Keep Her Safe(92)

“Is that a warning?” What does Klein know that he’s not telling me?

“That’s good advice. Take it.”

Noah strolls down the hall then, the gym bag dangling from his fingers. “I wrote down all the names that Betsy might be going by, and her birth date. We’ve already checked for arrest and death records.” He holds out the envelope, his tidy writing scrawled across the front of it. “The gun holster is inside the bag.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Noah . . . finally. Bill will take care of collecting this. I take it your fingerprints are all over the holster?”

Noah nods. “And the money.”

“He’ll make note of that. And as soon as you’re done with him, you two need to head to our office to give your official statements. The address is on my business card, but just in case you lost it . . .” He produces a card from his wallet and hands it to me. “Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. No? Too young to appreciate that joke? Fine. Get there right away. This is now an active federal investigation. You are not to discuss this with anyone, including the district attorney.” He levels Noah with a look of warning. “If I find out that you have, I’ll nail you with obstruction. Anything else I need to know?”

“Dwayne Mantis pulled us over yesterday and—” Noah begins.

“Gracie’s filled me in already. Sorry—Grace. I’d stay away from him, if I were you.”

No worries there. “I need that picture of my aunt back when you’re done. It’s the only one we have of her.”

Sympathy flashes across Kristian’s face, so fast that I wonder if I imagined it. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Better let you get to it, then.” Noah has one hand on the door, looking ready to slam it in Kristian’s face. I’m not used to this sharper side of him. It’s nice to know he has one, and even nicer to know he’s never felt the need to use it on me, no matter how abrasive I’ve been toward him.

Even if Kristian is just doing his job, I can’t help but feel like he’s doing me a personal favor. Maybe I should be nicer to him. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Noah watches Kristian through narrowed eyes as the FBI agent strolls down the steps and path, stopping to talk with Bill.

“You really don’t like him.”

“He rubs me the wrong way,” he admits, a brooding frown creasing his forehead.

“At least he’s smart enough to bring the expensive coffee when it’s this early.”

“He’s trying to convince us that he’s a good guy.” Noah smirks, echoing my earlier accusation as he collects the tray, handing me mine.

“And you don’t think he is?”

“He could be,” he admits reluctantly. “But I have this gut feeling that he’s after more than just Mantis’s head.”

I hesitate. “Like whose? The chief?”

“There is no chief. Well, there’s the interim, but he wouldn’t be after him.”

“No, I mean the one who was chief when my dad died,” I say as casually as I can.

“Who, Canning?” Noah seems to think on that. “Maybe. I don’t know how far he’ll get with that. Everyone loves that guy.”

Not everyone. Not Klein. “Have you met him?”

“He was at Silas’s when I went for dinner last week.” Noah shrugs. “He seems like a good guy. You know, one of those people who throws out an open invitation to his ranch and means it.”

“He actually did that? Invited you out?”

“Yeah . . .” He frowns. “Why?”

If I repeat what Kristian said about Canning’s motives for wanting my dad gone, will Noah then go and tell his uncle? And, if his uncle is as good friends with Canning as Kristian suggested, will he warn Canning that Kristian is on to him? “You don’t let a suspect know that they’re a suspect until you’ve already caught them.”

Then why the hell would Kristian tell me in the first place? He knows there’s something going on between Noah and me, so he has to also assume I’d tell Noah about this. Is he testing me?

I can’t figure that guy out. It’s like I’m playing a game with him, where the stakes are high but I don’t know the rules.

“Gracie?”

“No reason. So, where is this FBI office? Is The Lucky Nine on the way?” Or Paradise Lane, as the motel is now called.

“Not really . . .”

I take a sip of my coffee, peering up at him with my best attempt at begging eyes. “Can it be?”

He grins. “Maybe. But you heard Klein. He said—”

“Do not pass go.” I shrug. “We’re not. We’re passing a seedy hooker motel.”

Noah rolls his eyes. “Fine. We’ll stop.” He points at Kristian’s car as it pulls away. “And, for the record, I do not trust him.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around,” I mumble under my breath as Bill the FBI evidence guy climbs the steps.



* * *



The vibrant feel of Austin’s downtown is long gone by the time we spot the green neon sign that towers over Paradise Lane, advertising daily, weekly, and monthly rates. The shady motel is located on the far outskirts of Austin’s lower-class suburbs, past the plain strip malls and sketchy chain gas stations, beside a freeway where a steady stream of cars buzzes by, off to other parts of Texas.