Chapter Sixteen
Special Agents Beck and Morrison stood in the two-stall bathroom at a bar called Bourbon Beat. Two weeks before, Jennie Glade walked in, looking for her friend, and found Kayleen Dressler dead on the floor of the first stall.
The investigation remained open, and stalled with the conclusion of a random attack.
The victim, visiting her friend from Mobile, Alabama, knew no one else in the bar, or in the city.
“Local LEOs see it as a fatal mugging. No sexual assault,” Morrison continued. “The assailant, likely male, followed her in, disabled her with a blow to the face, strangled her. Secondary blow, side of the head against the side of the stall, postmortem. She carried a small handbag, with ID, some cash—undetermined amount, but under two hundred—lipstick, a Visa card.”
“It’s Rozwell, Quentin.”
“Not his standard method or victim.”
“Neither was Nina Ramos. This one leans into that method. Strike, kill, strike after death. That’s frustration, that battering after he kills them. He didn’t get what he needed. Their fault.”
Because he felt the same, Morrison nodded. “The victim was blond, and in the preferred age range. But this is new, Tee. Crowded bar, someone could have walked in. Or certainly seen him go in or come out, giving a description.”
“He likely followed them. They hit several bars. He’s restless, on the prowl, thinking about Morgan Albright. The victim hits the dance floor. He watches. She heads back to the john. Her friend’s standing at the bar, talking to people, doesn’t notice Kayleen go toward the back.”
“People are drinking, dancing, looking to get laid,” Morrison continued. “Nobody notices Rozwell follow her. Nobody notices for about fifteen more minutes that she doesn’t come back—or notice Rozwell walk out, leave.”
Beck walked to the door. “He gives her a minute, follows her. Steps in. If someone else is in here besides his target, game over. It’s just oops, laugh, back off. But nobody was, so he’s in. Locks the door behind him.”
“He just has to wait until she opens the stall door,” Morrison continues. “Blow to the face.” He mimed a jab. “Knocks her back, down, dazes her. Music’s playing, and it’s loud.”
“Even if she cried out, who’d hear? He’s thinking about Morgan when he strangles Kayleen, Quentin, but it’s not Morgan, and it doesn’t give him that rush. So he slams her head against the stall wall, takes her bag, and leaves her. Back to his hotel, and he’s gone that night, or the next day.”
“Plays for me.”
“Yeah, it plays. Good hotel, a suite with a view in a good hotel. In the Quarter.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Morrison agreed. “That’s his style.”
“Let’s find it. When we do, when we’re sure, I’ll contact Morgan.”
And the hits kept coming, Morgan thought as she set down her phone. She’d barely had thirty-six hours to adjust to the gut punch of the credit card bill, and now, another woman was dead.
By Rozwell’s hands.
Some poor woman who’d done nothing more than go out for a fun, foolish night with a friend. He hadn’t known her and, according to Beck, hadn’t researched her. He’d just picked her out of a crowd.
They’d found his hotel. Though he’d either dyed his hair or worn a red wig, they’d located his hotel. He’d checked out the afternoon after the murder—after doing a little shopping on the fake card with her name on it—and had taken a cab to the airport.
But he hadn’t gone inside, not according to the security feed.
Nothing she could do, Morgan reminded herself, but what she was doing. And that meant going to work.
A Friday night wedding rehearsal dinner meant an influx of wedding party post-dinner along with the weekend guests, the drinks-at-the-resort locals.
She had to thank the timing because it would keep her too busy to obsess.
She had Bailey working the backbar again, primarily, she felt certain, because Bailey had appealed to Opal. However it worked, Morgan put her to good use.
“You can fill this table order. A Shiraz, a Chardonnay, a house champagne, and a Pinot Grigio. Double order of cheese fries, four plates.”
Trusting her, Morgan hit the blender for a trio of apricot coladas.
She worked on auto, filling orders, chatting, offering tasting glasses when a guest couldn’t decide on a beer or wine or whiskey.
