Page 26 of Spock’s Snare

Most people would assume the place is empty, but I hear movement inside.

Rush glances at me.

"What?"

I raise one finger and nod for Rush to follow me. We move toward our bikes, and I turn toward him, keeping one eye on the storefront.

“I heard movement inside,” I tell him. Rush nods. My brothers gave me the road name "Spock" because not only am I logical and a huge fan of Star Trek, but I also have exceptional hearing. Rush believes me when I tell him someone is inside.

“What do you want to do?” he asks softly.

“Let’s see who leaves,” I tell him as I climb onto my bike. As I put on my helmet, I act like I’m not watching the window, but I am. Sure enough, the blind twitches, telling me whoever is inside is watching us. I pull out of the parking lot with Rush following my lead. He knows me well enough to know I have a plan.

We pull out of the strip mall, ride around the block, then duck into the parking lot of a medical office a couple hundred yards away. A sprawling mesquite tree casts enough shade to conceal both bikes, while still giving us a clear view of the door.

I pull out my phone and text the license plate number of the car parked out front to Spark along with instructions on identifying the owner. He responds quickly to let me know he’s on it.

Rush leans against his handlebars.

"You really think somebody's holed up in there?"

"I know somebody's in there."

He chuckles.

"I keep forgetting you have those freakish Vulcan ears."

"My hearing isn't freakish."

"Says the guy named Spock."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

We settle into silence, watching.

Minutes crawl by.

The occasional customer enters the laundromat, but nobody goes near Red Rock's office.

At twelve-thirty on the dot, the door finally opens and an attractive young woman steps outside. She looks to be in her early twenties. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

She locks the office behind her, then pauses. She searches right, then left before moving to her car. She’s probably checking to see if she’s being watched. She is; she just doesn’t see us. Satisfied, she hurries to the silver sedan, climbs inside, and pulls away from the curb.

My phone vibrates almost immediately with a message from Spark.

Diedre McMillon. Twenty-two. UNLV student. Night classes. Employed by Red Rock Construction for six months. No criminal history. Clean financials. Lives in an apartment east of campus.

I show Rush the screen.

“We could tail her and see where she goes,” he suggests.

I watch the sedan disappear into traffic before slipping my phone back into my pocket. “No need. We have her address if we want to talk to her away from here. Besides, I’m more interested in what’s inside that space.”

Rush grins. “Let’s go.”

Rush and I leave the bikes beneath the mesquite tree and jog across the parking lot, keeping low until we reach the side of the strip mall. The laundromat appears empty. We round the corner and disappear behind the building.

The rear service corridor has no traffic with a wall blocking us from the nearby street. There’s a single dumpster near the faded delivery door for the laundromat. A few electrical panels hang sporadically between back doors and rear windows. Moving to the windows that should belong to Red Rock Construction, I study the frame and check for an alarm.