Keep No Secrets (52 page)

"Did I get any more texts?" he asks Jack.

"I don’t think so. I didn’t hear it vibrate or see it light up." He's relieved they're back to talking about the task at hand.

"Where are we?"

"About to hit Eddyville, in Kentucky.

We’re about an hour away from the Tennessee line. We need to figure out what town they’re in. She said Tennessee but that can mean a lot of things, even if our assumption they took the most direct route is the right one. It could mean Nashville, it could mean Chattanooga. It could mean any dot on the map in

between. If it means Chattanooga, we still have a long drive ahead of us."

"What if they didn’t take the most direct route?"

"Then we’re fucked." He feels Michael’s stare and looks over. "Screwed, I mean."

"What if they left already?"

"I don’t know, Mike. We’ll worry about that problem if and when we come to it.

Anyway, I think she would have texted you about that, don’t you?"

"What will we do when we get there?"

He asked the same question when they first climbed in the car, and Jack is no closer to having an answer. "We’ll take her back home with us." It’s all he has for now.

"I think I should text her."

"Go ahead. Just be careful what you say. I wouldn’t mention we’re coming, not yet."

"Why not?"

"Just wait until we’re within striking distance."

Michael begins his rapid-fire tapping.

"I’ll ask if she’s still awake."

"That’s good. It’s benign."

Jack reaches in the cup holder for his own phone and hits the speed dial for Dog. When Dog answers, sputtering expletives about the time—"Fuckin’ a, it’s four in the morning!"—Jack tells him to get into the office ASAP, get the file Jack’s been keeping on his own case and dig out Torpedo’s real name. He

remembers Celeste’s mom’s name—

Lillian Del Toro—and he could have called Earl for Torpedo’s, but then he’d have to explain himself. When he hangs up, he calls ATT and after cursing the automated help system, interrogates the live woman who finally answers until he learns that unless Wi-Fi is available, text messages get routed in the same way as phone calls, and that the most recent messages between Michael and Celeste were routed through Clarksville. Bingo.

"Call Information and get the number for the Red Roof Inn in Clarksville," he says to Michael.

But Michael doesn't respond, causing Jack to look over. He’s staring wide-eyed at his phone screen. "Oh, God."

"What?" Jack asks.

"They know."

"What do you mean? How do you know?"

"The text back says Mike everything is fine now don’t worry I’l cal you when I get to Florida. She didn’t write that. I know she didn’t write that. She wouldn’t spell everything out."

"Listen up. Do what I said. Get the number for the hotel and call it. Make sure they give you the front desk, and then describe Celeste to them and ask if they remember someone like her checking in last night with her parents. Or anyone named Del Toro."

"What if they say yes?"

"Then ask if they’ve checked out yet.

Or better yet, if they say yes, hand me the phone."

The man Michael speaks to in

Clarksville informs him that no one by the name of Del Toro is registered, and since he just came on duty at eleven, he's seen only a few check-ins and none fit the description.

Frustrated, Jack can only wait for Dog to get back to him. The twenty minutes it takes feels like hours. Finally, Dog texts him: Torrence Nash, u o me boss.

"I love you, Dog," Jack says to the screen, and Michael just looks at him curiously. He gives him the phone and says, "Dial the Clarksville number again, then hand it back to me."

The clerk at the front office informs Jack that the Nash's have already checked out.

"Do you know when?" he asks, trying to disguise any sense of urgency.

"This morning."

Well, no shit
, he thinks. But he forces a pleasant and non-threatening tone. "Oh, could you tell me what time?"

There’s a silence at the other end as the clerk checks his records. "Looks like a few minutes ago." His tone, in contrast to Jack’s, is one of being put upon. "Maybe twenty minutes."

Jack closes his phone and signals the answer to Michael with a shake of his head.

"What are we gonna do?" Michael cries. "They know!"

"First, you’re going to calm down, okay? You've gotta calm down." Michael presses his back against the seat, which Jack supposes is the equivalent of
I’m
calm
. He checks the clock on the dash.

