6. Filled His Soul

SIX

Filled His Soul

On the way back to town, Rus made four important calls.

The first was to Wade Dickerson, Moran’s deputy in charge when he was out of commission. Rus recited the list of patrons who’d shown Brittanie attention. He also gave him the list of boyfriends Lucinda had written down. He then told Dickerson they were persons of interest, and why, and he left the man with the mission of having chats and gathering alibis if they were to be had.

The second was to Ben McGill, his local FBI lead, who assured Rus he’d be delivering the things Rus had asked for to Pinetop Lodge within the hour.

The third was to his son, Acre, who was a junior at the College of William and Mary studying Criminal Law and Psychology.

And yes, that meant Acre wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, though he wanted to skip the being-in-the-army-for-four-years part, along with the being a cop for five (instead, after graduation, he was going to enlist in the Marines, this flip-flopping what Rus did—Army first, then he went to school for five years while working).

After serving, Acre wanted to apply right to the Bureau.

He got Acre’s voicemail.

“It’s your dad,” he said after the beep. “I’m on a case in Washington state, but as usual, I’d like regular indication you’re alive, eating, hydrating, studying and using condoms. Text me.”

The last was his daughter, Sabrina, who was a freshman at the University of Florida. And even though she’d only been there mere weeks, evidence was suggesting her major was researching all the ways you could make an entire year at college into a spring break.

She answered.

“Daddy!”

Everything about those two syllables filled his soul with what had been leaching from it since the moment he got the call about a new dead girl.

“Hey, baby,” he replied.

“Oh my God, how did you know I needed you to call?”

“Because you go over your new bikini allowance weekly, so you need me to check in and approve additional expenditures? Just a guess.”

She giggled.

And that sound filled him enough to get through the next forty-eight hours.

“No,” she said. “But if you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” he replied.

Another giggle, and then, “Okay, I have a friend who’s thinking he wants to be in the FBI. Will you talk to him?”

“Are you dating him?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, I already hate him.”

A long trill of giggles through which she cried, “Dad!”

As usual with Sabrina, he gave in.

“Yes, I’ll talk to him. But I’m on a case. It’ll have to be later.”

Her tone changed when she asked, “You’re on a case?”

It wasn’t the PTSD left behind from an absent dad. After his marriage had imploded, he’d had long talks with his kids about that.

They’d assured him what he was doing now, which was what he’d always done—carved out time to let them know they were on his mind always—had given them what they needed. That and the rituals they had before he left and after he returned from travel.

No, it had been Jennifer who’d needed more.

And she deserved it.

He just didn’t give it.

What he was hearing from his girl now was a daughter worried about her father doing a necessary job that she knew burdened him in ways she wanted to alleviate, but she didn’t understand her continued health and growth and vibrancy did the work for her.

“I am, Sabby. In Washington state. But I’m always available if you need me, though I can’t talk to your guy right now.”

“Okay.”

“Everything else good?”

“Yes.”

“You going to class?”

“Of course!”

Lie.

“Your mother and I are paying for you to actually learn something down there,” he pointed out.

“Every new day of life is learning.”

Fucking hell.

“We mean the kind you get in a classroom,” he clarified.

“Dad, it’s just so sunny down here,” she replied. “Like all the time.”

“It’ll be gloomy and snowy and cold when you flunk out and have to go home to your mom.”

“I’m going to class,” she stated quickly.

This didn’t mean she had been going to class. It meant his threat penetrated and she would be going to class.

“That makes me happy.”

“I’m glad.”

“Okay, I gotta go. I’ll call in a few days, but I want texts from you.”

“Okay. Be safe and love you.”

“Love you too.”

They disconnected.

Acre would text because Rus asked him to, and knowing Rus was on a case, he’d continue to do it once every two or three days so Rus would know he was good.

This delay between comms wasn’t because he didn’t want to keep in contact with his old man, or because he wanted to give him space to do his job. It was because Acre was serious about his studies. He was serious about partying. And he was serious about getting laid.

Keeping in contact with his father put a crimp in his overtaxed schedule.

Knowing he was on a case, instead of his two to ten texts a day from his daughter, now Sabrina would add to that and text when she saw a flower she’d never seen before, when she heard birds singing, when she saw the fronds of a palm tree sway, when she enjoyed the refreshing tang of a lemonade, when the sun was shining, or the moon had a lovely glow.

Yes, he would hate any man who won her heart because the abundance of love in it she had for the man in her life had always only been his, and he wasn’t feeling like he’d ever be prepared to share.

On that thought, the GPS programmed to lead him to Pinetop Lodge told him a left turn was coming.

It didn’t take him through town.

Instead, he turned on the outskirts and climbed what would probably be considered a hill here but was a mountain in Virginia. The road led him straight to a large, attractive hotel that had successfully fused the feel of the Swiss Alps and Washington rusticity with a broad hint of Native appropriation.

He pulled in the front and a valet raced to his door.

He was sensing this was going to usurp more than his approved daily expenditure on room and board, but he nevertheless angled out of the SUV and gave the valet his keys.

A bellman was already at the back gate of the vehicle.

“Checking in?” he asked.

Rus was in the opened back passenger door getting his laptop and briefcase when he answered, “Yeah.”

He grabbed his bags, the bellmen led, and check-in was practiced and fluid.

He was glad for the moist atmosphere considering there was a goodly amount of stone, but the lodge was mostly made of wood, so a fire would suck, but might not be annihilating, as he was led to the top floor and into his room.

Definitely taxing his per diem.

He handed off some bills to the bellman who’d hung his garment bag and rolled his suitcase into the closet in the bedroom before he discreetly closed the door to the suite behind him.

And Rus was left in a suite that had a living room, a bar with sink, microwave, refrigerator and two stools on the outside, a romantic fireplace and a balcony with two lounge chairs that had a view of another mountain/hill across the way, and at the bottom of the hill the hotel was on, a large lake shrouded in a heavy coat of mist.

In other words, the view was outstanding.

The bedroom also had a fireplace, an armchair and ottoman, and a king bed with white sheets, a fluffy duvet, a red plaid blanket spread along the bottom, and two blue toss pillows with red moose on the front propped up against an abundance of pillows that would cater to the head support needs of any living human being.

Sabrina would scream with glee at the bathroom.

He was just happy to see a clean shower.

He pulled off his clothes, got a change that was more comfortable, but didn’t unpack seeing as he’d be relocating somewhere else after tonight, since the cheapest room here was probably out of budget.

He took a quick shower, dressed and decided to live it up, hitting the mini bar for a beer.

By this time, McGill was texting to ask his room number.

He gave it, and while McGill was on his way up, Moran texted that he was on his way, and Bohannan was en route too.

Before the locals arrived, Rus had time to debrief with his agent, getting a detailed verbal report of the investigation of the scene, the motel and its surroundings, spreading pictures across the round table by a window, the easier to enjoy room service with a view.

It was too soon to get into anything meaty. Tests would take time to run, prints would take time to process.

They had something bigger to discuss when Moran and Bohannan joined them.

And that was not only sharing ideas about why someone used a serial killer’s MO to murder a local woman, but also how to strategize the FBI’s continued involvement, namely Rus’s.

Because Moran could request FBI assistance, but that assistance would be from the Seattle division, as it would be in what was not a federal crime, it was a local one.