“I’m glad he shot that fucker,” I hissed. “Saved me doing it myself.”
“Excuse me?” Ortiz asked.
“I said was there anything on his cell phone,” I said in a louder voice. “Did they talk about his plans?”
“No, nothing. The cell phone was clean. Not so much as a suspicious outgoing number he called too many times,” he said. “Your mother housed the security team at the Citrine Inn. We tore apart his room last night and turned up nothing as well.”
“The island isn’t that big,” Carter said. “Everyone knows everyone around here. How hard can he be to find?”
“If he is on the island,” he said. “If he caught that plane or took a boat out, it’s a different story.”
Nathan lurched to his feet. “If he did that, it’s because you gave him all the time he needed to get away.”
Ortiz gave us a hard look. “I know you’re upset and you have every right to be. But I’m not the enemy, Mr. Prince. Everyone in this room wants the same thing—for Belle to come home safe and sound.”
Nathan opened his mouth.
I put a hand across his chest, silently shaking my head.
“I have to go,” Ortiz said. “We’ll keep the Adlers informed. I’m sure they’ll pass the information to you.”
“No,” I said slowly. “They won’t have to because while Hanson is on the phone with them, you’ll be dialing me. You’ll let us know everything that is happening before it happens. Got it?”
He stiffened. “Of course, Mr. Desai.”
Ortiz left without another word.
“Why did you hold me back?” Nathan asked as his footsteps faded.
“Fuck him,” I said. “We’re not getting anywhere arguing with that guy. He’s better off getting subpoenas and talking to baggage handlers. The three of us are going to Citrine Inn.”
“To question the security team,” Carter stated.
“That too,” I said. “I won’t believe Fuller’s room is clean until we check it ourselves.”
“What the hell are we waiting for?” Nathan took off. “Let’s go.”
We were right behind him.
I couldn’t think about how much had changed in the last day. One moment I was sitting with Belle, dreaming up our future, and the next I was unconscious on the floor, Belle was gone, and a man was murdered ten feet from our door.
The Adlers weren’t the only ones to fly into the cove. My dad flew in two minutes after them, and then a storm of parents tried to follow. My parents were in hell, and it didn’t help that they were fielding calls by folks demanding to know what happened, if their kids were safe, and why were the police holding us?
The thirty-first marriage event at Citrine Cove was over.
The three of us walked out the gate and set down the path to the inn.
Citrine Inn was a ten-minute walk down the lane once we reached the main road. Ever the thoughtful employer, my mother set up her staff in one of the best hotels on the island, walking distance from their work, and one of these shits repays her by attacking her son and delivering his girlfriend to a delusional mobster.
My hands were fists the entire walk down. I had felt a cold fury like this only one other time in my life. I couldn’t say how this would end, but I swore on every kiss, laugh, and stolen moment I shared with Belle, that mercy would not hold me back this time.
The door banged against the wall, startling the gangly man behind the desk.
“Ruben Fuller’s room number,” I said by way of greeting. “What is it?”
Huge eyes darted between the three of us. “I— I can’t give out that information,” he cried. “The police taped it off.”
Carter pulled out a stack of bills. He slapped the entire wad on his inspirational desk calendar. “The number. Now.”
I thought his eyes might fall out of his head. He stopped pawing through after the fifth hundred and quickly stuffed it in his pocket. “Third floor. 367.”
Carter took the key. He and Nathan ran up the staircase next to reception.
I hung back.
“All the guests staying here on Rosalie Desai’s dime,” I said. “Round them up in the living room. I don’t care what you tell them. Just get them down here.”
“Okay.”
Leaving him to it, I went upstairs, ducked under the police tape, and walked in on the guys tearing Ruben’s room apart.
It was a modest space. Full bed, desk, breakfast nook, and a television mounted over the dresser.
Nathan ripped out a drawer and dumped its contents on the floor.
“The cops would have checked the usual places,” Carter said. “If he left something they missed, he hid it well.”
Nodding, I scanned the room. “He took the risk of me seeing his face. After handing over Belle, he had to get out quick. When he rushed back here, he’d want a hiding place he could get to easily. He wasn’t expecting to get shot in the head, so if there is something, it’s still here. We need to find it.”
Nathan overturned another drawer. “What’s it look like I’m doing?” Drawer number three joined the rest. “The colonel searches my room almost weekly. I got good at this. Forget the air vents and loose floorboards. Everyone knows about those.” He pointed to the bathroom. “Carter, check the toilet paper bar. It’s great for hiding money or notes. Preston, the vacuum cleaner compartment. I’ve hidden bottles in there since I was fifteen.
“You can tape things behind these drawers,” he said. “Most people stop at looking inside of them. They don’t take them all the way out. If those turn up nothing, take down the clocks and pull out the electrical outlets.”
“Damn, Nathan,” Carter said as he rushed into the bathroom. “Never thought I’d be thankful you’re an addict.”
“Recovered addict. Our girl saved my life. Now let’s save her.”
He didn’t have to say it twice.
I took the vacuum out of the closet. The cover was ripped off and sent sailing over my shoulder.
“Found something,” Carter called. “A couple hundred stuffed in the bar. Proves Ortiz didn’t search as well as he thought.”
A crash sounded behind me.
“Nothing behind these drawers,” said Nathan. “Got anything, Preston?”
“I think so,” I murmured.
A single white notecard stuck to the back of the vacuum bag.
“Look at this.”
I removed it—turning it over to find writing scribbled on the underside. The guys crowded over my shoulder to read.
022514965
Friday. Noon.
US-3634-AA
“The top line looks like a routing number,” Carter said. “But what’s that at the bottom?”
“Boat registration number,” Nathan announced.
We threw him questioning looks.
“It’s a boat, no question. I’ve been sailing longer than I’ve chewed solid food. Trust me, that is the number for a boat, and the first line is the number for his money. This is his getaway.”
“But what’s Friday at noon?” Carter spoke up. “If you’ve got the money and the boat, you’re not hanging around for three days.”