"We’re less than thirty miles from the exit. They have no reason to think we’re heading their way. All they know from your texts is that she told you she’s going back to Florida. We—"

"Yeah, and that I was trying to figure out exactly where they are. And that I know what he’s done to her."

"True. But as far as they know, you have no clue where they are, and you never mentioned you’re already on the way. Let’s just get there and find out more, and we’ll take it from there."

Michael grunts, but gives up the fight.

The first thing Jack notices as he circles the parking lot is a large freight truck with Florida plates. The truck is parked just below the entrance to Room 224, which faces the highway at the rear of the building. The words "Southern Freight"

fight for attention with layers of dirt and cinders splattered on the side.

Underneath the name is a website and phone number.

"You wouldn’t happen to know if the boyfriend is a truck driver, would you?"

Jack asks.

"I don’t know."

He circles the lot again to see if any other cars have Florida plates. They don’t.

He parks close to the lobby but on the street side, out of sight of the room. "Stay here."

"But I—"

"I said stay here. I’ll be right back."

Before he gets out, he adds, "While you’re waiting for me, get on the internet with your phone and find out what you can from that website listed on the truck. But keep your eyes open."

Except for the clerk behind the desk, the lobby is empty. Jack isn't surprised, given the early hour. The clerk, a skinny kid in a black T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and tattoos covering both emaciated arms, once again claims that they checked out, though he can’t describe any of them.

His attitude is even larger than on the phone, and it pisses off Jack.

"I would think it’d be unusual for guests to check out so early. How could you not remember them if they’re the only ones who’ve been in the lobby this morning?" With his elbows on the counter, Jack leans closer to the punk. A small, aluminum ashtray rests on the desk and a half-smoked cigarette smolders at the ashtray's edge. He can’t be older than twenty-one, twenty-two, but Jack sees he’s lived hard. "Isn’t this a non-smoking hotel?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I’m someone who might want to rent a room. Can’t imagine your boss would appreciate you talking to me like that."

"They checked out remotely, using the TV," he says, apparently deciding to now answer Jack’s earlier question.

"What kind of vehicle did they have?"

"I don’t know, man. I told you, I didn't see them leave."

"Maybe not. But your records know, don’t they." Jack's tone makes clear he’s not asking.

After reaching for the cigarette, the guy pushes at the desk to roll his chair out.

He rocks the chair and looks at Jack with narrowed eyes as he takes a long drag.

"Dude, you look familiar."

"Yeah, a lot of people tell me that."

Jack slaps a twenty dollar bill down on the counter. "This is important. One of them is in danger."

"No, seriously, man. Where do I know you from?" He slides the bill off the counter and down onto the desk as he questions Jack.

Fuck him
. "I'm the DA." Jack flashes his credentials so fast that the clerk can’t read that Jack doesn’t mean the local DA.

This is becoming a bad habit
. "And you're this close"—he holds up his index finger and thumb to demonstrate—"to being charged with obstruction of justice."

The guy stares at Jack, thinking, and Jack sees a slow wave of recognition travel his face. One side of his mouth rises in a smart-ass grin. He reaches for the cigarette that still dangles from his lips on the other side and holds it over the ashtray, pushes down a few times to extinguish it. "You're not shitting me, are you? I know now. You're that guy who’s been on the news, the one who’s on trial for nailing that high school girl."

Jack swipes hard at everything on the counter separating them. The grin slips from the kid's face as he watches items scatter—brochures, a bowl of candy, some sort of hotelier award in a small frame. Some land on the floor, some land on the desk in front of him. The clerk stands, and Jack reaches across, clutches a bundle of the T-shirt in his fist, and pulls him so close he smells the stale cigarette breath. "Listen, you little prick! Answer my questions or I'll come over this counter and make you eat that fuckin’

cigarette. What were they driving?"

"I told you, man! I don't know! We have a space on the registration form for vehicle information, but no one ever bothers to fill it out. I'll check, but I’m telling you, it won’t be there. Last I saw’em, the mom came in here asking where the nearest twenty-four hour drug store was. Something about her husband having a migraine. That’s the last I’ve seen of them. I swear."