A guy rounding forty came up to the bar, crooked a finger at her.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m playing stump the bartender with my table. I figure you’re young, can’t have been doing this for long, so my chances are good.”
“What’s the prize?”
“They pick up my greens fee tomorrow.”
“Nice. What’s the drink?”
Smiling, he ticktocked a finger in the air. “No fair googling.”
She held up her hands.
“The Bone.”
“I must be older than I look. Do you want Wild Turkey rye or bourbon?”
“Son of a—” Then he laughed. “Rye. Make it four.”
“Four manly drinks. We’ll bring them out to you. Sorry about the golf.”
She chilled four glasses, got out two shakers so she could make two at once.
It boosted her mood, as did the couple who ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate their engagement.
“God, this is fun!” Breathless, Bailey refilled the garnish tray. “I know it’s super busy, but it’s fun. Probably because it’s all so new to me.”
“It’s not new to me, and it’s still fun.” Laughter burst from a back booth. “And not just for us.”
The place filled up. Hikers, bikers, golfers, honeymooners, the wedding party, and more.
Around midnight, Miles came in, took his usual seat. And pulled out his phone.
She poured him a Cab.
“You’re lucky to find a seat.”
“Resort’s at full capacity for the weekend. Sounds like half of them are in here.”
“You should’ve heard it an hour ago. It’s starting to quiet down.”
She moved away to a couple polishing off a Merlot and a vodka tonic. “Another round?”
“Just in time. And we’ll have some of those spicy fries with it.”
“I’m so sorry. The kitchen closes at midnight.”
“Oh, come on now.” The man tapped a stiff finger on the face of his watch. “It’s only five after. Maybe you should’ve gotten to us sooner.”
“I’m sorry about the delay. Let me see what I can do.”
Since she knew they’d already shut the fryer down in the back of the house, she ordered from room service.
“The fries will take a few minutes, so they’re on me.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Thanks for your patience.” She moved steadily down the bar.
“Inside my head,” Bailey murmured, “my eyes are rolling.”
“As long as it doesn’t show.”
Face blank, Opal came up to the bar. “Two Bellinis, apricot colada, and a Corona.”
“I’ve got the Corona and the empties. Thanks for letting me train tonight, Opal. I’m learning so much.”
“I need you back in your section tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there.”
With the blender whirling, Morgan got out the flutes, then handed Bailey the bottle of champagne. “You make them.”
“Really? My first official cocktails.”
With one eye on Bailey’s pour, Morgan shut off the blender, finished the colada.
“Looks perfect to me. Good work.” After setting the drinks on the tray, Morgan started to glance at Opal. A movement caught her eye.
She saw him, walking toward the glass doors to the patio. His head turned away, but she caught a glimpse of the profile. The gilded hair, the build, even the way he moved.
Everything in her went weak.
“Hey, Morgan, are you—”
Then everything went fierce.
She shot around the bar, caught him just before he reached the doors and grabbed his arm. “You son of—”
Startled, he turned, and she looked up at a stranger.
“I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I thought you were…”
“Glad I’m not.” He offered a puzzled smile. “Bad breakup?”
“I’m very sorry,” she said again.
Turning, breath backing up in her lungs, gray closing in on the sides of her vision, she rushed out.
“Patio, table three.” Opal pushed the tray at Bailey. “Serve it, cover the bar.”
She darted out, ended up on Miles’s heels. He came up short outside the women’s room, just pointed.
Opal pushed in, found Morgan sitting on the floor, back against a wall, gasping for air.
“Slow it down.” She crouched, put her hands on either side of Morgan’s face. “Breathe slow now.”
“Can’t. Can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can. Slow. Nice and slow.”
“Hurts. Chest hurts.”
“Sure it does. Push the air out, nice and slow. Pull it in again. It’s a panic attack, so we’re going to calm right down. That’s it. In and out. My sister used to get these after some asshole jumped her in college. Keep it coming.”
“I thought—I thought he was…”
“Yeah, I got that. You hold on.”
Straightening, she went to the door, shoved it open. “She needs some water.”
