When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(73)

I go with a simple handshake. My mind isn’t working anymore. I’ve gone down some rabbit hole where nothing feels real.

Keith, once again, has held it together. He thanks Walt for his time, the tour, the meal. Wishes him the best with his microgreens—why not? Mentions we’d probably visit again soon. Might bring an associate or two—such as the police.

Walt nods nervously, wiping his hands again and again on the legs of his jeans. He agrees to all.

We regard each other for a long moment. I can tell he has no more apologies in him, and I know I have no more forgiveness in me, so I guess that makes us even.

“Thank you for the fish,” I manage.

Then I follow Keith out the door and let him drive us back to the hotel.



* * *



—

“I’M SORRY,” THE MOTEL ATTENDANT says the moment we walk through the lobby doors. “You must leave.”

I stare at Keith. I haven’t been of sound mind for hours now, so maybe I’m mishearing this.

Keith: “Excuse me?”

“We cannot have you as guests anymore. You must go.” The attendant is the same man from yesterday. Small of stature, slight build, thick dark hair, and very nervous hands. He’s clasping and unclasping them now, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.

“I thought these rooms were reserved for a week.” Keith, taking charge.

“Yes. But there has been a change. Please get your things. I can give you a list of other properties.”

“Is there a problem with our rooms?” Keith asks.

“Yes. That’s it.” The tiny man brightens. I stare at him intently. He is the worst liar I’ve ever encountered.

“Then we’ll take another set of rooms.”

“You can’t.”

“We can’t?”

“The problem . . .” The man purses his lips, clearly thinking hard. “The problem is with all the rooms!” Fresh smile. He believes he has saved himself. I’m wondering if there are any straws in the small breakfast nook. I’ve used them to kill before. I’m sure I can do it again.

Keith takes hold of my hand, clearly sensing my mood. “So you’re kicking everyone out? All of your guests?”

“Yes!”

“The entire assembled law enforcement team? FBI agents, county police? You do not want these fine and upstanding officers in your establishment?”

Dark rounded eyes. Fresh hesitation.

“There’s a problem with all the rooms,” the attendant repeats again. His voice sounds squeaky.

Keith perfectly composed, “I demand to speak to the manager.”

Finally a normal reaction. The attendant pulls himself together, puffs out his chest. “I am the manager!”

“Then I demand to speak to the owner.”

“I am the owner! This is my establishment! Now you must leave. Go!”

Behind us, the lobby doors open. Kimberly comes striding in with D.D. Some young girl dressed as a maid follows in their footsteps. The girl has a slight limp and drooping face and she’s staring about in complete bewilderment.

“I met Jacob Ness’s father,” I hear myself say.

“The motel is kicking us out,” Keith adds at the same time.

Kimberly and D.D. stop. The girl gazes at me wide-eyed.

“Give me thirty seconds with this guy,” I announce, “and we’ll have our rooms back.”

“D.D.” Kimberly instructs dryly, “Get your dog back on her leash.”

“One more word,” D.D. informs me, “and I’ll call your mother.”

I growl low in my throat. The sound of frustration. But she has me and she knows it. Because then my mom will call Dr. Samuel Keynes. And once my FBI victim advocate is involved . . . things get complicated. As D.D. well knows.

“So, about our rooms.” Kimberly turns to the manager. Her voice is softer when she wants it to be. With a trace of the South that’s been her home for a decade now. D.D. and I will always be true North. Kimberly, on the other hand, can pull off local charm. “What seems to be the problem?”

The tiny man is eager to talk to her. He pulls his gaze quickly from me. “Um . . . mechanical. All rooms must be evacuated. Everyone. Everyone must go.”

“Even though we paid for an entire block of rooms for the week? Arranged through the county sheriff’s department?”

“Sorry. So sorry. Nothing can be done. Everyone must go.”

“Do you have a list of places we could try instead?”

“Yes!”

“Except . . .”

The manager—or owner, or whatever—flushes.

“My memory,” Kimberly says calmly, “is that this was one of the only places that could accommodate a group of our size. Furthermore, given that we’re about to go into the weekend during the busy fall season, what are the chances of any of these new places having rooms available?”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I don’t think we will. I think you’re trying to kick us out of town. Split up the taskforce group. Or maybe force us all back to Atlanta. Now why would you want to do that?”

“The motel has a mechanical problem,” the man squeaks again.

“You certainly are about to,” I mutter.