Page 26

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across South Jefferson Avenue as Novak navigated through the crush of downtown traffic.

Rachel watched the gleaming glass facade of the Metropolitan Convention Center grow larger and brighter through the passenger window.

Its modernist architecture—all sharp angles and reflective surfaces—stood in stark contrast to the restored Art Deco elegance of the Radisson Hotel almost directly across the street.

The convention center's main entrance was flanked by towering concrete pillars, their surfaces catching the golden light of approaching sunset.

A sea of conference attendees had spilled out onto the broad sidewalks, their ID badges and lanyards catching the sunlight as they swayed from lanyards.

Some clutched leather portfolios and promotional materials, while others balanced laptop bags and coffee cups.

Small groups clustered near the building's entrance engaged in animated discussions while others stood in little groups, looking down at their phones.

Rachel noticed several people wearing identical blue lanyards—probably speakers or presenters—heading toward the hotel.

The sidewalks in front of the hotel were also a maze of motion.

A woman in a charcoal suit juggled her phone and a stack of papers as she waited for the crosswalk signal.

Two men in white coats—likely physicians attending the conference—gestured enthusiastically as they discussed something on a tablet.

A hotel bellhop pushed a loaded luggage cart through the revolving doors, forcing several conference attendees to step aside.

"This is ridiculous," Novak muttered, inching their car through the gridlock.

A taxi had stopped abruptly to pick up passengers from the convention center, forcing their lane to a crawl.

The driver ahead of them kept checking his phone, barely moving when spaces opened up.

"We're never going to find parking at this rate. "

Rachel watched another stream of people crossing Jefferson toward the hotel's entrance—a grand archway flanked by original brass light fixtures and ornate stonework.

The Radisson's twelve stories of warm red brick and limestone trim provided an architectural anchor for this corner of the medical district.

The building's corner position gave it commanding views down both Jefferson and Market Streets.

The way the sun reflected from it made late afternoon sun look like burnished copper.

Through the revolving doors, she caught glimpses of the recently renovated lobby with its coffered ceilings and marble floors.

The hotel had maintained its historic character while updating the amenities—she could see both vintage brass railings and modern digital displays from her vantage point.

A doorman in a crimson uniform assisted an elderly couple with their bags, holding the door as they stepped into a waiting town car.

"Just drop me off here," she said, already reaching for the door handle. "I'll head into the hotel, see if Maxwell is even staying there. If he is, I'll check his room." Her seatbelt clicked free as Novak guided the car toward a small gap in the traffic.

"And I'll text you when I park," he replied, scanning the street. "After I do, I'll head over to the convention center, just in case."

Rachel slipped out of the car and strode purposefully through the small crowd of people.

She made sure to remain quiet and not attract attention, wanting to remain as invisible as possible.

She managed to do this rather easily as she passed through the revolving door into the lobby.

The space opened up before her—intimate seating areas with leather club chairs arranged in conversational groupings, brass chandeliers casting a warm glow across the space, the concierge desk of polished mahogany gleaming like honey.

The air carried hints of fresh flowers from massive arrangements flanking the entrance, their white lilies and green ferns artfully arranged in tall mercury glass vases.

The lobby buzzed with activity. A tour group huddled near the concierge desk, their matching red bags arranged in a neat pile.

Business travelers typed on laptops in the seating area, surrounded by coffee cups and papers.

Conference attendees drifted in and out, some heading for the hotel bar that opened off the lobby's north side.

She approached the front desk, where a young woman in a crisp black blazer looked up with a practiced smile.

Her name tag read "Lisa." Rachel kept her movements subtle as she displayed her FBI credentials, keeping them pressed hard against the surface of the counter, conscious of the business travelers and conference attendees milling about the lobby.

The last thing she needed was to create a scene that might tip off their suspect.

"I need to know if a man by the name Jonathan Maxwell is staying here."

The clerk's smile faltered slightly as she glanced between Rachel's badge and her face.

Her fingers worried the pearl necklace at her throat—a nervous tell that Rachel filed away automatically.

After a moment's hesitation, she turned to her computer, manicured fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard.

The soft click of keys barely audible above the lobby's ambient noise.

"He is. Mr. Richard Aldridge, Room 212."

Rachel thanked her and made for the stairwell, her footsteps silent on the thick carpeting.