"Before or after they checked out?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Maybe five minutes before you came in."

"You’re not making sense. When I called earlier, you said it had been twenty minutes since they checked out. It took me another twenty or twenty-five minutes to get here. If she asked about the drug store only five minutes before I came in, that means they were still here for forty minutes or so after they checked out.

Why would that be?"

The clerk shakes his head in confusion, trying to do the math. "I don’t know!

You’d have to ask them, man." He squirms, but Jack holds tight to the Tshirt. "Let go of me and I’ll pull up the records and you can see for yourself!"

Jack lets go but not without a strong shove, which causes the clerk to fall backwards onto the chair.

"Christ, dude!" the guy hollers, flapping his arms to regain his balance before the chair tips over. With a glare at Jack, he rolls back to the desk, grabs the computer mouse and starts clicking.

"How far is the drugstore?"

"We don’t have any in town that stay open all night. We always send people to the Walgreens in Madison, a little north of Nashville. It’s about a 45 minute drive south." He turns his computer monitor so Jack can see the screen. "See, they checked out at 4:11."

Jack glances at his watch and sees it’s now 5:06. He and Michael pulled in the parking lot ten minutes ago, at most, which means Lillian Del Toro asked about the drug store around 4:50.
What’s
going on?
"Did she go alone?"

"Dude, I told you.
I didn’t see them leave
."

"Who drives the truck? The Southern Freight truck?"

"What? Oh, that’s Walt. He’s a regular, every Monday night like clockwork."

So it’s not Torpedo’s truck. "Have you been in the room since they checked out?"

"No. The cleaning lady will clean it when she comes on duty at seven."

"So you really don’t know if anyone’s in there or not, do you?"

Like Celeste
.
Alone
.
With Torpedo
. The clerk gives Jack a blank look.

"I need to get in that room. Right now."

"I can't—"

Jack leans close again. "You unlock that room right now or I'll break the window to let myself in. You got it?"

"But—"

Jack leaves the lobby. He hears the guy yell, "Wait!"

Outside, the sky is still dark but the walkways are dimly lit. The fertile, humid scent of the spring morning overpowers even the exhaust fumes of vehicles on the nearby interstate. He weaves his way to the rear of the building, the clerk on his tail. He catches up to Jack on the stairs.

"You can’t just barge in if somebody’s inside! At least let me knock and make sure no one’s in there and then I’ll let you in."

"You don’t get it. I want in
if
someone’s in there." But the clerk’s words reach one part of Jack’s brain even as another part causes his feet to continue forward. He’s not like people u no. The clerk’s right. If Jack barges in, it’s not likely Torpedo will go down without a fight, and he might take everyone else down with him. Jack may be capable of battling the guy in a courtroom, but he has no idea what awaits him, physically, behind the door to Room 224. Flashing credentials won’t cut it with a guy like Torpedo. "Look, I won’t barge in, but I need you to get in there and find out what's going on while I call the cops."

"Oh, trust me, dude," the clerk looks Jack up and down as if he’s an escapee from an insane asylum, "I already did that."

On the balcony at the top of the steps, Jack sees Michael running across the parking lot in their direction. Unable to shout for fear of being overheard, Jack waves to warn him away. Michael

stubbornly ignores him.

"I want you to knock on the door and pretend like you’re housekeeping or maintenance or something. I need to know if anyone’s in there."

"And if there is?"

"Try to get in. I don’t care what pretext you use. Just try to get in without setting off any alarms. Act like there’s a plumbing emergency. Anything. And then stall. Don’t let them know I’m out here."

"What the fuck are you trying to send me into? I ain’t going in there if there’s some sort of shit going down."

"Look, the only
shit
that might be
going
down
is a rape. I’m trying to prevent it before it happens, or if I’m too late for that, I need to stop it in progress. Got it?

You gonna help me? Or you want that on your conscience?"

"You serious?"

Michael appears at Jack’s side,

breathless. Jack puts his arm out to stop him from going any farther. "I’m serious.

I suspect the guy in there sent the mom on an errand for a reason."