Beyond Limits (Tracers #8)(60)

“Looks like we’re taking the Southwest Freeway,” she said.

Torres glanced at her as he pulled out of the lot. “You’ve got a thing going with that guy, don’t you?”

She looked up. “Who, Derek?”

“Yeah, Derek.” He smiled. “The guy you’ve been drooling over ever since California.”

She glanced out the window, embarrassed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

She looked at him.

“Relax, it’s not that obvious,” he said. “But I’ve known you longer than most of these people.”

They picked up the freeway, and he veered into the left-hand lane. She was glad he was driving so she had a chance to get her thoughts under control.

The timing of all this couldn’t have been worse. She’d been handpicked for the most important case of her career, and she’d decided to become infatuated with one of the men involved.

She was now convinced, though, that the timing wasn’t accidental. At least, not on Gordon’s part. He’d selected her for this case. Her, a relative newbie compared with the other agents on the task force. And he’d done so knowing full well that she had a personal connection to one of the SEALs involved in the raid. There was an underlying plan there. Gordon didn’t do anything without a reason. And he didn’t miss much, either, which meant that he, like Torres, probably knew she now had a “thing” going with Derek.

Elizabeth sighed. “What am I doing?”

“I don’t know.”

Torres looked completely relaxed behind the wheel. He was so low-key about everything that sometimes she had to remind herself she wasn’t talking to Lauren.

He glanced at her. “Are you asking my advice?”

“I don’t know. Do you have any?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s hear it.”

He swerved around a minivan. “You want my advice as your friend or as someone who’d like to take you out sometime?”

“As my friend.” Whoa, talk about awkward. But he was grinning now, so she hoped he wasn’t taking any of this too seriously. She should have waited to talk to Lauren.

“As your friend, my advice is to look at his rap sheet,” he said.

“He doesn’t have a rap sheet.”

“His personal rap sheet. You know, with girls. Women,” he corrected himself, cutting a glance at her. “Is he a love-’em-and-leave-’em type, or is he going to stick around? That’s what I tell my sisters to think about. If he’s the kind of guy who’s going to stick around and you like him . . .” He shrugged. “Then what the hell? Give him a shot.”

She turned to look out the window. It sounded logical and not that far removed from what they’d been taught about human behavior at the Academy. People were predictable. And the best predictor of future criminal behavior was past criminal behavior.

So what did Derek’s personal rap sheet tell her? She didn’t know. She didn’t know him well at all, which was one of the problems. But as for sticking around? That wasn’t happening. He wasn’t sticking anywhere—the SEALs were his life.

She looked at Torres again, hoping to dispel any awkwardness by being direct with him. “So what’s your other advice?”

He smiled. “That’s easy. Don’t waste your time with him. He’s a loser who’s going to break your heart and leave you in the dust.”

She choked out a laugh. “Great. Something to look forward to.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“You need to exit up here.”

Torres cut across two lanes of traffic and took the exit that would lead them to the Happy Trails Motel.

Situated between a Smoke ’n Toke and an adult video store, the place was high-class all the way. Elizabeth had found the phone number for it scrawled on a takeout menu in Matt Palicek’s apartment, which had prompted her to wonder if there was a chance they’d get lucky and learn that Ameen had been staying here at some point.

Torres slid into a space beside a souped-up black Cadillac with gold rims.

He straightened his tie. “I’m feeling a little underdressed,” he joked as they got out.

They approached the front office. The window beside the door sported a spiderweb crack and a hole clearly made by a bullet.

“Nice.” Torres pulled open the door. “Think they have a restaurant here? I’m craving crab cakes for lunch, maybe a little chardonnay.”

They stepped inside.

“Sixty a night, twenty an hour,” droned the man at the desk. He didn’t look up from his crossword puzzle as they approached him.

“Are you the manager?” Elizabeth asked.

He frowned at her over his reading glasses. “Who’s asking?”

She pulled out her ID, and he muttered something under his breath. His gaze slid to Torres.

“Your people were here yesterday. I told them I didn’t see the guy.”

“Which guy?” Torres leaned a palm on the counter.

“Are you here about the drug bust?”

“Nope.”

The manager frowned at Elizabeth again as she pulled a photo from the pocket of her blazer. “We’re looking for this man.” She slid the picture of Ameen across the counter.