Secure Location (6 page)

“No.” Cruz pulled enough bills out of his pocket to cover the check and leave a generous tip. “Let’s go.”

It was close to ten and both sides of the River Walk were jammed with people. Young, old, fat, skinny, black, white—it was a crowd as diverse as the food choices. The restaurants and bars were still going strong, with their doors wide open. Music came from every direction. Rock. Blues. Jazz. Dueling pianos. Something for everybody.

Late spring was a beautiful time to be on the River Walk. While it was already hot, there had been more rain than last year. Annuals, in borders and beds, blossomed, gathering butterflies. Perennials, with their strong root system, crawled up the sides of brick walls, making the space intimate.

It was lovely. The huge trees, some growing right out of buildings, arched over the river, their branches swaying and dipping in the gentle nighttime breeze. Lights and candles and even the occasional flare from a cigarette gave the space warmth. The gentle murmur of conversation and the burst of a child’s laughter or cry made it hum with energy.

It was probably too crowded for Cruz. She remembered the year that she’d managed to drag him Christmas shopping on the day after Thanksgiving. They’d been shopping on Michigan Avenue with a million other people determined to support the economy. He’d been as edgy as a wild animal. She’d teased him about having an aversion to spending money but in truth, she’d known that he was always on guard, always ready. And crowds limited his options—for escape, for attack. There was too much opportunity for collateral damage, he’d told her once.

They were almost back to the hotel when less than ten feet ahead of them, a group of six young men stumbled out of one of the Irish bars. Cruz caught her arm and pulled her behind him.

They were college-age and laughing and talking, using words that their mothers would not have approved of. Two started pretend boxing, circling each other, throwing weak punches. The others thought it was hilarious and performed some male ritual of back-slapping and hip-bumping.

Intent upon watching them, she missed the dark figure running up behind her and didn’t have a chance to brace before she was shoved so hard from behind that she went airborne, right toward the river.

Chapter Four

Cruz whirled, lunged and managed to wrap a hand around one of Meg’s flailing arms. He yanked her back, hauling her against his chest. Her face was white and her eyes big with fear.

She’d been inches from going into the dark green water. What the hell?

She pointed and he saw a black-clad figure running up the stairs that led to the street level. “Stay here,” he said to her. He took the stairs two at a time, losing precious time as he dodged two women who were hauling a baby stroller down the steps.

He got up to the street level, scanned it in both directions and didn’t see anything. Damn it. There were a hundred ways for someone to get away. Stores to step into. Cars to hide behind. Buses to board. The list was endless.

He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Myers and felt his blood pressure increase when the phone rang three times. On the fourth ring, the man answered, sounding a little out of breath.

“Myers.”

“It’s Cruz Montoya.”

“Now what?” the man asked.

“Meg got pushed while we were walking along the River Walk. Subject ran up the stairs, disappeared into the 400 block of St. Mary’s Street. Caucasian. About five-ten and one-sixty. Dressed all in black. Had a hat on so I couldn’t see his hair. Moved fast so he’s either young or in good shape.”

“Got it. I’ll call it in. Is Meg okay?”

“Yeah. This time. You need to find this bastard.”

“We will.” Myers hung up. Cruz took one more look up and down the street. Nothing jumped out at him. Then he looked over the cement railing to make sure Meg was all right. The young men were surrounding her, way too close for Cruz’s liking. He charged back down the stairs.

He shouldered his way through the group and wrapped an arm around Meg’s shoulders. “Okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “He got away?”

“Yeah.” He turned to look at the group. “I’ve got this, guys,” he said. He kept the tone light because he really didn’t want to have to kick their drunk asses but he would if they didn’t back off and stop looking at Meg like she was dessert.

Liquor-provided bravado caused one to step forward. “Hey, we were just having a conversation with the lady,” he said, his words slurring.

Cruz shook his head. “She’s done talking for the night. Excuse us.”

He took a step forward and the guys were smart enough to let them through. He kept one arm around Meg’s shoulders, holding her close.

She wouldn’t have drowned. The water wasn’t that deep. He’d learned that much from the brochure he’d scanned in the hotel lobby while he was waiting for Meg earlier. Probably only three or four feet. But then again, if she’d have hit her head on the stone walkway, it could have been a very different story. Anger burned in the pit of his stomach. She had been deliberately pushed. The guy was getting more aggressive each time. Crimes against property were one thing. A personal attack took it to a whole other level.

“I called Myers,” he said. “I gave him a description, so maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“I saw enough to know that he’s white, a little shorter and a little lighter than me, and he moves like a young guy.”

“Good arm strength,” she added, with a smile that trembled.

He tightened his grip and realized that it felt like the most natural thing in the world to have his arm around Meg. She fit. Always had. Always would.

Always wasn’t the same as forever.

She made that more than clear when they got to the hotel and she moved away. Cruz let his arm drop and tried to ignore the sharp pain of disappointment. She probably didn’t want Slater hearing that she’d been friendly with her ex.

“Will the list be ready yet?” Cruz asked.

“I’m sure it is.”

She led him to her office. It was just as big and impressive as it had been earlier that day but this time, probably because he wasn’t light-headed from just seeing her for the first time in a year, he noticed something else. It was bare, almost stark. Sure, there was the desk, credenza and matching chairs. But where was her collection of miniature glass giraffes? Or the Monet print that she loved? Or the brass bookends that she’d picked up cheap at a flea market but were so damn heavy that she’d had to give the guy an extra twenty bucks to carry them to her car?

“Where are your things?” he asked.

There was a slight hesitation before she answered. “Probably in a box somewhere that I never got around to unpacking,” she said finally.

Maybe. But she wasn’t making eye contact.

