She’s quiet for minute, probably considering how much she wants to fight me on this. To my surprise she concedes, proving once again she’s hurting more than she lets on.
“Fine. But why your hotel?”
“Because we have a suite with a living room and two bedrooms.” Matt has one, I have the other. It makes sense when more than one person is on a case to have an area we can use as a center of operations. “More space to facilitate a team meeting, which I’m sure Matt will call at some point tonight.”
As soon as we’re in my vehicle, I get him on the line again.
“I need you to check the DMV and see what Paul Krebs drives. Actually, while you’re at it, check Doug Melnyk and Russel Germain as well. We’re looking for a dark—probably navy—large Chevrolet SUV.”
“You’ve got it. Haven’t tracked down the girl yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve got something.”
I end the call and start the vehicle, glancing at Kate to make sure she’s buckled up. She’s looking back at me.
“You heard,” she comments.
“I fucking heard everything.”
Opal
I watch him clench his jaw as he pulls away from the curb.
Pretty sure he refers to more than just my conversation with the girl. Experiencing almost getting run over was no picnic, but I imagine listening to it wasn’t fun either.
“I’m fine.”
“So you say.”
His eyes flit in my direction before focusing on the road again.
I decide ignoring the comment is probably better for both our blood pressures and change the topic.
“What do you know about Paul Krebs?”
“I assume you’re not referring to his athletic career?” At the shake of my head he continues, “The guy is a high-ticket customer. Aside from his job as a Sunday Night Football anchor, he has his fingers in a variety of businesses, and earns big bucks from a number of endorsements. That, added to whatever money he amassed during his football career, makes Krebs a very rich and influential man. Married twice already, with five kids to show for it. There were some rumbles during the time of his contentious divorce from wife number two, but those died down quickly after they settled for what was rumored to be a substantial amount of money out of court.”
“What kinds of rumors?” I ask, intrigued.
“Initial reports of the breakup mentioned the possibility Krebs had been inappropriate with the kids’ babysitter. There’s no record of the babysitter ever confirming the allegations and the story died.”
“With that kind of money, you can buy anyone off,” I observe.
“Likely. Anyway, I think it was easy enough for people to brush it off as a vindictive story made up by wife number two for leverage in their divorce.”
That may have been understandable at the time, but the story holds far more significance in light of what we know of this case.
“Think it warrants another look?”
“Not sure what we’ll be able to find since I think this was five or six years ago, but it’s worth a try.”
We stop at a McDonald’s drive-thru, not my favorite burgers but their fries more than make up for it. We place our orders and five minutes later pull up outside the hotel. My body is starting to feel the impact as the adrenaline in my system lets down, so I don’t object when Mitch comes around to my side and holds out his hand for me.
Matt is on the phone when we walk in. He looks up and his eyes scan up and down my body as if to see I’m still in one piece. Then he glances over at Mitch and lifts a finger.
“You can use my bathroom if you want to freshen up before we eat,” Mitch whispers as the other man returns his attention to his call. “I can lend you a shirt and some track pants if you want a change.”
I glance down at myself, noticing only now I’m a bit of a mess. There’s a rip in my jeans and I have dirt and blood smears on the legs, as well as the front of my top. I have a few cuts and scrapes, damaged the heels of my hands and skinned my knee when I hit the ground.
“Sure, thanks.”
Mitch points me in the direction of his room where I take a quick peek around.
Tidy.
Both double beds are made despite the do-not-disturb sign hung on the outside doorknob I spotted coming in. There is a well-read paperback copy of John Grisham’s book, The Fugitive, facedown on the nightstand, along with a phone charger and half a glass of water. A partially-opened closet door shows a few shirts hanging neatly on hangers, and I’m sure if I’d open the dresser, I’d find neat stacks of T-shirts and jeans in drawers.
The bathroom looks much the same. A plastic cup holds his toothbrush and an almost depleted tube of toothpaste. A leather shaving kit holding an electric shaver, dental floss, deodorant, and a ratty old comb sits on the counter. One towel hangs on the back of the door, but there are a couple of neatly folded ones, as well as a couple of clean washcloths on the shelf underneath the sink. The faint scent of soap or shampoo hangs in the air, reminding me of Mitch.
Grabbing one of the washcloths, I turn on the faucet when a knock sounds on the door.
“Are you decent?” he asks, his voice muffled. “I’ve got some things for you.”
I reach for the door and find him standing outside, holding a stack of clothes.
“Thank you.”
I take them from his hands and watch as he turns his back, only to swing around again.
“Feel free to grab a shower. The food will hold.”
“Thanks,” I repeat as he walks away.
Already starving, I take the fastest shower in the history of womankind, liberally using the agent’s shower soap which apparently doubles as shampoo. My hair will be a rat’s nest tomorrow, but so be it, the rest of me won’t fare much better.
Mitch’s sweats are soft and thankfully fit over my large ass, although a tad tight. I’m grateful for the X-large navy T-shirt sporting the FBI logo on the chest, which is roomy enough and reaches the top of my thighs.
I roll up my dirty clothes and grab my shoes, padding through the bedroom in my socks.
Mitch is on the balcony talking into his phone, and Matt is working on a laptop at one end of the small dining table.
“Feel better?” he asks.
Better is a bit optimistic. The shower felt good, but I felt every inch of my body by the time I toweled off.
“Cleaner, for sure.”
He chuckles and points at the paper bag and large cup at the other side of the table.
“I think that’s your food. I grabbed you some ibuprofen as well. Figured you might need it.”
God, yes.
I sit down and immediately grab for the small white container, shaking out a couple of pills I wash down with the iced tea I ordered. I’m just unwrapping my cheeseburger when the sliding door opens and Mitch steps in, his head down.
“That was Branch. We have a—”
He stops abruptly when he sees me sitting at the table. I can tell from his expression he hadn’t realized I was out here, and the information he was about to share was not meant for my ears.
Well, I’m here and I heard.
“What did my boss tell you?” I prompt him sharply. “We have a what?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before walking over.