34
“We’re on our way,” Alvarez said. “ETA in fifteen.”
Shepherd ended the call and pocketed the phone. The manager handed him a passkey.
“Like I said, room thirty-seven.”
“Left side of the building?”
“Yeah. You’re not going in alone, are you?”
“I’m not that much of a hero. Think I’ll just walk past her room, see if I hear any activity inside.”
“She’s been quiet all day. You plan on telling me what she’s wanted for?”
Shepherd remembered the phone conversation he’d interrupted. “Illegal gambling,” he said, keeping the smile off his face. “Placing bets with a bookie. We’re really cracking down on that.”
The manager frowned, unsure whether to believe him. Shepherd left her to think about it.
Outside, he took a moment to readjust to the glare and open space. Then casually he started walking toward room 37, where a woman who’d been a fugitive for twelve years was about to end her run.
Room numbers glided past on his left. 42 ... 41 ...
He turned a corner.
Her room was three doors down.
39.
He could see her door now.
38.
Her open door.
“Shit,” Shepherd breathed, and he knew right then that he’d lost her.
He turned, his gaze sweeping the parking lot for any sign of a blonde woman. There was no one.
Slowly he approached the open door. His gun was in his hand, its weight reassuring. He had slipped it free of his armpit holster without conscious intention.
At the door he called loudly, “Police.”
No answer.
She could be inside, could be hiding, could even be lying in ambush. The prudent thing was to wait for Alvarez and the two street cops.
Hell. He knew she was gone. Call it intuition.
He entered the room, the pistol high and leading him, and saw an overturned table, a smashed television set, a suitcase flung open on the bed, clothes and sundries strewn over the floor.
Distantly he recalled the manager telling him not to bust up the place. He hadn’t planned to, but Kaylie seemed to have had other ideas.
Shepherd searched the room with swift efficiency and determined that Kaylie was not hiding anywhere. He noted the broken mirror in the bathroom, the rust-colored dabs of blood on the carpet.
“She had a party, all right,” he murmured grimly. He thought of the Lexus vandalized in Cray’s garage. The pattern here was similar.
Touching nothing, he cast his gaze over the scattered items on the floor, focusing on two objects of interest: a spiral-bound book that looked like a photo album, and a manila envelope stuffed with paper.
In his pocket he carried a pair of latex gloves. He put them on, then flipped through the photo album. Snapshots of parties and picnics riffled past. Most of the faces were different, but in nearly every photo there was a woman—sometimes blonde, sometimes dark-haired—but always the same.
Hello, Kaylie, he thought with a tight, fierce smile.
He could see why the waitress at the coffee shop had described her customer as looking young. Kaylie had a slightly round, almost childlike face that had not aged much in the past twelve years.
An innocent face. Pretty, in fact.
Shepherd thought of her voice on tape, the hushed urgency, the shyness. He had liked her voice. He had wanted to believe her.
Studying the photos, he wished ... he almost wished that he ...
The thought felt dangerous. He blinked it away.
To feel anything for this woman was just stupid. Worse than stupid—disloyal. A betrayal of his wife, or of her memory. Kaylie McMillan was just another Timothy Fries, a psychopath, violent and unstable and obsessive, and sympathy for her was an affront to Ginnie.
Shepherd tossed the photo album on the bed. His hand was shaking just a little.
He picked up the manila envelope. Inside it was a sheaf of documentation establishing a series of false I.D.’s. Different names, birth dates, backgrounds, but all of them were Kaylie McMillan.
She had been busy, these past twelve years.
“Roy, what in Christ is going on?” That was Alvarez, at the door, Galston and Bane behind him.
Shepherd looked up from the documents in his gloved hands, surveyed the wreckage in the room, and said simply, “She flew.”