Page 6 of Killer Knows Best

“Great.” Nikki runs a hand through her hair. “Let me guess, Hale plucked you out of the hot tub?”

Jack grunts at the thought. “We never got that far.”

I nod up at the building. “And something tells me that we won’t for a while.”

“My money is on midnight.” Nikki gives a little wink as she sidles up next to me and the three of us ready to storm the building.

“Somehow I doubt that,” I say, and we all chuckle. But the moment we step into the hotel, the humor vanishes like smoke.

Inside, the air is thick with the smell of bleach and cleaning products, mingling with the faint trace of something far worse. The lobby is eerily quiet with only the muffled voices of agents working in the background.

Hale greets us at the elevator, and he’s already frowning our way.

“Well, if it isn’t the Dream Team,” he says as he meets us halfway. His balding head shines from the chandelier overhead, and his belly strains against his shirt, but his eyes are bright as they take in every detail. “And you brought the dog. Do we need to get him a badge?”

“Buddy is already more useful than half your agents, and you know it,” Jack says, giving Buddy’s ear a quick scratch.

“No arguments from me there.” Hale tips his head as he turns to me. “You know the drill, Baxter. Leave the four-legged agent out here. We don’t need him getting fur on the evidence.”

“Yeah, he’s not exactly CSI material,” I say, handing the leash to one of the junior agents standing nearby, who’s looking far too excited to be on dog-sitting duty. “Keep an eye on him. And don’t let him get into too much trouble,” I warn.

Buddy wags his tail as he looks from me to him, most likely because he probably thinks this is all some elaborate game.

The agent nods, and I follow Jack, Nikki, and Hale deeper into the lobby, where the air is thick with the smell of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and something sour that clings to the back of my throat.

The place is way too bright and shiny for what went down inside. Polished marble floors, chandeliers seemingly floating overhead, and there’s soft piano music playing from hidden speakers. It’s as if we’ve just walked into the most luxurious funeral parlor in town.

We head into the elevator, and the low hum of the machinery fills the silence. There’s something unsettling about hotels at night. Too many locked doors, too many secrets hiding behind them, and we know for a fact at least two of those secrets are dead.

Hale presses the button for the twelfth floor, and we ride up in silence, each of us anticipating what comes next.

The doors open with a ding, and we step out into chaos. The hallway is crawling with agents and forensic techs with flashlights bouncing off the walls as if this was a light show. I catch a whiff of bleach and the coppery tang of blood as we approach the room.

Buddy would have hated this place, and yet every last part of me wishes he was here. In the short time I’ve had him, he’s become my unofficial emotional support pooch. The one I reach for at night, the way I do my gun.

The carpet is a busy mix of blues and greens, and the wallsare covered in teal and gold paper—it’s as cloying as it is opulent.

We come upon the room with its door opened wide, the entry teeming with people heading in and out, each one of them wearing a navy jacket with either CSI or FBI emblazoned across it in thick yellow letters.

Hale takes us to the entry and pauses. “Two girls. College students. Discovered by housekeeping because the door was ajar. They’ve got markings on their bodies—same as those hookers.”

Jack nods. “But unlike those last girls, these girls aren’t in some back alley. They’re in a nice hotel.”

“Right,” Nikki says. “What happened to killing people in the woods or the back of a van like a normal psycho?”

I shoot her a look and she huffs.

“What?” She swallows a laugh. “Too soon?”

Hale sighs. “Maybe this psycho likes room service.” We step inside and the scene hits me.

Blood-soaked carpet sits at our feet with the scent of iron heavy in the air. Two girls, barely in their twenties, lay sprawled across the floor, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles and their eyes wide open, frozen in terror.

The victim to my right is a brunette, pretty with a stunned look on her face. The dress she’s wearing is strapless and hardly covers her rear. I can tell it was supposed to be white, but a majority of it is covered in crimson.

The victim to the right is a brassy blonde. Her hot pink dress looks as if it was made of cellophane, which leaves blood trickling down her sides because it can’t penetrate the fabric.

They’re young. Heck, they look like teenagers.

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