The car door opened, and a man exited. He was at least a year or two south of twenty-five, and close to six feet tall, though that was hard to tell without an accurate reference. Durrie hadn’t seen him before, and figured he must be another crime scene tech — or ID tech, as they called it in Phoenix — because he looked too young to be a detective.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Kearns said.
“You still have that number I gave you?” Durrie asked, no longer giving his full attention to the new arrival at the barn.
“Of course.”
“Then call me if something new comes up.”
“I will.”
“Take care, Detective. I’ll be in touch.” Durrie hung up.
The number he’d given the detective was a temporary relay that would send the detective’s calls directly to Durrie’s cell phone. In three days, the relay would reroute any future calls to the Office, where a brief summary would appear on an operator’s computer screen so he or she would know how to respond to the detective. In all likelihood, though, the detective would never call the number.
Focusing back on the barn, Durrie noted that the new arrival was talking to one of the detectives. As they finished, the cleaner expected the man to walk over to the remains of the building and join his friends, but instead, the man headed toward the water tank.
Durrie followed the man with the binoculars, his interest growing. About thirty feet out from the barn, the man paused and looked at the dirt. It was as if he were searching for something specific. What, Durrie had no idea.
After a moment, the man straightened up, and headed over to the tank. Again, he was looking at the ground. When he reached the tank, he moved around back. Since Durrie could only see the portion that faced the building, he couldn’t see what the guy was doing back there.
The fact that the man had headed directly for an area where Durrie had been the night before made the cleaner a bit antsy, but the man’s interest could be logically explained. The tank would have been a natural hiding place from where an arsonist could observe his fiery creation.
After several seconds, the man reappeared from the other side, then started moving around the back of the barn. For the most part, he was looking at the ground, but every ten to fifteen seconds he’d take a quick look at the crime scene. What Durrie saw in the man’s eyes at those moments was unexpected. The guy looked wary, like he was making sure no one was paying attention to him.
Odd.
The man kept coming around the building, slow but steady. When he reached the near side, he glanced over at an old, dead tree off to the side of the lot, then altered his path and walked toward it.
At the tree, he looked around, then crouched down. After a moment, he reached into one of the bushes. When he pulled his hand back out, he was holding something in it.
Durrie tried to focus on the object, but it was half hidden by the man’s hand. The only thing he could make out was that it was dark blue.
He watched as the man examined the object, turning it over, then flipping it…open.
A matchbook.
And not just any matchbook — one that looked brand new.
Now that Durrie knew what it was, he recognized something else.
Details, that was the backbone of good cleaner work. The better you were at noticing them, the better you were at your job. Miss an important detail, and your career — perhaps even your life — would end quickly.
Durrie had seen this matchbook before, or at least several just like it. Not at the job scene, though. It had been at the hotel the Office put them up in. Matchbooks with the place’s logo on it.
Son of a bitch.
Timmons? He was the only one positioned outside the barn who had been staying at the Lawrence Hotel. It must have been him, because the only others staying at the hotel had been Durrie and—
Larson. He’d gone outside to bring Timmons back. Could it have been him? Durrie frowned. In truth, it didn’t matter who had dropped it. It was there, and now the police had it. A crime scene like this, they’d follow it up for sure.
Then Durrie witnessed his biggest surprise of all.
Instead of putting the matchbook in an evidence bag and carrying it over to his friends, the man slipped it in his pocket.
What the hell?
The guy then circled back around to the front, and climbed into his car. Durrie got a good look at the vehicle’s license plate number as the Civic pulled away, then he removed his gaze from the binoculars and stared blankly at the sky as his mind ran through everything.
Who was this guy and what was he up to?
He could find the answer to the first part easily enough. The second would take a little more effort.
So much for leaving town in a couple of hours.
Annoyed all over again, he picked up his phone, scrolled through his contact list, then punched the desired number.
“Steiner? I need you to run a plate for me.”
7
The Lawrence Hotel was an upscale establishment in the neighboring city of Mesa. It no doubt sold itself as the refined alternative to the traditional business hotel. The guests who stayed there wouldn’t be mid-level employees, though. The Lawrence was for the upper tiers. Well-appointed and expensive, it catered to its guests’ every need.
Jake had never stayed in a hotel like it before. In his meager travels, he tended to go on the cheap. Youth hostels on his four-week trip to Europe three years earlier, and bargain motels pretty much anywhere he’d gone in the States.
On the drive over to the Lawrence, he thought about what he was going to do when he got there. The approach he came up with would get him in trouble if anyone ever found out, but he didn’t see how they would. Besides, the matchbook could be nothing. He was just…curious, that’s all. And if his curiosity helped him break the case, that would be a bonus.
He made a stop at a gas station before he reached the hotel, and changed into his uniform in the restroom. It would provide him instant credibility, and open doors that his civilian clothes wouldn’t.
He parked around the corner so no one would see the car he arrived in. At the entrance, a doorman in black tails and bowtie opened the glass door and said, “Welcome to the Lawrence, Officer.”
Jake gave him a nod as he passed inside.
The lobby was smaller than he expected, but was still large enough to encompass several ornate couches and chairs, a water fountain aged to look like it had been uprooted from an Italian piazza, and a coffee bar with the most elaborate coffee maker Jake had ever seen. At the far end were the reception counter, the concierge desk, and the bellhop station.
Jake headed straight for reception. Both of the people working the desk were with customers, but when the woman nearest him caught sight of him in his uniform, she picked up a phone. A moment later, a third woman came out of the back room.
“Can I help you, Officer?” she asked with a smile.
As he approached the counter, his first instinct was to smile back and put her at ease, but he kept his expression neutral, knowing the uniform would be a more effective tool than a smile. “Yes, thank you. I’d like to speak to the person in charge of security.”
Her brow darkened. “Yes, of course.” As she picked up a phone, she said, “Is there a problem?”
“Just a routine matter.”
She nodded, then said into the phone. “I have an Officer…” She looked at Jake’s uniform, reading his nameplate, “…Oliver at the front desk. He says he needs to speak to Mr. Evans…yes, yes…okay. Sure.” She hung up, then motioned to one of the chairs in the seating area behind him. “If you’d like to wait over there, he’ll be with you in a moment.”