Page 11 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Ramon had four missed calls from Zeyla, along with a bunch of emails he hadn’t responded to yet.

Instead of heading back to the hotel, he decided to head for hers since she wanted to talk to him so badly.

He called her number as he drove, not wanting to remain stationary anywhere too long—long enough to be picked off by a gunman.

Miguel was the one with the contract to end her life, but he could have used that conversation with Ramon just now as an alibi.

Was she all right?

The call clicked over to a voicemail that hadn’t been set up. Ramon hung up and hit the gas, driving faster to get to her motel, but not fast enough that he risked being pulled over by the police. If she had called him four times, then it meant she’d been alive to do so.

What should he make of that whole conversation with Miguel?

Bringing up the worst time in Ramon’s life, the things he could never atone for.

And then, on top of it, dropping that bombshell.

He’d have said he’d made peace with it, knowing they were under orders and that young woman had betrayed the cartel.

She hadn’t been innocent any more than they were, and yet, an innocent life had been ended in the process.

Miguel was right that he wouldn’t ever be able to make amends for this.

Ramon squeezed the steering wheel, fighting back the urge to reach out to one of his friends.

Or to find a biker bar and take out his anger and frustration—okay, his guilt—in a fistfight with some unsuspecting guy.

He always found the right bar and never picked a fight with anyone who didn’t want it.

In fact, most of the time, he let the other person pick the fight with him.

On occasion, he had Bruce or Maizie find him a person with an outstanding warrant.

Usually, the nastiest guy they could find, someone who had hurt a lot of people.

Ramon had zero problem acting like an unpaid bounty hunter and delivering that person to justice, albeit with a number of bruises they hadn’t had earlier that day.

He should probably just get a license and become a bounty hunter.

But for some reason, part of him had always wanted to get to the point where he didn’t need to pick fights anymore.

Where he didn’t have the twisted-up knot inside him that needed to get relief by smashing his fist into someone’s face.

But was it only foolish hope to think that he could change?

He pulled onto the street where the motel was situated, and his foot slipped off the gas. He gaped at the number of fire trucks and other emergency vehicles blocking the street in front of Zeyla’s place. Not just her, but all the people on the street that had now been displaced.

He parked where he could, tucking his car between two work trucks on the side of the street, and barely got the door shut. Jogging over without even his phone, let alone his keys. Who cared? He had to know if she was alive.

The middle of the motel had caved in, precisely where her room was located.

By the look of it, a huge explosion had torn apart the center of the building.

The two sides were about to collapse in the middle, currently being shored up by the fire department.

There were first responders everywhere in an ocean of red-and-blue flashing lights.

Floodlights had also been set up, trying to illuminate the wreckage in the darkness.

An ambulance pulled away behind him, lights and sirens going.

Ramon fought his way to the front of the crowd and found a uniformed police officer, probably barely out of the police academy. “What happened?”

The guy looked exhausted and practically rolled his eyes. “What does it look like? It imploded.”

“Maybe don’t let them put you on the stand when they catch the guy, yeah?” Ramon shot the officer a look. “Where do I go to find out what happened to my friend?” He pointed at the empty space where Zeyla’s room had been. “That was my friend’s room.”

The officer pointed down the street. “Find the sergeant. He’s working the survivors list.”

Ramon jogged away, toward where the officer had pointed.

Between a couple of black-and-white patrol cars, one of which apparently had a K-9 in the back, given all the barking, he threaded toward a pop-up awning.

Hopefully, what the officer had meant was that his sergeant had a master list of everyone who may have been inside the building at the time of the explosion and was correlating that with the patients who had been taken to the hospital or had lost their lives here.

His breath caught in his throat. He had to cough it out while approaching an older man with thick chevrons on his short uniform sleeves.

The man reached up and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing ash on his clammy skin.

He spotted Ramon coming and lifted his chin.

“What’s the name of your friend or loved one? ”

Ramon stumbled to a stop. He frowned, his mouth open.

What name had she given the desk clerk when she signed in?

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Or are you some kind of reporter, fishing for the exclusive? We won’t know the final death toll for at least a day. Got it?”

“My friend was in one of those rooms. I’m sorry, I think I’m in shock.” Ramon ran his hands through his hair, his elbows splayed. He turned around and looked at the motel, but that didn’t help him remember what name she had used when she checked in.

Right. Kenna had sent him a rundown of all the information.

He wandered away a few steps, pulled up his email, and found the information Kenna and Maizie had dug up when they were figuring out where Zeyla had gone. “Rachel Sanders.” He turned back to the sergeant. “Can you look up Rachel Sanders, please?”

The guy looked at his clipboard, flipping one piece of paper over the clip at the top. “Hasn’t been found. She’s marked as still unaccounted for, which means she might not even have been here when the explosion happened.”

There was that, at least. And it was enough that the squeeze in Ramon’s chest eased, and he could take a breath. “Do you have any idea what happened? Was it some kind of accident?”

“If you want to know what happened,” the sergeant said. “Watch local news tomorrow like everyone else.” He handed over a business card. “You can call this number for updates on if we find your friend.”

He wanted to believe that she hadn’t even been here and that was why she had called him four times. But why hadn’t she answered the phone when he called her back?

Zeyla could very well be in the wreckage somewhere, fighting for her life. Or already dead.

Ramon took the card and headed away from the sergeant, past two uniformed officers in some kind of intense conversation, their heads close together. He instinctively slowed so he could try and catch some of the conversation.

