“You have to go,” Anna says as soon as I step inside.
“Yeah, baby, I gotta go.” I grab my shirt off the end of the bed and shrug into it, then pick up my shoes and take a seat to put them on. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but it’d help me out if you met with the designer for the kitchen. It took a couple weeks to get that appointment. If you can’t, I can ask Mom.”
“I’ll go,” she says as she walks to the kitchen, where she pours a cup of coffee into a travel mug. “I’ll explain you had to work and see if they can reschedule.” She brings me the cup, and I take it as I stand.
“You know what I want to do, baby, and if you have ideas, give it to them. Just let them know so they can start getting quotes on the job.”
She looks a little unsure, but still she says, “Okay.”
“Thanks.” I plant a quick kiss on her lips, then head toward the door, stopping with my hand on the knob to look at Bane.
“He’s good. I can take him with me.”
“If you find my cell around here, call Mom. She’s got Herb’s number. If it’s in my truck, where I think it is, I’ll call you when I can.”
“I’ll see you at home,” she says simply, and it’s that constant easy acceptance of my job that proves why she’s not just right for me but perfect for me in every way.
“I’ll see you at home.” I kiss her once more and then leave, forcing myself not to think about her, the life we’re building, or anything else that doesn’t have to do with the man whose life was taken sometime within the last couple of days.
I park in the lot of the hotel and get out of my truck before sending Anna a text to let her know I’ve got my cell so she doesn’t go searching for it. I walk past the two cruisers parked outside along with the crime scene van and enter the lobby, not stopping to talk with the uniformed officers talking near the front desk. I go to the elevator, and once it opens, I get in and press the button for the fifth floor. I follow the signs to the room and spot Herb outside on the phone, near the door. When he sees me, he ends the call and comes toward me.
“Fill me in,” I say, and he turns to walk at my side.
“Victim is Paul Bieben, forty-two, married with three kids, in town on business. His wife spoke to him two days ago when his flight landed, and he told her that he was going to check into his hotel and rest but would call her before he went to bed.”
“Did he call?”
“No, she said she sent him a couple messages but didn’t hear back from him. She said that wasn’t unusual, but when he didn’t call the next day, she started to get worried and tried calling him. He didn’t answer, so she tried the hotel and was told no one under that name was staying there.”
“Is this the hotel he told her he was staying at?”
“No, and the room isn’t under his name. It was booked under the name Andy Storm.”
“Was he having an affair?”
“His wife said they’ve had issues with infidelity in the past. That’s why she stopped looking for him when she called the hotel and found out he wasn’t there, and she decided to pack up her kids and drive from Georgia to Florida, where her sister lives.”
“Do you believe her?” I ask, knowing jealousy can make people act out of character.
“Yeah,” he says as we stop outside the open door to the hotel room, and he hands me a pair of shoe covers and gloves.
“Are you ready?”
“We’re never ready,” I admit as we walk into the room and past the bathroom, where I see police photographer Jim Jenkins taking photos. “Let me know when you’re done,” I call into the bathroom, not wanting to get in his way but still seeing spots of blood on the walls, along with red smeared around the sink and on the floor.
“You got it, Calvin.” He lifts his chin.
I walk farther into the room and stop in the middle to look around. The first thing I notice is that it’s clean, with a suitcase unzipped but closed on a stand between the dresser and TV stand, with pants and a shirt lying neatly on top. On the side table next to the bed, there’s a phone, the room’s key card, and an open book placed facedown on the wooden surface, like the person reading it had set it there knowing they would be back. The bed is unmade, the top cover falling off the end, the sheets wrinkled and in disarray, with the pillows in the same state of mess. Besides the bed, nothing in the room looks out of order, which isn’t exactly unusual, but having stayed at hotels a few times, I know the longer you stay, the more you relax. Eventually, you stop closing your suitcase and leave a few pieces of clothing around the room, or even a glass or two.