CHAPTER EIGHT
HUNTER
The various characters we speak to at the hotel are straight out of a B-grade noir film. Oddly, none of them remember Rachel, or ‘Ruby,’ until Grace calls to me a room three doors down.
In the doorway is a young, skinny twenty-something with her hair in braids and a stick of chewing gun poking out the top of her bra. I look past her into the room—silk sheets in disarray, baby wipes by the bed—it’s clear she’s a working girl.
Grace introduces me. “Lexie, this is Detective Beckett.”
I dip my head. “Ma’am,” a Wrightworth force of habit.
“You said you knew Ruby?”
Lexie talks too fast, her eyes hyper. “Oh, yeah. Ruby was great. She was new, but the all the girls like her, you know? She used to bring us chocolates and those fancy donuts from the shop around the corner, crazy-nuts, crabnuts?”
“Cronuts,” I correct, Grace giving me a curious glance.
“Yeah, that’s it! Cronuts. Freaking delicious.”
Grace gets back on track. “You’re saying she looked out for you?”
“Shit, yeah. We all did. You have to around here. Guys come in, try to swindle the new girl. We can’t have that shit. Pay to play or get the fuck out. That’s our motto.”
“No one else seems to remember her.”
Lexie pokes her head out. “Nah. These bitches are new now, too. Turnover and all that.”
“Are you aware she was murdered?” says Grace.
Lexie’s eyes go wide. “Murdered. Jesus Christ. At the hotel?”
“We’re not sure. When was the last time she was here?”
Lexie shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe a few days ago?”
“Can you be any more specific?”
“She’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“When was she here, Lexie? It’s real important you help us out,” I say.
Lexie shakes her head. It’s so fried from whatever she’s taking I doubt we can even trust what she says. “I can’t think.” She slaps herself in the face. “Fuck.”
“It’s okay,” says Grace, a reassuring grip on her shoulder. She hands over her card. “If you or any of the other girls remember anything, call me, okay?”
Lexie nods, staring at the card as we leave.
“Let’s check the room one more time,” I suggest.
Grace nods and we head back in to Room 202. I move to the window, Grace back to the dresser, both of us startled when a dark figure runs out from the bathroom into the hallway.
“Stop!” Grace yells, drawing her piece. She dashes out. I run after her, the figure already turning the corner at the end of the hall.
Grace swings down the stairs, jumping a full flight and landing, gaining on the perp as he blows out the front of the hotel.
Grace’s through. I come out, squinting against the light. It’s lunchtime, busy on the streets, but I spot him in dark clothes making for an alley.
“There!” I shout to Grace.
She takes off while I head down an alley to my left, hoping to cut the perp off. I see someone flicker between buildings up ahead, my legs pounding, burning in the chase. It’s like being back on the field all over again, the hundred-yard mark looming.
I make the corner and almost take Grace out, both of us running with weapons drawn as the perp clears a fence at the end of the alley and makes right.
I put my hands together when we hit the fence, boost Grace over the top before hauling myself over.
Grace goes to run right, but stops. I turn left, but whoever they are, our mystery runner is nowhere to be seen.
Grace spins around. There are no doors. “Where did he go?”
I have no idea.
I hit the wall with the flat of my palm. “Damn it!”
We spend the afternoon checking the neighborhood, but without a visual it’s like trying to find a black cat in a coal mine.
He, she… They could be anyone, anywhere.