He called into her. "Wasn't the fire alarm."
Alice heard the whopping again, then saw the object of several of her fantasies, Jeff Jacobus, step back into her office door.
"Alice, what've you got in here?"
She raised her own voice. "I have no idea."
As he stepped closer, the whooping raised in pitch. Next to her desk, the noise was almost shrill. He swept her desk and stopped near an empty bottle of Gatorade.
"I drank a radioactive Gatorade?"
He lifted the bottle with his free hand and swept the area again. "Nope. It's these pink papers."
She looked at the shipping invoices that Alex Duarte had used to secure the lock for fingerprints.
He looked at her, all traces of his charming smile gone. "Alice, where'd you get those papers?"
Duarte pulled into one of the many open slots in front of the rooms of the Cajun Inn. The Ryder step van was gone.
Félix said, "He couldn't have gotten too far. Let's look for him."
Duarte shook his head. "He could go in any direction. Let's see if it was really Floyd staying here."
They slipped out of the faded, old Bronco and turned toward the office. Duarte took a second to survey the area. He noticed one room door that was wedged open with a maid's cart.
"Hang on, Félix. Might be easier talking to the maid than the manager."
"Especially after the last prick manager we had to deal with."
Duarte motioned for Félix to stay there as he crossed the small lot to the open room. He called out as he approached the cart. "Hello."
After a few seconds, a short, elderly black woman popped her head out of the room.
"Office is up der." She pointed toward the front of the lot.
Duarte smiled. "I was wondering if I could ask you a question."
The woman perked up like she expected a question. She looked down the breezeway toward the first room.
"What 'chu wanna ask?"
"Do you know who drove the Ryder rental truck that was here?" He pointed to where he had seen the truck parked.
"I seen him. White man."
"Big fella from New Orleans?"
"I guess."
"Do you know what room he had?"
"Room one."
"Did he check out?"
"Yep."
Duarte hesitated. He could go to the office, but he would like to see if anything was left in the room.
As if reading his mind, the old woman said, "You wanna see the room?" She held up an old heavy metal key.
He took it and smiled. "I'll get it right back to you."
She nodded and turned back into the room.
Duarte waved his hand for Félix to wait as he checked the room. He could see in the open windows of each room as he walked down the breezeway. He stopped in front of room one and noticed the curtains were drawn and hanging a little funny.
The key slipped into the scarred door handle easily. He turned the handle, but paused. He had an odd sensation that everything wasn't as it should be. He shrugged off the feeling and slowly pushed open the door, aware of his SIG-Sauer P229 on his hip under the loose shirt.
Lázaro Staub sulked in his room, annoyed that Lina Cirillo was just a tease and not a woman who appreciated his position and power. He was not used to being rebuffed, especially by someone without the classic shape that he required from his women. She was built like an athletic man, not a full-breasted and luscious woman.
The more the colonel thought about how she had completely ignored his charisma, the more confused he had become. Did she not realize that he literally held life and death in his hands or at his command? No one ever refused him. Not in Panama and not here in the United States. She was only an FBI agent. He was the head of the national police narcotics unit and one of the richest men in all of South America.
He thought back to his betrayal by the first and only woman he ever thought he loved. The day he found that whore with his father, doing the same things she had done with him. This was close to that feeling. Not a rage, but more of a determination. An urge to dominate her and anyone like her. He could do things to her she couldn't imagine. But he could. A good beating with a leather strap or riding crop would go a long way to showing her what an error she had made by rebuffing him.
He stood up from the bed and realized he was sweating though his shirt and his face was drenched in salty moisture.
He stepped into the bathroom and wiped his face with the towel on the rack. Looking in the mirror, the first thing he noticed was that the twitch in his left eye was going off like a car's turn signal. What had this woman done to him?
He looked at his face and shoulders in the mirror, mystified that any woman would be able to resist him. Even if she didn't know about his wealth, he didn't see how she had backed away from his advances. He was so angry he had to spit into the sink.
She'd pay. The only question was, who would go first? The troublesome ATF agent or the silly female FBI agent?
Now he had a real reason to stay in the U.S. until his missions in life were complete.
Alice Brainard had puzzled about the fact that the shipping notices had given off such a strong signal to the fireman's Geiger counter and was now concerned enough to have moved them into the lab. Not that she thought she'd get sick from it, but why take chances? Working in a lab with chemicals and other things had taught her that being careful was a real plus.
She had looked on the Internet and spoken to one of the other forensic scientists about the possibility of something being contaminated by a cargo. No one seemed to know the answer.
She started checking and learned that U.S. Customs used small radioactive "pagers" that would set off an alarm if they came in contact with a ship that was carrying anything radioactive. She called over to the customs office in the Port of Palm Beach and couldn't get anyone but a machine on the phone.
Finally it started to bother her enough that she decided to take one of the shipping notices over there herself.
She had already slipped it into a plastic evidence bag and now into an old metal box that had been sitting unused for years in the crime scene room. She lugged the box to her Honda and decided today she would eat lunch in Riviera Beach, conveniently right next to the port. She had her sheriff's office ID and hoped she'd be more successful talking to someone in person.
35
ALEX DUARTE OPENED THE DOOR TO THE HOTEL ROOM A CRACK and tried to see inside. The bright sunlight made it difficult to see into the gloomy room. For a reason unknown to him, he slid his right hand to the butt of his pistol. He leaned into the door and opened it a little farther.
The room still remained too dark to see anything. He went ahead and pushed the door inward, feeling it catch slightly on something. For a moment, he thought he might be finding another dead body. That was starting to get old.
As the door opened all the way, with his hand still resting on the knob, he looked into the room and saw the white propane gas tank. Then he thought about the slight catch in the door and saw the loose curtain strings on the floor.
His mind just reacted and he pulled the door to him, hoping to contain the blast he knew would come.
He saw the flash in the crack of the door and heard the blast just as the door was about to close.
Orange flames peeked out all around the door, and the window next to him blew out.
At the same time, he felt the door fly loose from its hinges and lift horizontally off the ground, with him still holding on.