Page 8 of Cartel Viper
“Do you need me to escort you up?”
Nosey fucker.
He isn’t offering to let me in. He wants to know what the fuck is going on. So do I.
“No. I can knock. Thank you.”
I could knock, but I won’t. I make my way to the elevator, growing more impatient as each floor ticks by. When the elevator pings at the fifth floor, I put my hand on my gun. I peek out of the elevator, always cautious before stepping into a confined space. I see no one, and I continue to keep my head down like I did in the elevator. I don’t need cameras recording my face. I turn toward the room I want, my ears peeled for anyone approaching from behind. I’m not paranoid, but I’m situationally aware even in my sleep.
I pull the key card from my pocket, not bothering to knock. I let myself in again, and immediately, I know the room is vacant. Just like in the parking lot, I sweep my gaze around the room. It’s spotless. I walk to the kitchen, and everything looks like maid service came through. Not just the half ass tidying plenty of housekeepers do while a guest occupies the room. This is ready for the next guest kind of clean. I head into the bedroom, and the bed is crisply made.
Madeline didn’t sleep in it. This isn’t just she pulled the sheets up. This is there aren’t any wrinkles. How she managed that, without fresh sheets, means she didn’t untuck them. I walk into the bathroom, and there’s a lingering scent of disinfectant. I have a sensitive nose. Spring and fall allergies are a bitch. If I don’t take an antihistamine twice a day, I’m fucking Rudolph.
I move back into the main room and look around. She wiped down everything. She probably tucked herself into a sleeping bag to keep from messing up the bed. I know she’s a nurse, so she knows how to sanitize things. She obviously did that here.
Touching nothing, I move through the rooms a second time—this time with a far more critical eye. I’m looking for any smudge or hair. A single thing that leaves a hint about her. Part of it is to gather evidence of I don’t know what for my use. The other part is to make sure she left nothing behind someone else could use. If she went to this much trouble, she’s definitely hiding.
I take nearly half an hour, but I leave knowing as little as I did when I arrived. I get back to my car and consider what I learned. She didn’t check out, but I doubt she plans to come back. I wonder if she recognized me or remembered me, and that’s why she left. Or did she leave merely because she was scared after having a bunch of narco-traffickers busting into her room? Will she come back to check out? Or will she do it online? Probably the latter.
Where did she go?
I don’t know what she drives these days, so I definitely don’t know her license plate. I can’t run them myself, so it’s forcing me to ask Joaquin for help. I pull out my phone and inhale.
Fuck my life.
“Hola, hermano.” Hello, brother.
“Hola. Can you get into the hotel’s security footage?”
“Which hotel? The one we were at? Do you suspect someone went to see Luigi? Or—are you wondering about that woman?”
That pause was intentional.
“Find out what car she got into.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
“Javier, why?”
“Because I’m asking nicely.”
He scoffs. I was a bit demanding.
“Give me a moment. I just sat down to my computer. Where are you?”
“The hotel.”
He remains quiet. I can guess what he’s thinking. I’ve already examined my feelings in the time it took me to get back to my car. Something’s not right, and I can’t turn away from this. If Madeline’s hiding under a fake name, she’s desperate to get away from someone or something. With the protection she could get from her in-laws, something is seriously wrong for her to beon her own. My brother isn’t asking questions because he knows he won’t get answers until I’m ready to give them.
“She got into a subcompact with Maine plates.”
He reads them off to me as I put them in a note in my phone.
“Maine?”
“Yeah. It’s a deep-blue four-door.”
