pensive man now wringing his hands about the danger he’d placed Jack in. He told them that Jack had been building an exposé on the infiltration of drug cartels into America and that he’d warned Jack about the risks. In fact, he hadn’t paid for any of the investigation because the paper simply couldn’t afford it and the topic was too volatile. Jack had done it all freelance.
Andy had cracked at one point, saying it was all his fault because the story would have put the paper on the national scene, would have guaranteed its solvency, and yet he’d done nothing to protect Jack from retribution.
Jennifer had calmed him down and gleaned the specifics of the hotel in El Paso. Jack had been meticulous in letting Andy know what he was doing, and that trail had led here. The sleazy Traveler’s Inn.
On the way down from Dallas she’d received the trace of Jack’s phone in Ciudad Juárez. Jennifer had no idea how Pike had managed the track, but the location did nothing to make her feel better. Like a sailor clinging to a sinking ship, creating hope where none should exist, she found excuses in her mind for the trace. The phone had been lost. Or stolen. Or the trace was wrong. Anything to contradict the reality that the boat was going down and she was about to be floating in the ocean by herself.
Jennifer exited the car and surveyed the dilapidated motel, finding room twelve. Her brother’s room. She went to the front desk, the door tinkling a small bell like it was still the 1950s. The office was clean but clearly old, a utilitarian check-in counter taking up most of the room. A Hispanic man of about sixty entered from a back door.
“Can I help you?”
She smiled, trying to disarm him, unsure of how to proceed. “Yes, I’m looking for someone who stayed here a few days ago. His name is Jack Cahill, but I’m not sure what he called himself when he checked in. He’s Caucasian, about five ten with brown hair—”
He cut her off. “Are you the police?”
She pulled a picture out of her purse and said, “No, no. I—”
“Then I can’t give you any information. Would you like a room?”
“No. I don’t want a room. I just want to know if you’ve seen Jack Cahill.” She held out the photo and said, “This is what he looks like. He would have checked out two days ago.”
She saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, but he said, “Never seen him. He never came here.”
“Can you at least tell me if he checked in? Maybe he came when you weren’t on duty. Can you look? Please?”
He held her eyes for a moment, then went to an ancient computer and tapped a few keys. After a minute, still scrolling on the screen, he said, “Nobody by that name checked in or out.” He turned back to her and said, “That’s all I can do. No Jack Cahill came or went. Now, if you want a room, I’ve got plenty. If not, I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She said nothing, simply staring, and his eyes slid away. He fidgeted from one foot to the other. Seeing all she needed to, she put away the photo and said, “Thank you for your time.”
He waved a hand, then returned to the back room, closing the door. She exited and saw a maid pushing a cart along the sidewalk. Jennifer glanced back through the office window, seeing the counter still empty. She walked up to the maid and said, “Excuse me, I’ve locked myself out of my room. Room twelve. Can you let me in?”
The wizened old woman, barely scratching five feet in height, said, “
No hablo inglés.
”
Jennifer pulled two twenty-dollar bills out of her purse and said, “
Habitación doce.
”
The woman glanced back at the office, then snatched the money and scurried to room twelve, unlocking the door. She returned to her cart, eyes downcast, ignoring Jennifer.
Jennifer entered the room and found it made up, ready for a new guest. Her heart sank. Anything left by Jack would be long gone. She searched it anyway, going through the closet and bathroom. Growing
Andy had cracked at one point, saying it was all his fault because the story would have put the paper on the national scene, would have guaranteed its solvency, and yet he’d done nothing to protect Jack from retribution.
Jennifer had calmed him down and gleaned the specifics of the hotel in El Paso. Jack had been meticulous in letting Andy know what he was doing, and that trail had led here. The sleazy Traveler’s Inn.
On the way down from Dallas she’d received the trace of Jack’s phone in Ciudad Juárez. Jennifer had no idea how Pike had managed the track, but the location did nothing to make her feel better. Like a sailor clinging to a sinking ship, creating hope where none should exist, she found excuses in her mind for the trace. The phone had been lost. Or stolen. Or the trace was wrong. Anything to contradict the reality that the boat was going down and she was about to be floating in the ocean by herself.
Jennifer exited the car and surveyed the dilapidated motel, finding room twelve. Her brother’s room. She went to the front desk, the door tinkling a small bell like it was still the 1950s. The office was clean but clearly old, a utilitarian check-in counter taking up most of the room. A Hispanic man of about sixty entered from a back door.
“Can I help you?”
She smiled, trying to disarm him, unsure of how to proceed. “Yes, I’m looking for someone who stayed here a few days ago. His name is Jack Cahill, but I’m not sure what he called himself when he checked in. He’s Caucasian, about five ten with brown hair—”
He cut her off. “Are you the police?”
She pulled a picture out of her purse and said, “No, no. I—”
“Then I can’t give you any information. Would you like a room?”
“No. I don’t want a room. I just want to know if you’ve seen Jack Cahill.” She held out the photo and said, “This is what he looks like. He would have checked out two days ago.”
She saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, but he said, “Never seen him. He never came here.”
“Can you at least tell me if he checked in? Maybe he came when you weren’t on duty. Can you look? Please?”
He held her eyes for a moment, then went to an ancient computer and tapped a few keys. After a minute, still scrolling on the screen, he said, “Nobody by that name checked in or out.” He turned back to her and said, “That’s all I can do. No Jack Cahill came or went. Now, if you want a room, I’ve got plenty. If not, I don’t know what else to tell you.”
She said nothing, simply staring, and his eyes slid away. He fidgeted from one foot to the other. Seeing all she needed to, she put away the photo and said, “Thank you for your time.”
He waved a hand, then returned to the back room, closing the door. She exited and saw a maid pushing a cart along the sidewalk. Jennifer glanced back through the office window, seeing the counter still empty. She walked up to the maid and said, “Excuse me, I’ve locked myself out of my room. Room twelve. Can you let me in?”
The wizened old woman, barely scratching five feet in height, said, “
No hablo inglés.
”
Jennifer pulled two twenty-dollar bills out of her purse and said, “
Habitación doce.
”
The woman glanced back at the office, then snatched the money and scurried to room twelve, unlocking the door. She returned to her cart, eyes downcast, ignoring Jennifer.
Jennifer entered the room and found it made up, ready for a new guest. Her heart sank. Anything left by Jack would be long gone. She searched it anyway, going through the closet and bathroom. Growing
Similar Books
