Rouge leans into the officer’s ear and whispers something, depositing the diamond discreetly in his right pants pocket. The cops face reddens, but then he steadies his face as Rouge steps back.
“Do we have a deal, then?”
The cop looks from side to side and then nods.
“The descriptions of the perpetrators?”
“We don’t know if they are perpetrators, ma’am. All we know is they’re witnesses who stepped out after the incident.”
“People who have nothing to hide don’t leave the scene. Tell me who they were.”
“A man and a woman.”
“Go on.”
“The man? Tall, broad shouldered. Dark hair, medium complexion. Stubble and a solid jaw. The woman, petite and slender. Pale, blond hair.”
“What were they wearing?”
“The lady was in a bathrobe. The man was in leisurewear.”
Rouge nods slowly. “Do you have a picture?”
The cop pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Rouge.
Her eyebrows twitch ever so slightly.
“Do you recognize them?”
“I’m afraid not.” Rouge folds the printout and tucks it in her purse. “Do you have names?”
“Nothing for the man. The room was booked under the woman’s name, but we’re pretty sure it’s a pseudonym. Whitney Royale.”
Rouge clasps her hands. “Fascinating.”
She’s figured it out. My name comes from the Italian word for “white.” My father named me that because I was born with a full head of hair so light blond that it was almost white. The name Whitney shares a similar root. I always thought it was a clever little puzzle, but now I’m realizing I should have chosen a name completely at random. Rouge would have recognized my face from the picture anyway.
No matter how she found out, though, my stomach is doing somersaults.
Because Rouge now knows.
She doesn’t know everything. She has no way of knowing we’re aware of the organ harvesting.
But she knows that Harrison and I are working together. And that we know Mr. Rose is a dangerous man. She’ll probably go straight to Aces and review the security footage, where she’ll connect the dots between Harrison and the Ace of Clubs.
She already knows I was hanging out in the ladies’ restroom for a long time the night of the seventeenth.
And there it is.
As soon as she puts it all together, we’re fucked.
The clock is ticking.
Without drawing attention to myself, I slink over to the elevator leading to the parking garage, Harrison’s and my suitcases in tow, and get in. I throw the luggage in the trunk and then careen out of the garage—breaking through the barrier bar at the exit—and make my way as quickly as possible to the Caterpillar Hotel.
I pray I make it there in time.
28
