I leveled my gun.
… 217.
The door was closed, locked. I pressed my ear against it, listened. Yes, movement. Someone was definitely inside.
I slid my key into the lock and slowly nudged the door open. I couldn’t see the entire bedroom, just the entryway. Whoever was in there was around the corner out of sight, opening and closing drawers.
I cleared my throat. “I’m a federal agent. It’s been a really long day, and I’m holding a very wicked gun. So don’t move.” I don’t think those are the exact words we’re supposed to use, but it seemed to do the trick.
The sound of the drawers stopped.
“Do something stupid, and you’ll end up dead,” I said.
I heard whoever it was mumble something.
“Step out slowly.” I eased forward, steadied my gun. “Hands in the air.”
A tall, angular man, mid-forties, with a tangled sallow beard and big ears stepped into view. “Don’t shoot!” His hands were shaking. “I’m an investigator!”
“What?”
He reached for his pocket.
“Hands up! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He froze. “I’m just trying to get my wallet.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Lie down. And watch those hands.”
He lay on the floor. I smelled something sharp. Urine. The guy had wet his pants. Not quite what I would have expected from our killer.
He was facedown on the carpet now, his hands spread.
“Was that you this morning following me in your car?”
He nodded.
I reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped it open. “Reginald Trembley, private investigator? That you?”
He nodded.
Don’t be stupid, Pat, play it safe. Remember, the killer knows how to get close. To gain trust.
I pulled out some plastic cuffs and slipped them around his wrists, yanked them tight. He grunted, but I didn’t care. “This is just so we can talk without me having to hold a gun in your face the whole time. All right?”
He nodded again.
I holstered my gun and quickly frisked him to see if he was packing a piece or if he’d taken anything from my room. He seemed clean. I helped him up and sat him on the bed, then asked him, “So who are you working for? What are you doing in my room?”
He seemed to have regained some of his courage since emptying his bladder. He sneered at me. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I’d expected as much. “OK. I completely understand.” I picked up the room phone and dialed a number. “Yeah, Dante, it’s Pat. I’m at the hotel: room 217. Caught someone rummaging through my things. I want you to come over. He doesn’t want to talk. Bring the stuff.” I hung up the phone.
A wave of fear washed over Reginald Trembley’s face. “Who’s Dante?” he said. “What’s ‘the stuff’?”
I walked into the bathroom, pulled down the shower curtain, then returned to Trembley.
“Dante’s a friend.” I glanced at my watch. “He was right across the street. I’d say you have about two minutes before he gets here. If I were you, I’d talk now. Because when Dante gets here, things are going to get messy. Dante is really good at his job.”
I laid the shower curtain on the floor in front of Trembley and spread it smooth. His lips were quivering. The guy was about to cry. “Bethanie’s parents hired me,” he said.
“Bethanie? Bethanie Dixon?”
He nodded.
I went for some towels. “Why?”
“They think she was murdered. What’s that shower curtain for?”
“She was murdered. It’s to protect the carpet.”
“No, by the cult members from the group she was with out West.”
I returned with the towels. “Cult? I thought she was studying in a private college in New Mexico.”
“That’s the line they used to cover things up, to tell the family members.” He eyed the shower curtain spread out at his feet. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m not going to, Dante is. What else? You have ninety seconds.”
Trembley’s rate of delivery began to improve dramatically. “Bethanie joined this group. I’m not sure who the leader is; everyone just calls him the Father. He claims he was there at Jonestown, you know Jonestown?”
I got the iron out of the closet. “I’ve heard of it. Keep going.”
“Claims he was there as a kid and survived. I don’t know if it’s true or not. You don’t need that iron, OK? I’m talking, all right?”
I plugged it in.
“Her parents wanted me to get her out of the group; they were gonna sue, I think.” He was talking so fast now I could barely keep up. “But then he let her go, and she turned up dead. They’re pretty sure his group did it, but the cops said it was a serial killer.”
“What do you know about this guy they call the Father?” I glanced at my watch. “One minute.”
“I don’t know, I swear! I’m not really that good. I didn’t find out very much, and then when she ended up dead and-”
The door swung open.
Trembley was shaking. “No, no, please.” He closed his eyes.
Sheriff Dante Wallace walked in munching on a cheeseburger. “What’s going-what do we have here?” he said. “Reginald Trembley?”
Trembley opened his eyes. “Sheriff Wallace? You’re Dante?” Trembley looked at me. “He’s Dante?”
I watched in disbelief as Dante leaned over and cut the cuffs off Reginald’s wrists. “You two know each other?”
“Get outta here, Reggie,” Sheriff Wallace said. “I don’t want you messin’ up this investigation. You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.” Reginald Trembley nodded, rose, and stumbled out the door. For his sake I hoped he had a change of clothes in his car.
“What’s going on?” I said. “He broke into my room.”
“He’s a snitch.” Dante looked at me. I was still holding the iron. “What’s all this here stuff on the floor?”
“I thought I might spill something,” I said. “He’s a private investigator and a snitch?”
“Look, Trembley knows everybody. He’s been on our bankroll for the last two years. This region is one of the main drug corridors to DC and New York City up I75 or I95 from Florida, across on highway 26 or 40. Meth dealers, marijuana, dirty cops, you name it. He knows ’em all. That old boy’s connected.”
“So you just let him go?”
“We bring him in for something like this, we lose out in the long run. He didn’t take nothin’, did he?”
“No. I don’t think so,” I said with a sigh. I unplugged the iron. One step forward, two steps back. I reached into my wallet and dug out eighty dollars. “Hey, take this for your phone, Dante. I can give you more if you need it. I’m really sorry about that.”
He took another bite of his burger, eyed the money for a moment, and then accepted it. “That should be good. I’ll swing by and get me one on the way home. Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
He was still looking at the towels and shower curtain. “Any new leads on the case?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted.” Then I glanced down at the floor. “I guess I should put this stuff away. I’ll talk to you later.”
He stared at the iron for another moment or two before he turned. “Yeah, OK. See that you do.” Then he left, taking another bite out of his supper.
As I began cleaning up, I noticed something on the carpet glimmering in the light.
I knelt beside it. A lapel pin of a Confederate flag.
Just like the one the governor was wearing.
Must have pulled off Trembley’s shirt when I made him lie on the floor.
I decided it was time to listen to those phone transcripts and see what Bethanie had to say about Governor Sebastian Taylor.