When she stepped back, Morgan had drawn up her legs, had her face pressed to them. “I’m okay. I’m all right. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Opal walked over at the knock on the door. Took the glass. “Give us another minute,” she told Miles.
“Drink it.” She knelt in front of Morgan again. “Don’t gulp it.”
“Thank you. He just looked so much like him until I…”
“You’re sure it wasn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Good thing you stopped then.” As Morgan sipped water, Opal sat back on her heels. “You were winding up to punch him.”
“Oh God.” She lowered her head again. “That would’ve capped it.”
“Shows you’ve got some grit. More than I figured. I figured you were stringing it all out, playing the victim. So I’m sorry about that.”
“We’ll call it a wash.” Eyes closed, she leaned her head back a moment, then jolted. “Jesus, I left the bar. Bailey—”
“Can handle it for a few minutes. I’ve kept my eye on her. You’re training her right. Of course, you’ve got prime material to work with.”
“I do, but I have to get back.”
“Well, your color’s coming back, and you stopped shaking. Try standing up, and we’ll see.”
When she did, Opal nodded. “All right then.”
She led the way out to where Miles paced in the hall off the lobby. “Over to you,” Opal said, and went back toward the arch.
“Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
“No, God, no. I have to get back.” Before he could order otherwise, and she saw that in his eyes, she held up a hand. “I need to. For myself, Miles, I need to. If I don’t, he wins another round.”
After a long look, he gestured to the archway.
“I’m sorry about—”
“Save it,” he told her.
He went back to his stool; she went back behind the bar.
After grabbing a bar mop, she gave Bailey’s arm a squeeze. “Sorry for running out on you.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay?”
“Yeah, all good.”
“The fries came in, and I filled a table order from the speed rack.”
“Great. Can you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Find out what the guy I nearly accosted and his party are drinking. I want to send his table a round on me before last call.”
“Sure.”
Using the bar mop to keep herself steady, Morgan checked on the stools. The spicy fries couple didn’t have much to say to each other, she noted. Alcohol and carbs couldn’t always fix a bad mood.
The two women giggling together as they drank Chardonnay made her think of the dead woman and her friend in New Orleans, and her heart hurt.
At the end of the bar, Miles worked on his phone.
“Party of five,” Bailey reported. “Two Heady Toppers, a mojito, margarita rocks, and a Merlot.”
“Thanks. How about you handle the beer and wine?”
She took the drinks out herself, let the cooling night air wash over her as she crossed the patio.
“On me,” she said as she served, “with a mortified apology.”
“Well, thanks, but no big deal. Might’ve been if you’d landed that punch I think I saw coming.”
“My right hook’s devastating.” Smiling, smiling, smiling, she flexed, and cleared a couple of empties while his companions laughed.
“I bet the ex is a handsome bastard.”
“You’ve got him beat on the handsome part. Thanks for understanding. Enjoy.”
Steadier, she walked back inside.
Spicy Fries finished up, and left a single dollar on the bar as tip. Giggling girls ordered another round at last call.
Morgan had Bailey serve them, then handed her the dollar.
“Keep this as a reminder. You can do everything right, and some people will still stiff you.”
“What a jerk.”
“Pretty sure his wife agrees. Regardless, if he comes in tomorrow, we still do everything right.”
“Because we take pride in our work even when the guest’s a stingy jerk.”
“Even when. And because we represent the resort.”
By one, a few guests lingered, inside and out, as staff cleared tables. Giggling girls called it a night, laughing their way out as not–Gavin Rozwell stopped by the bar.
“Thanks for the drink.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
“If you ever want to talk bad breakups, over drinks on me.” He put a business card on the bar, flashed a smile. “Glad you didn’t land that punch.”
“Me, too.”
As he left, Bailey leaned over. “He was totally hitting on you.”
“You’ll have this.” She stuck the card in her pocket. “Miles will want a glass of ice water, still, then you can clock out. You did really good tonight, Bailey.”
“I can stay, help you close.”
“You already have. You emptied the trash, replaced the liners, cleaned and locked the beer taps, cleared the ice bins. Cleaned and restocked glasses. I’m getting spoiled.”
