Denouement (18 page)

“You’ll see.” Ed opened his office door and waved me in.

I stepped inside.

A light-brown rolling carry-on bag was butted up to the corner of Ed’s desk. Beside it was what looked like a stack of milk crates filled with bags. Each crate was a foot tall, five total. I leaned over it and looked inside the top crate. It held clothing.

“They separately bagged each personal item he had. Every piece of clothing, down to individual socks. Every toiletry item,” Ed said.

I furrowed my brow. “Why would they do that for a suicide?”

“Couldn’t tell you, but it’s probably why it took them ten hours to deliver everything.”

“Well, whatever. Here is your paperwork,” I said. I handed Ed the warrant for Ekel’s personal items.

“All I need, Kane. Do you want a hand loading this up?”

“Um, sure.”

I grabbed the top three crates, balanced them in one arm and rolled the carry-on suitcase with my other hand. Ed took up the remaining crates and led the way out to my car. Everything fit in the rear cargo area of the station wagon.

“That was everything, right?” I asked.

“That’s it.”

“Thanks, Ed. I’m going to get this stuff back to the station and get going on it. I’ll probably get Rick to lend me a hand as soon as he’s in.”

“Did you need to see the body?” he asked.

“No. I’m more interested in what he had that could lead us to Andrei Azarov. Besides, I was there when this guy decided to take his own life.”

“What?” Ed asked.

“Not in the room when it happened but moments later. We were at the casino to bring the guy in for questioning when this occurred.”

“Well, that’s probably why they were so thorough in going through his things. If the guy killed himself to avoid questioning, it probably stands to reason he was hiding something. My guess, they were looking for that something.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“All right. Time for me to go and get this place ready to go for the day.”

“Have a good one, Ed.”

“You too, Lieutenant.” Ed walked back toward the building.

I rummaged through the stuff in the back of the car until I found a plastic bag with the phone inside. I pulled the bag out and turned the phone in my hand. It looked like something from the nineties. I left the bag around the phone and thumbed the button on the phone’s side. The screen lit. I fumbled with menu buttons until I found the phone’s call log. The screen showed me five numbers with a scroll bar on the right.

I pulled up the Internet on my personal phone and punched in the last number Ekel had dialed. It came up as a local escort service. I shook my head. The next number I punched in belonged to the casino. I assumed he’d called ahead to book his room. I continued down the list. The next call went to a Florida number that somehow looked familiar. I searched it but came up with nothing. I thought for a moment and then reached into my pocket for my notepad. The folded sheet of phone numbers we’d pulled from Azarov’s phone was still there. I unfolded it and ran my finger down the numbers. The last call had gone to Ivan Blok’s cell phone, which I was positive Ekel didn’t get an answer from because by the time the call went out, Blok was already in custody. I moved on to the next number. It showed as having been received instead of called. I searched the number. It came up as the Dusty Hill Motel in Ridge Manor, Florida.

Where the hell is Ridge Manor?

I searched the town. It appeared to be an hour north of the city in Hernando County. I glanced at my watch—a few minutes after five thirty in the morning. I dialed Faust to let him know about the motel and tell him I had Ekel’s phone. I had to leave a voicemail. Then I took a seat behind the wheel and dialed the local impound lot. In a quick conversation, they informed me that a vehicle registered to Erik Ekel had not come in. I dialed the casino and had them connect me to the police department there. When the dispatcher answered, I introduced myself and had her put me in contact with whoever was leading up the suicide from the prior evening.

I sat on hold, waiting for someone to come to the phone. A couple minutes later, a man came on.

“Sergeant Phil Hamil,” he said.

“Lieutenant Carl Kane with the TPD. I was over there last night with my sergeant when Erik Ekel took his life.”

“Right. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Well, I procured a warrant for his personal belongings, which I’ve just received from the county medical examiner’s office. But I also have a search warrant for his vehicle. The officer I spoke with last night, Swift, was going to contact me when the vehicle was found and removed from your facility. I never heard anything, and the vehicle never made it to the impound lot. I was just looking to get a little information on that.”

