Keep Her Safe(95)

A smirk touches Kristian’s lips as he runs his hand over that strip of wallpaper again. “Do me a favor, Grace, and go stand over there, on the other side of the bed. Pretend you’re Hernandez.”

As much as I don’t want to be playing the role of the dead drug dealer, I follow his instructions and wander over to stand where the carpet was patched.

“Take a look at the wall. What do you see?”

I squint. “Ducks?”

“Swans, actually. But look closely. What do you notice?”

I eye the expanse of ugly beige for a long moment before I notice a seam line, much like the one on Kristian’s side. “This piece looks newer. Not as dirty.” The strip of wallpaper runs about three feet wide, from floor to ceiling, just behind the nightstand.

“Right. It’s the same over here.” Kristian waves a hand in front of him. “If the motel owners cut out chunks of bloody carpet instead of just replacing it all, how much do you want to bet they also slapped remnant paper overtop blood splatter to save themselves the effort and money of re-wallpapering everything?”

“But . . . wait.” I frown as I try to recall the crime scene notes, riffling through the pages of the report that I brought with me. “It says here that the blood splatter was on that wall.” I point to the wall directly behind Kristian, which divides the bedroom area from the bathroom. “And on the window.”

“You’re right. That’s what it says. And it would line up with the story that Wilkes and Hernandez took each other down, standing on either side of this bed.”

“But . . .” Noah pushes.

“Hernandez took one bullet in the head, killing him instantly. That means he would have had to pull the trigger first. Right?”

I glance at Noah to see him nod.

“Let’s suppose the report is right for a sec. Hernandez is standing over there when he shoots Wilkes three times in the chest. Wilkes goes down, but before he does, he manages to fire off a round that kills Hernandez where he stands, over there.” He points at me. “The bullet goes right through Hernandez. Into his forehead and out the back of his skull at a hundred-and-eighty-degree angle, based on the coroner’s report.”

“That means Abe would have had to be standing,” Noah murmurs.

“Right. A guy gets shot three times in the chest and manages to lift his gun to shoot a guy head-on? Not impossible, but it’s definitely worth questioning. But what’s more interesting is the old news footage I found from that night. There was nothing on that window. No blood, from what I can see, and definitely no bullet hole.”

“So you’re saying there’s false evidence in the report?” Noah’s brow is tight with concentration.

“Well, let’s try another scenario. Wilkes and Hernandez are standing in the same place. Hernandez shoots Wilkes three times. Wilkes hits this wall,” Kristian falls backward to hit the strip of wallpaper that was replaced, “and then, just before going down, shoots Hernandez in the head.”

“But if that strip of wallpaper behind Gracie is hiding splatter from Hernandez, then . . .” Recognition fills Noah’s face. “Abe couldn’t have shot Hernandez.” Noah takes long backward strides to the opposite side of Klein. He raises his hand like a mock gun. “Someone would have had to be standing over here to shoot Abe. And then shoot Hernandez from over here.” He shifts over to the other side of the bed, closer to me.

There had to be a third person involved.

“Mantis,” I say automatically.

“Maybe,” Kristian agrees. “Turns out Luiz Hernandez was one of the APD’s informants, so it’s plausible that they knew each other.”

“And the room was rented out to Hernandez, right? He could have opened the door and invited Mantis right on in,” Noah murmurs. “Mantis probably shot Hernandez to keep him quiet.”

“And made him the scapegoat,” Kristian adds.

“Look at you two, getting along over murder theories.” I eye the cut-out carpet patches and strips of wallpaper with renewed interest. “How can we trust anything that’s in the report, then?”

Kristian’s phone chirps with a message. He disappears out the door.

“I’ll give him one thing: he hasn’t wasted time looking into this,” I murmur.

“Yeah, he’s a real superstar.” Noah’s voice drips with sarcasm. He studies the spot where my dad died for a long moment, a troubled look on his face.

“What are you thinking?”

He hesitates. “That Silas said he looked over every piece of evidence. He should have noticed this.”

I bite my tongue. Noah doesn’t need to hear my accusations right now.

Silence lingers in the dingy motel room for a long moment.

“I’ll be outside.” He turns and strolls out the door.

I wait a beat longer. Long enough to close my eyes and try to recall something about my father. Anything. That laugh that Noah mentioned the other day, that infectious booming sound. “We won’t let them get away with this,” I whisper into the empty room, before finally leaving.

I find Noah and Kristian around the corner.

“ . . . it’d be easy enough.” Noah leads us along the path. Room 116 is on the end of Building One and there’s a walkway between it and Building Two, which runs perpendicular. The walkway ends at the back, where there’s nothing but Dumpsters and open space and, beyond that, a commuter parking lot for the highway.