When he heard a low voice say, “…the Count,” he almost stumbled again.

He slowed even further, acting as if he was so overwhelmed by the sight of this wreckage that used to be a building that he wasn’t able to continue on.

“You know that’s just a myth. It isn’t like there’s some rich guy in a cape and a mask who goes around snatching people. Like he’s blowing up buildings just to cover his tracks.” The officer scoffed. “This could have been a gas leak, for all you know.”

“He probably doesn’t wear a cape.” The man paused for a second. “I’m just saying. This is something he’d do.”

“Some guy who doesn’t exist? Unlikely. Unless you know something about him that I don’t,” the guy said. “The Count of Shadows is just a dumb story told in elementary school to get kids to be safe. It’s not actually a real thing.”

Ramon heard them wander off, and they passed him. Striding over to a fire truck.

He needed to try Zeyla’s number again, so he went back to the car and climbed in the front seat. A text message on his cell phone had him fishing the keys off the rug between his feet and starting the car.

Get to your hotel room. Now.

Okay, so she was alive.

Ramon got there in record time, let himself in the side door with his key, and jogged all the way to the elevator. He used his phone to unlock the hotel room door, and it swung open by itself. She stood in the doorway.

He blinked at her and frowned. “How did you get in here?” She rolled her eyes and turned to wander back to the couch, flopping down. Ramon shut the door behind him. “And why do you smell singed?”

She brushed hair back from her face. “Why do you think?”

“How close were you to the blast?”

“Close enough I probably feel like you did after you landed in that dumpster.”

He winced. “Ouch.” Ramon slumped into the armchair across from the couch. “Anything else you need to tell me about what happened?”

“Not yet. Where have you been?” It wasn’t exactly accusatory, more like just disgruntled.

“Having a beer with Miguel.”

She blinked.

Ramon shrugged. “I know. He just sat down next to me and decided to talk. Probably to establish his alibi for what was happening at the motel.”

“Like it’s not easy enough to set a device on a timer and get the heck out of there before it goes off.”

“Were you the target?” He figured he already knew the answer, but what he wanted was her read on the situation.

“Who knows?” She lifted one shoulder. “We already heard about the contract on my life.”

“But then, no offense, why aren’t you dead?”

First the killer tells them what the job is, and then he sets an explosion that fails to kill her? Sounded like sloppy work to him. But Ramon hadn’t ever worked as a contract killer. Not in the same way Miguel was doing now.

“Maybe we should dangle me out as bait and find out the answer to that question.” And yet, there was nothing in her expression that told him she actually wanted to do that. She looked completely exhausted.

“Keep coming up with ideas. Tomorrow, we can make a plan and figure this out.” He told her what those two officers had said about the Count of Shadows.

She lifted a hand, palm up. “Told you.”

“Okay, fine. But if everyone thinks he’s nothing but a schoolyard myth, how are we going to actually find him? I mean, have you checked all the creepy mansions in the hills? Anything built around the Victorian era or renovated to look like it was bought up by Dracula.”

“If only it was that easy.”

“What about old money families, or people who’ve lived here long enough that they were present in Spokane before the stories started?”

She said, “That makes more sense than Victorian mansions.”

He shrugged one shoulder, drawing out his phone so that he could text Maizie with the request. His phone rang, the text thread disappearing and the name of the forensics company showing up on the screen.

He waited a beat, then answered the phone. “Ramon Santiago.”

“Yes, this is Dr. Swanson from Pioneer. I got some interesting results that you might want to look into before I pass the information on to the police first thing tomorrow morning.”

Ramon pulled his boots off the coffee table and sat up, putting the call on speaker. “What kind of results?”

They already knew the woman’s name, and the police were likely done notifying her next of kin that her hand had been found. They may not even be able to confirm she was dead. At least, not without finding the rest of her. That had to have been a difficult conversation.

Dr. Swanson said, “We ran the material found under the victim’s fingernails, likely from scratching her captor. Some of it came back as DNA, and we were able to match it to a local firefighter. Drew Chamberlain has been with Spokane FD for twenty-two years.”

“You want us to treat him with respect because he’s a first responder?”

“He’ll get that from the police. I’m giving you this information so that you have a shot at catching him by surprise and getting to the real truth.”

Zeyla’s eyebrows rose.

“We can do that,” Ramon said.

“There’s a time for concessions and union reps, and there’s a time for the out-of-towners to puncture a hole in the facade.”

The line went dead.

“Well, wasn’t that interesting,” she said. “We should pay this guy a visit tonight.”

“We can hit the twenty-four-hour store afterward and get you some clothes.”

She said, “That would probably be a good idea.”

“What about your laptop and the flash drive Maizie was trying to get into?”

She shook her head slowly. “Whatever Milo was trying to tell me is long gone now. He died for nothing, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“We can get justice for him.”

“When your buddy Miguel just waltzes in whenever he feels like it?” She shook her head. “A guy like that has a plan. And by now, he’s probably destroyed all the evidence.”

Was she regretting walking away from Milo’s body and leaving him in the place where he’d felt safe?

Ramon wanted to counsel her to let go of the past and keep moving forward, searching for justice.

But with the evening he’d had and the reminder that he would never be free of his history, he wasn’t sure that was even something a person could do.

So he said nothing.

“Let’s go shake down a firefighter.”