The door to the stairs was tucked almost privately behind a decorative screen where the restrooms were also located, the kind of detail that spoke to the hotel's thoughtful renovation.

The stairwell itself was utilitarian—concrete steps and metal railings that smelled like dirt and old cigarette smoke—but immaculately maintained.

She came to the second floor and opened the door.

The second-floor corridor stretched out before her, walls painted in muted earth tones and lined with numbered doors in dark wood.

Framed black and white photographs of historic city landmarks provided visual interest between the doors.

The hallway carpet featured an abstract pattern in deep blues and golds, its thick pile muffling any sound of approach.

She found 212, located off to the right of the elevators, and rapped her knuckles against it. Silence. She knocked again, harder this time.

"Mr. Maxwell? Are you there?"

More silence. Just the distant hum of the ice machine down the hall and muffled voices from a neighboring room. Maxwell must still be at the convention center.

Her phone vibrated as she turned back toward the stairs. It was a text from Novak: Parked, headed to the convention center.

She quickly typed back: He's staying here but not in his room. Will meet you at the convention center. Her thumbs had barely finished the message when she heard the distinctive whir of arriving elevator cables, followed by the soft chime of opening doors.

The corridor was empty as she approached the elevator bank, its polished brass doors reflecting the warm wall sconces.

She passed it by, heading for the stairwell doorway.

But just as she reached for the stairwell door, she heard the soft chime of the elevator arriving and the soft thunk of the doors opening.

She turned, more out of instinct than curiosity, her hand still resting on the door handle.

Two men stepped out. The first wore designer jeans and a charcoal blazer over a vintage band t-shirt—typical conference casual wear for the younger crowd.

He carried a leather messenger bag slung across his chest and a coffee cup from the lobby café in one hand.

But it was the second man who caught her attention.

He wore khakis and a navy polo beneath a heavy wool peacoat.

She saw no conference materials, no name badge.

And from what she could tell, the two men did not know one another—just two men who’d happened to catch the same elevator.

"Sorry to bother you," she said, forcing a casual tone while her mind cataloged details. She was acting on instinct now, not really allowing herself time to overthink every little thing. "But would either of you happen to be Jonathan Maxwell?"

Both men shook their heads. "No, sorry," said the one in jeans, already turning toward his destination. The man in the peacoat merely shook his head, his expression neutral but eyes alert in a way that triggered Rachel's internal alarm.

"Thanks anyway." Rachel turned back to the stairwell door, but her trained eye had already cataloged several other concerning details about the man in the peacoat. Years of FBI work had taught her to trust her instincts, and right now every one of them was screaming.

The coat itself was slightly too large, the sleeves extending past his wrists—possibly borrowed or recently purchased for concealment.

His right hand was curled awkwardly, the fingers bent upward as if securing something within that excess fabric.

The movement wasn't natural; it spoke of conscious control rather than casual motion. He was hiding something.

His movements were too controlled, too deliberate for someone simply returning to their room.

There was a practiced quality to his casualness, like an actor who had rehearsed appearing unremarkable.

Most telling was the slight bulge along his right side—the kind created by a shoulder holster.

Rachel had worn enough of them to recognize the subtle disruption in how fabric fell.

She watched through the closing stairwell door as the men separated, the one in jeans turning left while the man in the peacoat moved purposefully to the right…

toward Room 212. Her pulse quickened as years of experience crystallized into certainty.

The coat was meant to conceal both weapon and identity.

The carefully casual demeanor masked predatory intent.

Even the timing felt calculated—arriving just as the convention was letting out, when the hotel would be at its most chaotic.

When Maxwell would return to his room.

Rachel pulled out her phone as she stood in the isolated silence of the stairwell platform.

She sent a text to Novak as quickly as she could, her fingers flying across the screen: Might have a suspect here at the hotel.

A man, possibly concealing a weapon, is heading for Maxwell's room.

212. She noticed her hands were steady despite the surge of adrenaline.

She took a single breath to make sure she was centered and focused before drawing her weapon.

She then eased the stairwell door open once more.

The weight of her Glock was familiar in her hands, its stippled grip reassuring against her palm.

Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut.

Rachel moved silently into the corridor, every sense alert for what might come next.

And by the time she had taken two more steps out into the corridor, her gut was now all but certain: she was mere feet away from a killer.