Stranded With The Suspect

“No, sir. He surprised her. Do you think it’s your guy?”

“It could be. You still have the photo I sent you?”

“Yes, sir. I shared it with everyone on staff—not many people this time of night. The housekeeper was the only one on duty in her department.”

“Did you call the police?”

Pogue hesitated. “Did you?” Simon demanded.

“I let them know we had had an incident. But management doesn’t like a police presence here. It upsets the guests. I told them we had everything under control.”

Simon ground his teeth together, holding back a flood of curses. “Put someone at every exit, watching for him,” he said.

“Sir, I only have three people in my department tonight, and the hotel has half a dozen entrances.”

Simon didn’t even waste his breath swearing. “Do the best you can,” he said. “He may have already left, but the fact that he has a set of keys makes me think not. He’s probably hiding somewhere in the hotel. It would be better if we could search the rooms.”

“We could never do that without a warrant,” Pogue said. “Management would fight it, for sure. The guests would throw a fit, especially since, at this time of night, it would mean getting most of them out of bed.”

Simon knew Pogue was right. He was an out-of-town cop chasing a man wanted for out-of-town crimes. No Denver judge was going to agree to kick a bunch of wealthy, and in some cases famous, people out of their posh hotel rooms in the middle of the night for a random search. Bottom line—Simon was pretty much on his own with this one. “Let me know if anything else happens that doesn’t feel right to you,” he said, and ended the call.

He walked to the bedroom and tried the door. Not locked. Was it because Andi didn’t see him as a threat? More likely, she had been too exhausted and upset to think of setting the lock.

She had made a mound of blankets on one side of the king-size bed, illuminated by the glow of the digital clock. Simon stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of her body, listening to the soft sigh of her breathing. The room smelled of her perfume—something floral and expensive, and a luxury she apparently hadn’t given up when she had moved to the wilderness. He had smelled it before, on his visits to camp.

After assuring himself she was sleeping well, he slipped across the room to the door that connected this suite with the one next to it, allowing the two apartments to be opened into one larger unit. He verified that the deadbolt was turned and the safety chain in place. Even if Metwater had a master key that would allow him to get into the room next door, he wouldn’t be able to come through here.

He was moving back toward the door when the woman in the bed stirred. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice clear and calm—not the voice of someone who had just awakened.

“I was checking the door lock.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. No sense explaining about the maid and the missing keys and his suspicion that Metwater was still in the hotel. Why frighten her? “I’m obsessive about locks,” he said instead.

“You would be,” she said, and rolled over, her back to him.

The retort almost made him smile. He liked that she didn’t take him too seriously. He returned to his place on the sofa and lay back down, eyes open, waiting.

* * *

ANDI SHIFTED POSITION in the big, overly soft bed for the dozenth time, her mind as restless as her body. She had slept only briefly, awakening to the feel of someone watching her. She had realized right away it was Simon. The tall, edgy cop didn’t frighten her, though his refusal to see any good in the Prophet frustrated her, and the accusations he made against a man she loved confused her.

His words stuck in her head—what he had said about Daniel stealing not only people’s possessions, but their independence. To someone like Simon, autonomy probably seemed like something valuable, but Andi wasn’t so sure.

She had never really been on her own. As her father’s daughter, she had been protected and watched over, scrutinized even, by photographers and gossip columnists and hangers-on who coveted her beauty or her money or her power—none of which she could claim any control over. The beauty was a trick of genetics she had been born with, and the money and power belonged to her father, not her. She had been pampered and educated, groomed for a life as the wife of another rich man or politician like her father. She had never questioned her upbringing or desired a particular career. She had accepted everything she received as her due.

And then she had discovered she was going to have a baby, and something inside of her shifted. She had glimpsed a different kind of future, one as wife to the man she loved, mother to a little girl or boy. But the man she had given herself to hadn’t loved her—not really. He already had a wife and family. Discovering that had shocked all the love out of her—though maybe her feelings hadn’t really been love, but instead the self-deception of someone who wanted so badly to be valued for herself and not merely for her looks or her name or her money.

The Prophet had promised to give her that value. He told her she was special—and he had made her feel special. He didn’t flatter her beauty or measure her wealth or talk about her power. He simply looked into her eyes and told her he loved her.

And she had believed him. Now this cop was telling her different, and she wanted to deny his lies. Except something deep inside her told her that maybe he wasn’t lying. That maybe she was the one deceiving herself.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she fished it out from under the pillow and answered it. “Hello?” she whispered.

“Are you all right, Asteria?” The Prophet’s voice was soothing, full of concern, addressing her by the name he had given her—a name for a goddess, he had said. Her heart beat faster at the sound of it.

“I’m worried about you,” she said.

“I’ll be all right,” he said. “Good is stronger than evil. Haven’t I always told you that?”

“Yes.” But what was evil? Was Simon evil? She couldn’t see it.

“I need you to help me,” the Prophet said.

“Yes. Of course.”

“I know that cop is watching you, but you don’t need to be afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid.” She had never been afraid of Simon, though she couldn’t say why.

“Because you’re good, and your goodness makes you strong,” Daniel said.

She waited, not sure how to answer this.

“I need you to do one small thing for me,” he said. “But don’t let the cop see.”

“All right.”

“Go to the door that connects your bedroom to the one next door, and open the deadlock and slide back the chain.”

She looked toward the door, the one Simon had checked.

“Can you do that?” Metwater asked.

“Yes. But why?”

“Don’t worry about the why. ‘Only obey and all good will come to you.’” The words were from a chant he had taught them. One she always found especially calming.

“Only obey, and all good will come to me,” she repeated.

“That’s right.”

“What do I do after I open the locks?” she asked.

“Wait.”

He ended the call, and she slid the phone back under her pillow. Then, listening for any movement from the seating area, she tiptoed to the connecting door and carefully turned the knob for the deadbolt, then slid back the chain. It rattled against the doorframe and she froze, heart pounding, not daring to breathe. But she heard nothing from the other room.