“We actually never found a vehicle for the man. We pulled his registered vehicle information from the Department of Motor Vehicles. It looked like he had a couple registered in Illinois. We had a couple of guys out searching our parking structures and parking lots, but we came up empty. Are you sure he drove here, or do you know what exactly he was driving?”

I thought about it and realized I actually didn’t know the answer for either question. “You know, I’m not sure, actually.”

“Well, we can try going backward through our surveillance video from the time he arrived. Maybe we can find him in the parking structure. It’s about all I can do. Let me get your number.”

I gave him my prepaid number, thanked him, and hung up.

I remained in the medical examiner’s parking lot while I went back a week through the phone numbers in Ekel’s phone. I searched each number individually. Of the results I’d got, few of which didn’t match cell phones, nothing looked questionable.

I had nothing at the moment to go on other than the motel. My shift didn’t technically start for a few hours, but after I dropped the evidence at the station, I got back in my car and headed north.

Ray rolled over in the bed with the sunken center. He didn’t feel another body. Ray opened his eyes and tried to focus on the wall. His head throbbed as if someone was hitting it with a hammer. The door separating his motel room from the office was standing open. Noises were coming from the other side. A moment later, Amy appeared in the doorway, wearing Ray’s shirt. In her hands were two cups of coffee.

“Oh, you’re awake. I made some coffee. You drink coffee, right?” she asked.

Ray sat up in bed. “Yeah, coffee is fine.”

“I figured we could both use some after all the whiskey last night. How are you feeling?”

Ray dug his fingers into his eyes. “I’ll make it.”

She took a sip from one of the coffee cups and handed the other to Ray. “So what was Iraq actually like?” she asked.

“What?” Ray asked.

“Iraq, enemy fire? Your cheek and all the scars on your chest? The big one under your arm from an IED. You don’t remember telling me any of that?”

Ray had no interest in talking and couldn’t remember the details of the obvious lies he’d told her, anyway. “Oh, yeah, I don’t know. Hot as hell and sand.”

“I’m sorry about your brother. That had to be hard.”

Ray squinted his eyes and sipped at the coffee. The pounding in his head persisted. The coffee wouldn’t do anything to better the situation as it tasted like some kind of instant swill.

“Yeah, the situation with my brother was difficult.” He had no idea what she was talking about.

“Not much for morning conversation, hey?” she asked. Amy sat on the edge of Ray’s bed.

“I’ll be fine in a bit. I’m just really hungover.”

“Yeah, I was too. We drank almost two bottles.”

“I don’t suppose you have any aspirin in the office?” Ray asked.

“Oh, I have something better than that. Give me a second.”

She went back to the office and came back with a small glass bottle filled with white powder. “Do you want to go skiing?” she asked.

Though it had once been an everyday thing, Ray hadn’t touched coke in months. “Maybe just a line or two,” Ray said.

“Sure. One second.” She dipped back into the office and came back with a small square mirror and a razor. Amy tapped out some of the coke onto the mirror and separated it into lines. She handed it over to Ray. Ray set it on the nightstand, grabbed his wallet, and rolled up a twenty. He snorted a line up each nostril. His eyes widened.

Amy sat next to Ray, took the rolled twenty from him and snorted the rest. She flipped the rolled bill onto the nightstand and kissed Ray. She put her leg over him, wrapped her arms around his neck and brought herself up onto his lap. Ray pulled her back down into bed.

My GPS told me I was a quarter mile from the motel. The time was a quarter to seven. The sun would be up and over the horizon in another fifteen minutes. A morning fog clung a few feet from the ground. I’d never been in that area of Florida before. The two-lane straight country road had mostly fields to the sides with patches of trees sprinkled in. Every mile or so, some kind of small business in a rough-looking building stood alongside the road. The truck in front of me slowed for a left turn. An abandoned building, which at one point, years past, must have been some kind of marine business, sat on the road’s corner. A concrete pillar fashioned like a lighthouse stood next to the washed-out driveway. Four or five boats, minus trailers, lay half buried in the grass—the paint faded, whatever glass they’d once had broken. The truck turned, and I picked up speed.

