“Before lunch. I don’t know when. He’d paid up; I didn’t think much about him until he didn’t check out on Sunday. By three, I had to haul my ass to his room. He wasn’t there. I boxed his stuff and that was it.”
“Did Morton have any visitors while he was here?”
“No.” Grunelli frowned and looked down.
“Do you remember something?” Abigail asked.
“The car. I thought I saw his car in the lot early Saturday morning. I mean, real early, like two or three. I was outside having a smoke, upstairs on my deck—the owner gets all anal about me smoking inside. It was fucking cold, but I couldn’t sleep. And I saw the car. I hadn’t heard it come in, so I was like just watching and smoking and this guy left room 103.”
“Morton?”
“No. Another guy. Not as big as Morton. Different shape, but I couldn’t tell you if he was taller or shorter or whatever. It was dark. I just knew it wasn’t the guy who rented the room, and he got into the white car and drove off. That was the last time I saw the car.”
“And you weren’t suspicious?”
“Hell no. The guests here have people come and go all the time. As long as they’re not loud or fighting, they mind their business and I mind my business.”
“And you’re certain it was the same car?”
He shrugged. “No, but I don’t get many people driving brand-new cars into this place, unless it’s a rental, and most of the guests here don’t drive rentals, either.”
When they stepped out of Grunelli’s squalid office, Noah said to Abigail, “Contact Vigo and get an administrative warrant in the works for the rental agencies. Once we ID the company, we’ll want all the logs and GPS tracking, if they have it.”
“Most do these days.”
“It should be pretty straightforward.” Noah pulled out his phone. It had vibrated several times during his conversation with Grunelli.
“Donovan has been ringing me.” He called Kate right back. “It’s Noah.”
“Robbie Ralston, one of Morton’s closest associates from the old days, is dead.”
“Ralston?” Noah didn’t remember the name.
“He was a low-level pimp, but provided a steady stream of girls for Trask and Morton back when Trask Enterprises was mostly legal. I ran him while waiting for you to call me back. He served a few years in prison, was on disability, and get this—he had a ticket bought and paid for to Miami last Sunday.”
Noah was confused. “He was killed in Miami?”
“No, he was killed in his apartment. He never made the flight.”
“Send me the information—I’ll head over there immediately. Who’s on scene?”
“No one yet. I have an ERT unit standing by.”
“Why didn’t you call the local police?”
“Sean Rogan found the body.”
Rogan? “What?”
He must have sounded as pissed off as he felt, because Kate quickly said, “Talk to him. He called me because he didn’t have your number.” She paused, then said, “Sean’s looking into Morton’s past because my family asked him to.”
“And you knew?”
“I just found out. After all, Patrick is his partner, and Patrick is out of town and worried about the situation. Sean called me as soon as he found the body. He’s not screwing around.”
A Rogan in the middle of his investigation was not what Noah wanted.
“Noah?”
“Where’s Rogan now?”
“At the scene.”
“I’m on my way.”
Sean stood outside Ralston’s building while the FBI’s Evidence Response Team did their forensic work upstairs. He supposed he had Kate to thank that he wasn’t officially detained, but while he waited for Agent Noah Armstrong to arrive he called Jayne instructing her to dig deeper into Ralston and Morton’s history, focusing on shared connections. Clearly, Ralston’s murder was no coincidence.
Why had Sergey Yuran sent him here? Did the Russian trafficker know that Ralston was dead? Had he killed him when the deal into the online sex trade went south? It didn’t seem to be up Yuran’s alley—he was ruthless, but this wasn’t his M.O.—and the smashed computer was a sign that Ralston had information that the killer didn’t want getting out.
Or was there something more here? Who else had Ralston talked to about Morton’s deal? And who ultimately bought into the scheme? Had Morton and Ralston cut out an unknown partner? Taken the money and run? Ralston had the suitcase, Morton had violated his probation—there was something just out of reach. He needed more information. But there was no doubt in his mind that Morton and Ralston’s murders were connected. He’d inspected the body and the guy had been dead for several days. The cold apartment slowed decomp, but Sean knew enough about forensics that the coroner could account for ambient temperature and give a good range for time of death.
An elderly black woman with a small Pomeranian in her purse and a canvas grocery bag over her shoulder turned the corner and walked slowly down the damp sidewalk toward Sean. He covered the distance quickly and said, “Let me help.”
She smiled, revealing perfect teeth that didn’t quite look real. “Thank you, young man.” She handed him her grocery bag.
Sean put his hand on her elbow. “Where are you going?”
She gestured toward Ralston’s building. “The first-floor apartment on the right.”
The entrance was only about 150 feet away, but it took several minutes to reach the front stoop. The little dog stared at Sean but didn’t bark. “Cute dog.” Not his type of pet, but he figured the woman was a possible witness.
“She’s a little bitch, but I like her.”
Sean suppressed a grin.
The woman glanced at him as she climbed the front step. “You’re not from here.”
“No. There was a homicide upstairs.”
She shook her head and sighed. “I’m not surprised. Two B or Three D?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Three D.”
“Robbie. I hadn’t seen him this week.”
“Did you know he was planning a trip?”
“He don’t like me.”
“Why not? He must not have been friendly.”
“He don’t like blacks. He tolerated me. I own this building.” She winked, then took another step and leaned against Sean. Her hand was tight with arthritis.
“Doesn’t the grocery deliver?”
She laughed. “Here? Naw. I go out once a week, and my granddaughter comes by every Wednesday to take me to bingo and brings my medicine and groceries. But sometimes I need a few other things. Look in the bag.”
Sean did. There was a fifth of Scotch—good stuff, too, not the cheap rotgut—and a pack of Marlboro Lights, along with a small steak.
“Missy won’t buy me liquor.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s not like I’m an alcoholic—one shot a night. And she won’t buy me steak, neither. Says it’s not good for my arteries. And don’t get me started on the cigarettes. I’m eighty-nine years old, dammit, and I don’t much care if I see ninety. I don’t think one damn cigarette a day is going to kill me.”
“I’m Sean Rogan,” he said as he helped her onto the final step. “I’m a private investigator, and very pleased to meet you, Mrs.—”
“Tessie. Call me Tessie, everyone does. You have questions about Robbie?”
“I do, in fact.”
He held open the door that led to the small lobby of the row house. She walked to the door with 1A painted in white.
“Who’s upstairs? I didn’t see any police cars.”
“The FBI.”
She turned and craned her neck up to look at him, eyes wide. “The FBI? Well, Robbie did get himself into a little situation, didn’t he? Was he playing both sides?”
“Both sides?”
Tessie laughed. “He was an informant, you know. Used to be, anyhow. Come on in, I’ll tell you all about him. Did you know he used to be a pimp? Yep, I’ve lived here forty-six years, Robbie moved in—oh, nineteen ninety-three. Four? Was in prison once, but paid his rent so I aired out his place once a week.”