There was a manila folder on her chair. She opened it, scanned the contents and handed it to him. It was a list. Behind the single sheet, there was a stack of pictures. Head shots. Smiles. Happy new employees. He counted the pictures. “Only eight?” he asked.

“We have very low turnover,” she said. “Others quit but these were the ones discharged.”

He scanned the photos, separating white males from the rest of the bunch. There were three. Under each photo was a name and what he assumed was some kind of employee number.

He cross-referenced the pictures to the list and started sorting.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Thinking about motive,” he said. “I’m putting them in order of tenure, most to least. With seniority comes paid time off and company contributions to retirement plans. Things a person might not be able to replace right away, even if he did find other work. A guy with ten years of experience is probably more pissed off when he loses his job than the guy with eight months of time into the job.”

“Makes sense.”

There was one who had eight years of experience, one that had three years, and one that had five months. He pointed to the man with eight years of experience. He looked to be in his early forties, with a thin face, dark hair and thick black glasses. “What’s this guy’s story?” he asked.

“Mason Hawkins. Pretty quiet at work, although it was known by most everybody that he wasn’t all that happy with his job responsibilities. He applied for a couple higher-level positions but was never the chosen candidate. His attitude got in his way.”

“What was his job?”

“He was an accounts payable specialist and he made sure our bills were paid. Now, most invoices get paid electronically. Bank transfers from our account to our vendor’s account. He was fired because he processed invoices to vendors that didn’t exist. He’d deposited over thirty thousand into his own checking account over a period of eight months before he had the bad luck to need an emergency appendectomy which required his boss to step in for a few days. Bye-bye appendix. Bye-bye job.”

“Did you get the money back?”

“He was about five thousand short. He’s making monthly payments in lieu of us pressing charges.”

Cruz made a note of the man’s address. “What about Tom Looney?”

Meg studied the picture of the man, maybe early thirties, who had his straight brown hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail. “He worked in maintenance. Had a great record until he suddenly started missing work. Ultimately he missed so much time we had no choice but to let him go. I heard a rumor after he left that he’d lost his house.”

“Everybody’s got a story,” Cruz said, shaking his head.

“It’s what makes management really hard,” she said. “For every story you know, there are six that you don’t. It makes making exceptions really difficult.”

“Good judgment. Isn’t that what managers are supposed to have?”

“Easy to say. Suppose the manager knows that somebody is late for work because they’re working a second job to pay for their kid’s medical bills. He might want to cut that employee some slack. But the minute he does, that’s when he finds out that three other people are working second jobs—each with their own set of sad circumstances. So the manager fires the guy for being late and feels horrible about it or he lets it go and upper management is breathing down his neck for setting a poor precedent.”

“You’re pretty high up in the management structure. Don’t breathe so heavy.”

She smiled. “I’m working on that,” she said.

She was being too hard on herself. She was one of the good guys. Always had been. Hell, one Thanksgiving, there had been people sitting at his table that didn’t even speak English. She’d discovered in casual conversation that some of the housekeeping staff had no plans for the day and that had been the end of his opportunity to watch a football game in his shorts with a beer in one hand and a pretzel bowl close to the other.

That’s what made it so hard to believe that somebody at work would want to harm her. But it was the most logical explanation.

He picked up the last of the three photos. “What about this one?”

Meg looked at the picture of a man with dark hair cut in a buzz and a short-clipped full beard. He had very blue eyes, silver-rimmed glasses and looked to be mid-twenties. “Troy Blakely worked for a short time in security. He was let go after he got in a prolonged shouting match with one of our guests.”

“What happened?”

“We were never quite sure how it started. Troy was using the exercise room. We allow all of our employees to do so on their off hours, although they are clearly instructed to defer to our guests and that they should give up machines if guests are waiting.”

“Pretty reasonable.”

“We think so. Anyway, a female guest was working out in our exercise room and decided to switch machines. Troy was in the room and must have wanted the same machine. He supposedly started yelling at her.”

“Supposedly?”

“Yes. When our human resources manager investigated the complaint, she was unable to confirm exactly what happened in the exercise room. There were no witnesses.”

“So there were lots of machines probably available?”

“Yes. That’s what made this so weird. The guest said that she got scared and decided to leave the room. Well, the altercation between the two of them continued out into the hallway. We know this for sure because we caught it on camera. What we saw matched the guest’s story. She was trying to end the confrontation by literally running down the hallway. But Troy kept following her, kept yelling at her. He was waving his arms and pointing his finger at her. Very aggressive behavior. Fortunately, he never actually touched the woman so there was no assault or battery but it was clear that he had some kind of anger management problem. No hotel can afford to keep an employee who demonstrates those types of behaviors. He was terminated immediately.”

Cruz sighed. When he’d first become a cop, he’d been surprised at how damn angry people were. Angry about their lot in life and they took it out on coworkers, spouses and their children. Sometimes they were sorry afterward. The really sick ones thought they were justified.

He stuffed the photos and the list back in the manila folder. “Let’s get some shut-eye,” he said.

It took them five minutes to get to their rooms. She was silent for the whole trip. When she unlocked her door, he followed her in. “Get your things,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re sleeping in that room,” he said, pointing toward his room.

She bristled, drawing up to her full five feet six inches. “I am
not
sleeping with you,” she said.

He counted to ten before replying. It didn’t help. “Yeah, I don’t remember asking but I do remember you telling me a year ago that you weren’t interested.” It was petty and probably juvenile but damn, he was tired. He’d been up for almost twenty-four hours.

She seemed to shrink, like a balloon suddenly losing air. “But...” she began.

“Until we know who is behind this, everybody is a suspect, including the person who gave you the keys to this room. If somebody gets the bright idea of breaking in, a second or two of confusion will be all I need.”

“I got the key from a woman that I’ve known for over a year. She’s not going to harm me.”

“Everybody is a suspect. Including your boss.”