“Opal said I could have a couple hours Tuesday if Nick’s willing. I work days on Tuesday.”
“Good idea, and he will be. You’ll see the different styles and rhythms.”
With the last guests heading out, and the staff calling their good nights, Morgan continued the closing process, only pausing when Miles came behind the bar.
“Sit.”
“I still have to—”
“I know how to close a bar. Sit.”
“You don’t necessarily know how I close a bar, plus it’s my job.”
Ignoring her, he began wiping down bottles. “I worked the backbar for a couple months back when. Bailey’s already got a lot of this done.”
“She pays attention.” And, Morgan thought, so do you.
They worked in silence. Once she’d restocked the beer and wine coolers, she started to lock them.
“Don’t lock the wine cooler, and go sit. Is Cab your drink, or do you want something else?”
“I didn’t say I wanted a drink.”
“If you wanted one, what would it be?”
She’d never thought of herself as particularly stubborn, but even if she were, she didn’t think she’d reach his level.
“Maybe something lighter. Pinot grigio.”
He poured a glass of red, a glass of white, then locked the wine cooler.
“Let’s take these outside. You may be tired,” he continued, “but you’re wound up with it. So wind down.”
He took both glasses, waited for her to cross over and open the door.
When she’d closed it again, he took the closest table, sat.
“Did he really look that much like Rozwell?”
Shaking her head, she gave up and sat. “No. The build, the hair, and he was dressed in that I’m-casual-but-stylish way.”
“Uh-huh. Did Jen teach you to chase down a murdering bastard and punch him in the face?”
“Of course not. I just … reacted.”
“I was sitting right there. Security’s a couple taps away on your phone.”
“I couldn’t think, sure as hell didn’t think.” She sampled the wine. Cool and light, like the air. “It’s not an excuse, but I don’t think I’d have reacted that way except he killed another woman.”
“When?”
“I don’t know exactly. A couple weeks ago. I just found out. He got another credit card in my name,” she continued, and told him.
“They found his hotel. He either dyed his hair or wore a red wig. He checked out the day after he killed her and took a cab to the airport. But he never went in the terminal. He stole a car from long-term parking. He had five days before the owner got back and reported it, so he could be anywhere.”
“He wouldn’t have gotten past Security and walked into Après.”
“I didn’t think about Security. I didn’t think at all. I panicked.”
“No.” Miles kept his gaze locked with her. “You didn’t panic until you realized you’d grabbed the wrong guy. Up until then, you looked ready to kick some ass. Are you prone to panic attacks?”
“Not before. Not ever. Since? I’ve had a few, I guess, but nothing like that.”
“Mad’s better, if you can hold on to it. Are you going to call him? The guy you mistook. He gave you his card,” Miles added when she looked blank.
“Oh. No. Definitely no. First, it’s bad policy whatever the circumstances. Second? Circumstances. Add the last guy I dated—and only a couple times at that—turned out to be a serial killer. Sort of puts you off the process.”
“You’re feeling better.”
She tipped her head back to look up at the stars. “I guess I am.”
“Then there’s the asshole with the fries.”
“Oh yeah. He was a winner.” She lifted her glass in toast. “The sort who knows leaving a single on the bar’s more insulting than leaving nothing.”
“What’s his story?” Miles wondered. “You’d have one.”
“He likes being an asshole. It makes him feel important, especially when it’s to service people or underlings. He wore a Rolex, looked like the real deal, and his room number’s one of the suites on the Club Level, so he can afford to be generous. He’s just not made that way. He’s a terrible boss, impatient, demanding, and rude because he can be.”
Sipping his wine, Miles watched her. “What about his wife?”
“She didn’t say a word, but she shot me one quick look. It said: You think this is bad? You should see what I put up with. I’d say she’s about done putting up with.”
She shrugged. “That’s my take from behind the stick.”
“It slides along with mine from the end of the bar. And yet, you like people.”
