"Roger that."
I start the truck and pull out, maintaining distance. Downtown Pine Haven is small. Three blocks of shops, the sheriff's office, a diner, and not much else. Easy to spot a tail here. I hang back, using side streets when I can.
The SUV pulls into the parking lot of the Pine Haven Motel, a rundown place on the edge of town. I drive past, then turn around at the gas station and park across the street. Perfect vantage point to see their room doors.
Wilson and Cruz enter Room 12, closing the door behind them.
"They're at the Pine Haven Motel," I tell Reaper. "Room 12."
"Stay on them for another hour. See if they meet anyone."
"Copy that."
Forty-three minutes later, a silver sedan with rental plates pulls in. A man in a suit steps out, glances around, then knocks on Room 12. He's admitted quickly.
"They've got company," I report. "Male, mid-forties, expensive suit. Rental car."
"Get a picture if you can."
I take out my phone, zooming in through the windshield to snap several photos when the door opens again twenty minutes later. The man in the suit exits, shakes hands with Wilson, then leaves in his rental.
"Sending photos now," I say, texting them to Reaper.
"Got 'em. Come back to the clubhouse. We need to talk."
The Next Day
I arrive at the bookstore at 7:58, carrying a toolbox and a tray with two coffees. The sign on the door still says "CLOSED," but I can see movement inside. I knock gently.
Beth appears behind the glass, her brown eyes widening when she recognizes me. She hesitates before unlocking the door, opening it just enough to speak through.
"You're early," she says.
I hold up the coffee tray. "Thought you might want some caffeine. Black with room for cream. Wasn't sure how you take it."
She stares at the coffee like it might be poisoned, then at me with the same suspicion. But after a moment, she steps back, opening the door wider.
"Thank you," she says, taking one of the cups. "That was... thoughtful."
I enter, letting her lock the door behind me. The bookstore smells like paper and that vanilla scent some women wear. Pleasant. Comforting, even.
"Store doesn't open till nine," she says, retreating behind the counter. A barrier between us.
"I'll be upstairs. Won't disturb your customers."
She nods, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. "How do you know I'd be here this early?"
Smart woman. Observant.
"Landlord mentioned you're an early riser."
Her eyes narrow slightly. She doesn't believe me, but she doesn't challenge it either.
"I'll get started then," I say, heading for the back stairwell.
"Mr. Davis—"
"Sam," I correct automatically.
