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Rachel clambered through a second later.
They broke into a sprint, racing down the concrete sidewalk outside the motel.
“I didn’t do anything!” Mark was squawking. “Help! Abuse! Police abuse! HELP!”
He ran fast, arms pumping, but he was lagging as he ran. His round belly and unkempt frame didn’t aid him in his effort to sprint away.
His eyes glanced frantically around, and he spotted the swimming pool attached to the motel, behind a black gate.
Closed for the morning.
But he ignored the sign, vaulting the fence.
Rachel and Ethan chased after him at a breakneck sprint.
As they got closer to the pool, Ethan paused. A long hose trailed from one side of the pool toward them, the end just outside the fence. He snatched the hose and pulled it taut. It leapt up, and Mark nearly tripped. He yelped and stumbled forward, but his footing became unsure. His shoes skidded on the wet concrete surrounding the pool, and he lost his balance. He fell hard into the pool with a loudsplash!
Rachel and Ethan both vaulted the fence and skidded to a stop at the edge of the pool, their guns trained on the gasping man as he thrashed around in the water.
“Don’t move,” Rachel said simply. “Hands where we can see them.”
He gasped a couple more times, fear in his eyes, but then he let out a desperate exhalation. And, limping over to the side of the pool, he rested his elbows on the ledge, hands in the air in a posture of defeat.
But there was something in those eyes that Rachel didn’t like. And the question still hung heavy… had he killed the women? Was this their man?
She met those eyes and felt a tremor down her spine.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rachel’s boots echoed down the hallway as she led Mark into the interrogation room back at the precinct. The dim overhead lights cast a cold, sterile glow across the cramped space. Mark’s wet clothes squelched with every step, a reminder of his recent misadventure in the pool. He had a sullen expression on his face—a far cry from the defiance he’d exhibited back in the motel room.
“Take a seat,” Rachel ordered, her tone sharp and authoritative. She didn’t have time for pleasantries; there was a murderer on the loose.
Mark slumped into the hard metal chair, his greasy T-shirt clinging to his out-of-shape body. A faint odor of sweat and stale beer wafted through the air, and Rachel fought the urge to wrinkle her nose.
The interrogation room was small, barely enough space for the table that separated her from Mark. A single window punctured one wall, but the blinds were drawn, cutting off any connection to the outside world. On the other side of the table, a large mirror reflected their images back at them—a silent witness to what was about to transpire. Ethan was on the other side, and he’d be making notes of everything, unseen behind the glass. They’d decided to have Rachel approach this on her own to start.
“Let’s get started,” Rachel said, her deep brown eyes locked onto Mark’s unshaven face.
“Tell me about the night of the murders,” Rachel said. “Where were you?”
Mark shifted in his seat, avoiding her gaze. “What murders?”
“You’ll have to try to be more convincing than that. Where were you two nights ago?”
“I was at home, watching TV,” he muttered, picking at a loose thread on his damp T-shirt.
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
“No,” he admitted with a sigh. “I live alone.”
“Then you can understand why I’m here, asking you these questions. Do you often work for the cactus nursery?”
“What?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Look, I didn’t kill anyone,” Mark blurted out, desperation seeping into his voice.
