hundred rooms, guests checking in and out, and hotel staff busy cleaning up what could have been evidence.”

Hernandez stood up, stretched and yawned. “Okay, party’s over. I’m out, and so are you.”

Drue hesitated. “I’d really like to watch that video again. All of it.”

“No way,” Hernandez retorted. “I’m not hanging around here for another minute. And you’re done poking your nose in police business.”

“You could just transfer it to a flash drive,” Drue suggested. “I’ll take it with me and watch it again. Who knows? Maybe a fresh set of eyes will catch something you missed.”

Hernandez shook her head again and muttered something under her breath. But ten minutes later Drue was back in the white Bronco, the flash drive tucked securely in her purse.





47


She let herself into the deserted office again, switching on lights as she went. “Next paycheck,” she muttered, seating herself at her desk, “I buy myself a laptop. Screw the roof.”

The grainy video played out again on her computer screen, and she yawned, wishing for coffee but too tired to trek to the break room to brew a pot. She fast-forwarded the video to the 11:05 mark and watched again as Jazmin Mayes removed her baseball cap, lifted her key card from around her neck and slid it into the door lock, then put the cap in place again before entering the room. She reversed, then froze the frame showing Jazmin’s face, tilted for only a moment toward the camera.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, reaching for her phone.



* * *



“Hello?” The childish voice on the other end was breathless.

“Uh, hi,” Drue said. “I’m trying to reach Rae Hernandez.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Drue Campbell.”

“I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Is this her son?” Drue asked. “Because it’s really important I speak to your mom.”

“I’m not allowed to say,” the child replied. “How do you spell Campbell?”

“It’s C-A-M-P-B-E-L-L. Like the soup.” At one point in her childhood, Drue’s skate rat pals had actually nicknamed her Soup.

She searched her mind, trying to remember the kid’s name. She could picture him, standing at bat, the legs of his baseball pants bagging over the tops of his high red socks. “This is Dez, right? Rae’s son?”

“I’m not allowed to say,” he repeated.

“Please tell your mom it’s really, really important that I speak to her tonight. As soon as possible. Will she be home later?”

“I’m not allowed to say.” The boy was definitely his mother’s son, as well as a cop’s kid.

“Ask her to call me, will you, Dez?”