Page 16 of Wrong Way

Vic got in on the passenger side and pulled her door shut. She looked straight ahead through the windshield for a moment.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Sure."

"Kim. Is there something going on there?"

Miles went quiet, mainly because the question was so out of the blue. Given what they’d been looking into this morning, a friendly interrogation about Sarah Kim was the last thing he’d expected. But he was sort of glad it had come up. He was surprised to find that he was excited to talk about it.

"We've been spending a lot of time together," he said. "And yes, I'm interested. I think. In that direction, anyway." He looked at the steering wheel. "But I can't do that to Elena. It doesn't feel right."

Vic turned toward him slightly. "Miles, it wouldn't necessarily be—"

His phone rang, and he was glad for that, too.

He looked at the screen. It was Sarah; less than five minutes had passed since he'd sent the text. He put it on speaker and answered.

"That was fast," he said.

"Well, Rivera has a history." Her voice was clear and businesslike on the speaker. "He has three formal complaints filed against him with the Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation over a four-year period. Two were from clients citing aggressive and threatening behavior during jobs, one of which mentions a verbal altercation that the client described as frightening. The third complaint was from a co-worker at a different company, before Lone Star, who said Rivera confronted him in a parking lot after a workplace dispute and wouldn't leave when asked. That one went to a police report." She paused briefly, as if making sure to give them enough time to follow along. "There's also a restraining order filed against him two years ago by a former girlfriend. It was active for eight months."

"Do you have a current address?" Miles asked.

"East Austin. I'm texting it to you now."

"Awesome. Thanks as always, Sarah."

“Yeah, thanks,” Vic piped in, giving Miles a small grin as she did so.

"There's more in the file when you want it,” Sarah said. “That's just the highlights. You’ll have everything in your inbox in about five minutes.”

Miles ended the call and only a few seconds later, the address came through on his phone. Vic scanned it from her seat and quickly pulled up the map on her own phone. “And with that,” she said, still with the traces of a smile on her face, “we have our first lead.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The storage facility consisted of a long low complex of corrugated metal units behind a sliding security gate. Agent Hahn had learned about it during his rapid dig for more information on Jennifer Parsons just before he’d left for Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Honestly, on the surface, it didn’t seem like that big of a lead, but he also knew the sort of stereotype storage facilities had when it came to obscure murder cases. To not look into it, he thought, would have been irresponsible. A day of background research on Jennifer Parsons, buried in a credit card statement from fourteen months ago: a recurring monthly charge to Portland Safe Storage. The charge was still active.

He’d already been in New Hampshire for almost an entire day, burning a small portion of the goodwill he had accumulated with Ortega. He had no task force support on the ground, no local FBI presence worth leveraging, and the Portland PD contact Ortega had arranged had been politely indifferent in a way that made clear she considered the whole thing a waste of his time. Hahn had thanked her and stopped calling. He worked better alone anyway, or at least that was what he told himself on the days when alone was the only option available.

He had driven past the facility twice before stopping, not out of hesitation but out of habit. He liked to look at a place before he walked into it. The facility appeared unremarkable in every visible respect, standard self-storage with numbered units in long rows and a small office building at the front of the property. There was a camera above the gate and another above the office door. He got out of the car and went inside.

The main room was small, with a space heater running in the corner and a laminated map of the unit grid taped to the wall beside the door. The woman behind the counter was in her fifties with reading glasses pushed up on her head and a coffee mug that read FILL WITH TEQUILA AFTER 5PM. She looked up when Hahn came in from the cold.

He smiled and showed her his badge quickly, but not in a rude manner, letting her know he was of some importance and that he was in a rush. "Special Agent Tim Hahn, FBI. I'm hoping you can help me with something."

She looked at the badge and then at him with an alertness that suggested she took it seriously. “I can certainly try.”

"I'm looking into a woman named Jennifer Parsons. I have reason to believe she rents a storage unit here."

The manager pulled her keyboard closer and typed. "Parsons," she muttered, eyeing the screen. After a few moments, she frowned slightly. "I do have a Jennifer Parsons in our system. Had, technically."

"Had?"

"Yeah. She came in about three weeks ago and requested a name change on the account. Happens sometimes when people get married, or if they're moving it over to a business name. We allow it as long as the billing stays current." She looked up with an apologetic expression that looked quite practiced; he was pretty sure this was not the first time she’d given it. "I'd love to help you further, but I can't let you into the unit without a warrant. I'm sorry. The owner is very firm on that."

"I understand completely," Hahn said. And he did. But that didn’t mean it didn’t irritate the hell out of him. "Can you tell me what name the account was changed to?"

She nodded as she glanced at her screen. "Nelson Banks."