The GPS told me my destination was ahead on the right in a thousand feet. A long gray-and-brown single-story building took shape up ahead on my right. It had to be the motel. A single red car was parked near the front. I slowed and put on my turn signal. The car came into focus—a bright-red couple-year-old Porsche Cayman. It stuck out like a sore thumb at the back of the bare cinderblock building. A faded sign reading Dusty Hill Motel sat near the street. The neon sign advertising color television and air conditioning flickered.

“This is the place,” I said.

I made a right into the parking lot. Whoever the Porsche belonged to must have owned the place—it was parked behind the office, immediately to my right. The individual motel rooms’ front doors faced the parking lot. A single car was parked in the visitor parking—an older dark-colored Toyota sedan.

“Shit,” I said. I looked at the license plate and made a U-turn in the parking lot. I looked at the plate again to memorize it as I made a left from the motel. I fumbled my notepad from my pocket and flipped its pages, trying to find the page where I’d written down the plate number from the car Faust said they’d caught video of Ray driving. I made a right into the old marine business and parked. With my full attention, I found the page in short order.

“Midnineties, dark, Toyota Camry, Florida plate 466 ILA,” I said. “Shit, that’s the car. He’s there.”

The thought of kicking in the door of the motel room and trying to take him crossed my mind. I would have done it in a heartbeat before Callie, maybe even after, but not since the pregnancy. I had to push the thought away. I wouldn’t risk not being there for my family. I dialed Faust. The phone rang in my ear.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I said.

On the eleventh or twelfth ring, I heard a click. I figured it would be his voicemail picking up.

“Faust,” he said. His voice was low and raspy.

“It’s Kane. I think I have him in some dumpy motel about an hour from the city.”

“Hold on.”

I heard rustling sounds from Faust’s end of the phone.

“What’s going on now?”

“I left you a message about an hour or so ago. I got Erik Ekel’s phone from the medical examiner’s office. There was an incoming call from a motel. I came to check it out. I have the Toyota Azarov was driving parked out front.”

“Where are you exactly?”

“The place is called the Dusty Hill Motel. It’s on 301 in Ridge Manor,” I said.

“One second,” Faust said. “I need to write this down. Okay, Dusty Hill Motel, 301, Ridge Manor?”

“Correct.”

“Where the hell is Ridge Manor?”

“A little over an hour north and east from downtown Tampa.”

“Did anyone there see you?” he asked.

“No, and I didn’t go in. His is the only car out front. There’s a single vehicle in the back. Aside from that, the place looked empty. I just turned around in the lot and left.”

“Get eyes on the place and make sure that car doesn’t move. Not close enough where you’ll be spotted. I’m coming now.”

“Do you want me to call the local sheriff’s office?” I asked.

“Yeah. No advancing on the place until me and my guys get there.”

“Got it,” I said. I clicked off and dialed information. I had them put me through to the Hernando County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Hernando County Sheriff non-emergency line. How can I direct your call?” a woman asked.

“I’m Lieutenant Carl Kane with the Tampa PD. I need to speak with whoever is in charge of patrol.”

“Regarding?” she asked.

“I’m working with the FBI. We’ve located a wanted man in your area.”

“Um, give me one minute, Lieutenant.”

“Sure.”

She placed me on hold. I started the car and drove back toward the motel, looking for someplace closer to observe from. I found nothing south of the motel that was closer than the abandoned marine business. I passed the Dusty Hill to search for a better spot north. Again, I saw nothing aside from a billboard in a field, advertising a fast-food chain ten miles away. I made a U-turn a quarter mile up from the motel and headed back in the opposite direction.

A man came on the line. “Captain Scott Feldman.”

“Lieutenant Carl Kane, TPD.” I glanced out of my window at the motel. Nothing had changed, and the car hadn’t moved. I continued past.

The captain coughed. “So what is going on now?” he asked.

“I believe I’ve located a man wanted for multiple counts of murder in your jurisdiction. I have federal agents in route but wanted to notify you of what is going on here.”

“Who is the man?”

“Andrei Azarov.”

“That name sounds familiar,” he said.

I pulled back into the old marine business and turned around. I pointed the nose of the Cadillac back in the direction of the motel. From where I was, I would at least be able to see if a vehicle pulled in or out of the motel’s driveway. The abandoned business was my best location to wait. “The man committed multiple murders in Tampa a few months back. He took the lives of two federal agents this week.”