Page 67 of Every Last Breath

The stale odor of cigarettes and mildew almost made her turn back. A pocked-face guy scratched his potbelly, sitting behind a desk littered with balled-up fast-food wrappers. A headset covered one ear, mic reaching out to his chapped lips. “Where you headed?”

“We’ve reached our destination.” Cole strode up to him, taking point as if he were in charge, and bravely set his helmet on the guy’s desk. No telling what might crawl into sight.

The man’s piqued gaze bounced from the helmet, up between Cole and her. “What? You don’t need a cab?”

The phone rang, and he lifted a swollen hand for them to wait. “DC Yellow Cabs.” He dragged a finger down the screen. “You headed to the airport, Mr. Morris?”

Maddox wrangled an impatient sigh, resisting the urge to snap her fingers and ask the guy to rush through the call.

“No problem, Mr. Morris. A car will be there in less than thirty minutes.”

As the man lowered the receiver, Maddox curled her helmet under her arm, stepping up to the desk. “We need the driver of the cab with plates ending in Papa, Charlie, Bravo, one.”

“Huh? What you say?”

Cole rested his hip on the filthy desk. “The lady said, p as in pizza, c as in cookie, b as in burger, one as in ‘us boys only have one sausage to yank.’”

“Who are you? You guys got a warrant?”

She stayed quiet. What useful skills had Cole picked up besides incapacitating someone?

“We’re from Rubicon Security. Your driver picked someone up at the corner of…” Cole looked to her.

“Massachusetts and Van Ness, around eleven thirty last night. We need to know where the passenger was dropped off.”

“We’d truly be grateful.” Cole pointed a finger at him. “What’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“Yes, Pete. We’d really appreciate the assist.”

Pete’s scrunched face didn’t suggest cooperation was forthcoming.

“Have you ever had a thin-crust pizza from Bistro Italiano?” Cole asked.

“Nope.” Pete shook his head.

“A Neapolitan-style crust. The sauce is perfection. Buffalo mozzarella. I’d be happy to arrange a delivery of one loaded with your favorite toppings as a sign of our appreciation.”

Stubby fingers danced across a computer keyboard. “You don’t need to talk to the driver. I can look it up for you. All right, let’s see. Pizza. Cookie. Burger. One.”

Surprise ticked through her. Cole was pretty good at this.

“That was Rodney’s car,” Pete said. “He dropped a passenger at the Hotel Monaco at 11:46.”

Her chest cramped. She was suddenly light-headed, her equilibrium knocked sideways.

Pete scratched his belly. “It’s located at 700—”

“We know.” Cole’s voice was quiet as he exchanged a knowing glance with her.

At Hotel Monaco, they’d shared their first time together. He hadn’t pressured or persuaded her into it. She’d been ready and eager. Inside suite 303, surrounded by candles and rose petals, he’d taken her virginity lovingly and with such scorching intensity, he’d branded her as his forever.

Averting her gaze from Cole’s burning eyes, she moved from earshot outside and called Castle on her encrypted Gray Box cell phone.

“Our Ghost was dropped off at the Hotel Monaco last night. It’s 700 Foxtrot Street November Whiskey. We’re headed there now.”

“TV station is a dead end,” Castle said. “One of the security guards scrubbed everything. No record the Ghost landed or entered the building. We’ll meet you at the hotel.”