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Decker doubled his speed.
He reached a closed door that was apparently the sole entrance to the space up here. It had been open the previous time. He tried the knob, but now it was locked.
He took out a small leather kit. Inside were two pick tools. He only needed one to do the job, since the lock was not a deadbolt.
He pushed the door open and went through. He quickly moved through the event space and bar area, turned left, and came face-to-face with the only other door here.
This lock took both his pick tools. And when that didn’t work, his shoulder did the trick.
When the lock burst and the heavy door swung inward, Decker found himself looking at the nicely appointed bedroom that he had been in once before while meeting with Caroline Dawson. Four-poster bed, an enormous armoire, a couple of nightstands, and an attached bathroom. He hadn’t seen that on his previous visit. He poked his head in and saw a toilet, a bidet, a double granite-topped vanity, and a marble walk-in shower with a rainfall showerhead.
Decker slowly took it all in, until his gaze fell upon the armoire. He walked over and opened the door. It was full of women’s clothing, some costume jewelry, and many pairs of shoes. He searched through it all but found nothing particularly useful.
He closed the door and took out his tac light. He shone it under all the furniture before coming to the bed. That was where he struck gold, in the crevice between the bed frame and the box springs. No one would notice unless they’d been looking closely.
His fingers gripped the tiny object and examined it closely. He had seen it before. Right in the bar downstairs. He pocketed it and went back down.
The same man confronted him at the bottom.
“I’ve called the cops,” he blurted out.
“Give them my best,” said Decker as he walked past him and out the door.
DECKER’S LONG LEGS CARRIED HIMswiftly to the funeral home. On the way he had called Jamison and told her to join him after filling her in on his discovery.
The funeral home parking lot held two long black hearses and a limo for transporting the family to the cemetery. There was also a late-model Mustang convertible, with its top up, parked near the side door. The license plate read:HEAVN.
Jamison joined him at the front door. “What are you going to do?”
“Cut through the crap,” he replied.
They entered the front doors and were confronted by the same young man they had previously dealt with here.
“Oh, it’s you again.”
“Where is Mrs. Southern?”
“She’s currently occupied.”
“Not good enough,” said Jamison, holding out her badge. “Be more specific.”
“She’s . . . she’s working on a client.”
“Where?” said Decker.
“You can’t go back there.”
“Watch me.”
He strode off with Jamison in tow.
The young man cried out, “I’m calling the cops.”
“Good,” said Decker.
They heard noises and followed them to their source. It was a door to a room on a hallway they had not been down before.
Decker gripped the knob and glanced at Jamison, who nodded. He pushed the door open, and they strode in.