“The guy I nearly hit was gracious about it. The two women at the bar—sharing a room not on the Club Level—left a twenty-five percent tip. Opal left her station—which she never does—to help me through that idiotic panic attack. And you’re sitting here helping me shed a difficult night when you could be home in your boxers watching late-night ESPN. So yeah, I like people.”
He studied his last sip of wine before drinking. “I mostly listen to ESPN rather than watch. And for all you know I wear briefs.”
“No, absolutely a boxers guy. And that,” she realized, “is absolutely inappropriate. I should clear and head home.”
He rose when she did. “I’m driving you home.”
“What? No. I’m fine.”
“Better isn’t fine. We’ll take your car. One of the night men will follow in mine.”
“I am fine.”
He just held out his hand. “Keys. You know the drill.”
“They’re in my bag. This is stupid.”
“Bad policy to call the COO stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid,” she muttered, snagged the glasses. “Although.”
He closed and locked the door behind them, then waited while she dealt with the glasses, retrieved her purse.
“Listen, Miles—”
“Keys.”
“Jesus.” She yanked out the fob, dropped it into his hand. “I’m liking people less at the moment.”
“Probably a step in the right direction.” He shut off the lights.
Both cars waited at the entrance. Feeling ridiculous, she got in the passenger seat. Miles slid behind the wheel. “You’ve got long legs,” he commented. “I barely have to adjust it.”
She snapped on her seat belt. “When you leave the resort, you head into town, then—”
“I know how to get to your place.”
“Oh.”
“Grandparents,” he said as he pulled away from the curb. “Yours, mine. Friendly. I tagged along with my grandfather sometimes.”
Of course. Gram had told her that.
“Yours helped me build a birdhouse for a school project.”
He glanced over. “I aced it.”
“But you don’t like people.”
“I liked your grandfather.”
“So did I.” The stiffness in her shoulders melted away. “It was a highlight whenever I got to visit. It depended on where my father was stationed, but after the split, we usually had a week in the summer, maybe a few days at Christmas, depending on where we were.”
“Lots of moves.”
“Lots of moves,” she agreed. “The army, and then after, my mother couldn’t seem to settle. I never imagined she’d settle here. Or I would.”
She shifted. And because she did feel better, because she wondered, she asked, “Have you ever thought of living somewhere else?”
“I like it here.”
“If it wasn’t for the family business and all of that.”
“I’d still like it here.”
She’d been right about that, Morgan thought. She liked being right about that. “It’s the roots. They’re deep. I always envied deep roots.”
“You’ve got plenty of time to plant and grow them.”
He drove smoothly along empty roads, then the quiet streets of Westridge.
Just because she’d lost time—and so much more—didn’t mean she didn’t have time. She’d planted herself here, she thought, by need rather than choice, at least to start. But she’d planted herself, and could feel those roots begin to take hold.
She liked the quiet streets as much as she enjoyed how they moved and thrived during the day. She enjoyed the solitude of a walk in the woods as much as a lively, crowded bar.
She didn’t have a house she could transform into her home, but she had a home.
When he pulled into the drive, she didn’t have to remind herself to be grateful for it.
He took her fob out of the tray. “Keys.”
Reaching out, grateful for the hour he’d given her, she took his hand first, held it. “Thank you.”
She lost a beat, just one quick beat, looking into his eyes. Then drew her hand and the keys away.
When they stood on opposite sides of the car, she hit the lock button. “Good night, Miles.”
“Lock the door behind you.”
He stood, of course, watching until she walked to the door, until she unlocked it. She glanced back once, felt a tug she didn’t want to feel. Then stepped in, shut and locked the door behind her.
He’d been kind when she’d needed kindness more than she wanted to admit. Given the circumstances, she reminded herself as she walked upstairs, it wouldn’t just be unwise but a huge mistake to let herself feel anything but gratitude.
An attractive man, she mused, and an interesting one. An appealing one, she admitted. So wasn’t it natural she felt some attraction and interest and appeal? Absolutely, as long as she left it there. Right there.
She sat on the side of the bed, trying to ignore that flutter, that telltale flutter. And wished so much she had Nina to talk her through it.