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“To call Dash.”
“What for?”
“I forgot to tell him something when I texted before. Don’t let anyone in but me.”
The door closed behind him.
Chapter 29
1:22 a.m.
Goliad pulled his car up beside the police unit and motioned for the officer to lower his window. He gave Goliad a mock salute.
Goliad asked, “Have you seen them?”
“Neither coming or going.”
“Room number?”
“Seven oh seven. It’s on this side. Third window from the south corner. Drapes are closed. If there’s any light on, it’s feeble. Hasn’t changed since I got here. No motion. So can’t say for certain if they’re in there or not.”
“I’ll be in the row farthest from the building,” Goliad told him. “Stay here until further notice. Let me know if you see anything.” He passed the cop an envelope of cash through the car windows, then drove away and found a parking space that provided a view of the entire building.
After tucking Timmy in for the night, he had returned to the Hunts’ house and, through the house intercom, told Delores that he was back. She’d thanked him. They’d exchanged good nights.
But Goliad hadn’t availed himself of the sofa.
For one thing, her husky whisper telling him how much safer she felt with him nearby had left him with an erection, which he suffered frequently. Tonight, she had touched him, making his desire even more rampant. It consumed him. It was demoralizing and potentially destructive, but he was helpless against it.
Countless times he’d considered leaving, getting away from her entirely. He could easily find lucrative employment. With his experience, he would be a valuable asset to a Mexican drug cartel. He’d lived all his life on the U.S. side of the border, so he understood the norteamericanos’ way of life and how to maneuver in it. He spoke flawless English without a trace of a Spanish accent. He would have his choice of jobs.
Yet he stayed. His unrequited love for Delores was torturous, but he would endure it if only to be able to see her on a near-daily basis, to watch her move, to hear her voice. A smile, a word of gratitude from her was like a caress.
The only permissible way for him to express his love was to serve her with unqualified loyalty. So instead of resting on the study sofa, he’d continued his quest for Brynn O’Neal and Rye Mallett. He’d made follow-up calls to his snitches and offered more substantial bribes to law officers on the take.
None had had anything to report. A canvass of hotels and motels hadn’t yielded a guest named either Mallett or O’Neal. But Goliad recalled the phone conversation Mallett had conducted while in the car and reasoned that a room might have been booked for him by the company he was flying for.
After ten minutes on Google, he had obtained the legal name of the owner of Dash-It-All. He’d begun calling hotels and motels within a reasonable distance of Hartsfield-Jackson, asking to be connected to the guest room of Mr. Dashiell Dewitt.
On the sixth call, he’d gotten a strike. The hotel operator had put him on hold while she rang the room, but Goliad had hung up before the call went through and instead phoned a beat cop who was notorious for taking graft.
The police officer had gone to the hotel, told the desk clerk that Mr. Dewitt had reported that a rifle was missing from his car, which had been parked on the hotel parking lot. It was emphasized to the clerk that, in light of recent mass shootings, law enforcement took weapons matters seriously. He must follow up with Mr. Dewitt immediately. The clerk had willingly given him Mr. Dewitt’s room number and had advised him to use a side door.
The officer had passed all this information along to Goliad, who had told him to park near that door and to report to him any sightings of the couple immediately.
Acting on the new information, Goliad had called in a replacement to take over watch duty at the mansion and, alone, had driven to the hotel.
The gloom and rain reduced visibility, but he applied his binoculars to the designated window. It was as the cop had described to him: drapes drawn and the room looked dark.
But then, an infinitesimal flicker at the edge of the drapes. A motion so subtle and short-lived that if he had blinked he would have missed it.
He lowered his binoculars and smiled.
He debated calling the Hunts and informing them of this latest development but decided to wait until he could report that he had the drug in his possession.
1:26 a.m.
Rye stepped out into the corridor, leaned against the door, and pressed the back of his head into the hard surface. He felt weaker, more shaken, more unbalanced now than he had last night after the crash.
