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Now, alone in her hotel room, Carmen let down her hair, stripped off her jacket, and plopped onto the bed, where it was all she could do to not fall asleep atop the covers.

Still things to do though. She propped herself on an elbow and set the alarm for 6 A.M. — they were leaving for the police station just before eight tomorrow, but she needed time to get ready first, both personal and work prep.

She climbed off the bed, tugged her cell phone out of the pocket of the jacket she’d removed, then attached the charger cord and plugged it into an outlet in the bathroom.

Some people washed the day off, some people showered before facing the world come the morning, some did both. Carmen fell into the middle group, but she did scrub off her makeup and comb out her hair before bed.

She also kicked off the clothes from a very long day and snuggled into the Ozomatli T-shirt and gym shorts that she slept in. She’d just turned the bed back and was getting ready to slide in between cool sheets when she heard a knock on the door.

A smile tickled her lips.

So Jenny had changed her mind!

Tired as she was, Carmen considered herself the little blonde’s (self-appointed) fairy godmother, and she was eager to talk with Jenny... if Jenny wanted to talk to her.

So certain was she that it was Jenny knocking, Carmen didn’t think to check the peephole before jerking the door open.

When the portal was filled with a middle-aged man in a blue baseball cap, a Kansas Jayhawks sweatshirt, and jeans, Carmen was too stunned to move. But she noticed right away that he held something in his right hand.

He was smiling at her and neither spoke for an endless second, then Carmen knew the thing in his hand was a Taser. Before she could slam the door or scream or even think, the two little metal javelins fired, and she felt their sting as they bit into her chest.

She had only enough time to grunt from shock before her body rocked spasmodically and she melted to the floor in a puddle, aware only that he’d stepped over her and shut them in together before everything in her world spun wildly into a black vortex that sucked her in too.

Four

The Message

Chapter Twenty-four

Billy Choi noticed first.

“Carmen isn’t usually late,” he pointed out to Harrow, as they were loading the buses to go to the Pratt PD. “Matter of fact, she’s usually the one complaining I’m late.”

Shrugging, Harrow said, “Probably just running behind. Why don’t you go see if you can hurry her up?”

“Turnabout fair play and all that? Sure, boss.”

Choi took off for the motel entrance. He was a professional, as far as it went, but he’d read enough Penthouse letters to harbor the hope that the gorgeous Carmen might answer the door wearing only a towel.

He clipped through the lobby, then down a long hall that intersected with a cross hallway. He turned right and strode down toward the last door on the right, Carmen’s. He spent the entire walk letting a sheer nightie stand in for the towel in his developing fantasy.

At the door, Choi knocked.

Ten seconds, and nothing.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

He tried a third time, this effort harder than before, and waited... and still nothing. For the first time, Choi wondered if something might be wrong. Maybe Carmen was sick — Mexican food didn’t agree with everybody, after all, and that Tex-Mex fare had been rich.

This time, when he rapped on the door, any Penthouse fantasy long since flown, he shouted, “Carmen!”

Again, there was no answer.

Genuinely worried, Choi got out his cell phone and punched in Harrow’s number.

“Billy? Waiting for you two.”

“Something’s not right here, boss. I’ve knocked on the door till my knuckles are red, but I can’t get her to answer.”

“Be right there.”

As he waited, Choi kept knocking, and by now he would have settled for Carmen answering in a nun’s habit, which was definitely not a fantasy of his. Eventually, the guy across the way stuck his head out and complained.

Choi just snarled, “Go away,” at the portly man, who pulled his head back in his shell.

But more knocking only earned him further disappointment.

Finally, Harrow showed up, an assistant motel manager — a squat fortyish woman with brown hair, very red lipstick, and a white blouse over navy blue slacks — trailing him, having to work to keep up.

“She doesn’t answer,” Choi told them.

The manager stepped forward and knocked.

“Oh, yeah,” Choi said to her. “Knocking. I hadn’t thought to try that.”

“Billy,” Harrow cautioned.

She kept rapping, getting no answer of course, but she was also running a pass keycard through the lock.

The woman opened the door, but Harrow held up a hand.

“Remember,” he told the assistant manager. “This may be a police matter, and I need to check it first.”

“You bet, Mr. Harrow,” she said, obviously impressed with her guest.

So, Choi thought, J.C. had played the celebrity card. Good. Whatever it took...

Harrow looked around the motel room and the bathroom. Choi followed, while the manager remained silhouetted in the doorway.

The room was vacant, the night-table lamp on.

“Where’s the bedspread?” Choi asked.

“Gone,” Harrow said.

“Something to wrap somebody up in, maybe?”

Harrow’s silence was confirmation.

Checking the bathroom himself, Choi spotted her cell phone plugged into the electrical socket. “Cell’s here, boss.”

Harrow peeked in.

Choi said, “She’d never leave the room without that phone.”

“Not voluntarily,” Harrow agreed.

“Unless she stepped out for some ice or pop or something, and... ran into something.”

Or someone.

Neither man could say it out loud, but both thought it.

“What happened here?” Harrow said. He was calm, but it was a cop calm, edged with steel.

Choi had a thorough look-around, particularly on the floor, and noticed something near the door. On one knee, he bent as close to the carpet as he could and discerned a small spot.

Dark.

Nearly maroon, as it dried.

“Blood,” Choi said.

Harrow knelt beside him, and they both studied the drop, no bigger than the diameter of a good-sized sewing needle.

“Good catch,” Harrow said.

Always nice to get a compliment from the boss, but Choi didn’t feel like celebrating.

On his feet again, Harrow said to the assistant manager, “Call the police — tell them that J.C. Harrow’s group has a missing person here at the motel, and we think it’s an abduction.”

The woman’s eyes were big and her mouth hung open, but she remained motionless.

“Go,” Harrow said.

The woman swallowed, nodded, and trundled off down the hall like a reluctant tank moving into battle.

Harrow got out his cell and punched a speed-dial number.

“Laurene?” he asked.

Choi could not hear her response.

Harrow told her, “Carmen’s been taken. Bring your crime scene kit to her room, now.”

He told Laurene to send the rest of the team ahead to the PD to keep working the serial killer case. This was likely the same unsub, and they needed to find him.