What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(28)

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“To speak to the manager,” he said.

She scurried to keep up with his long strides, her gaze darting around the nearly empty parking lot. Was the killer somewhere out there watching them? Savoring the fear that he was creating?

Keeping close to Griff ’s side, she stepped into the office. She grunted at the suffocating temperature. Did the manager hope to convince any stray traveler that whatever the hotel might lack in elegance it made up for in sheer heat?

There was a loud creak as the reclining chair was pushed upright and a large male form wrestled its way out of the cushions to shuffle toward the counter.

The night manager was a man in his late fifties with a small fringe of gray hair and a large, soft body that moved at the pace of a drunken snail. His round face was wreathed in a welcoming expression, although there was a hint of pain in his pale eyes. As if the mere task of standing made his bones ache.

“Evening, folks,” he said in a hearty tone. “Can I get you a room?”

Carmen stepped forward. The room was in her name. Which meant she would have to take the lead in questioning the manager.

“Actually, I’m already a guest,” she said. “I’m Carmen Jacobs in room seven.”

“Oh, yes.” His gaze shifted to Griff. “And you, sir?”

He wrapped an arm around Carmen’s shoulders. “I’m with the lady.”

Despite her raw nerves, Carmen felt a blush stain her cheeks. Not at Griff ’s implication that they were lovers. But at the pleasure that the mere thought stirred deep inside her.

“I see.” The man heaved a disappointed sigh. “Is there something you need?”

“I want to know if you let anyone into my room,” she said. “I recently returned to discover that someone had left me roses.”

The man scowled before he gave a snap of his fingers.

“Oh, right,” he said. “There was a deliveryman who came about an hour ago. I tried to have him leave the flowers at the desk. I don’t like entering a guest’s room, but he insisted that the person who’d ordered them had been very specific that the flowers be given directly to you, Ms. Jacobs.” The man’s face twisted, as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. “The driver all but implied he thought we couldn’t be trusted to see that you received them.”

Carmen frowned. Had the killer masqueraded as the deliveryman?

Griff pulled out his phone. “Do you remember the name of the flower company?” he demanded.

“Yep.” The man began sorting through a messy stack of papers. “I made them leave a card in case something wasn’t right.”

He finally located a black business card that was embossed with gold lettering and handed it toward Carmen.

“I’ll check it out.” Griff reached out to pluck it out of her fingers. He was dialing the number as he paced away from the desk.

The manager cleared his throat. “Did I do something wrong?”

Carmen sent him a strained smile. “I’m just trying to find out who sent the flowers.”

The older man shrugged. “Some secret admirer, no doubt.”

Carmen’s mouth went dry. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”





Chapter Eight


Ten minutes later they were back in Carmen’s hotel room.

Griff had reached the flower shop listed on the business card and had a confirmation that yes, they’d received an order earlier that day for the roses to be delivered to Ms. Jacobs at the hotel. Yes, it had been a man. Yes, he’d insisted the flowers be delivered directly to Ms. Jacobs’s room. Yes, he’d paid by credit card and added a hefty bonus to ensure the delivery was made despite the icy roads. And yes, the driver had been with the store for the past six years.

Which meant that it wasn’t the killer who’d entered the room.

Ignoring the manager’s curious stare, Griff hustled Carmen out of the office and back to her room. If the killer had left a paper trail, Griff could follow it.

Or at least that was his assumption.

As he sat on the edge of the bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, his confidence took a severe nosedive.

Shit.

It had been a simple matter to trace the invoice for the red roses to a credit card. And to discover that the mystery person tormenting Carmen was not only cruel, but fiendishly clever.

“The flower shop is legit, but the credit card is bogus,” he growled.

She moved to stand next to the bed, her face pale in the muted light.

“How can you be sure?”

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. “The name on it is Frank Hammel.”

She jerked in shock. “It couldn’t be the real one.”

He gave a decisive shake of his head. It wasn’t impossible to manipulate the world from behind bars. But Frank Hammel wasn’t a part of a Mafia organization, or the member of a loyal gang. From what Carmen had told him the man was a loner, like many serial killers, without connection to friend or family. Plus, there was no way he could possibly have known that Carmen was at this hotel. Not when his computer search had just revealed the older man was lying comatose in a hospital bed.

“No, it wasn’t Hammel.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist. “It’s just another part of the game.”