Could he get caught? Maybe. But for some reason, it seemed insignificant.

  Ben would worry about those details after he’d planted a bullet between that monster’s eyes.

  The only question now was how to get close enough?

  There was another name in the notebook, Jacob Moser. Apparently, he was a prostitute who made regular visits to Marcel’s house.

  And Jacob had a room at the extended-stay motel. Uncle Greg even had the man’s room number.

  Ben wasn’t sure why Greg had included that detail. Was he worried Jacob might be a witness? Or was there another reason?

  It was something, and Ben wondered if it had to do with the large amount of money in the safe deposit box. Did Uncle Greg think Jacob Moser might be willing to kill Marcel for the right amount of cash?

  Ben pulled into the motel parking lot. Sunset Inn wasn’t the worst motel he’d seen, but it definitely wasn’t the Ritz. Going by the activity, the brand of people, and the state of the cars, the place wouldn’t even qualify as a tourist stop.

  Bikes on the sidewalk, a few planters on the front windows, hell, even welcome mats, suggested the occupants residing at Sunset Inn were there for the long haul.

  Ben found a parking spot and went into the lobby. If it could be called one. A chair on either side of the door, a fake potted plant by the counter, and a pimple-faced teenager reading a skin mag.

  Definitely top-notch.

  Ben waited for the kid to acknowledge him. When he didn’t, Ben rapped on the counter.

  The guy looked up. “Yo.”

  “I need a room.”

  He grinned and scanned the space beyond Ben’s shoulder. “You alone? Or do you got…you know, a girl?”

  “I’m alone.”

  “We charge extra for double occupancy.” He said it like a challenge.

  “Just me.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll get lucky.” He winked.

  Ben took out his wallet. He started to give the guy his bankcard, then decided cash would be safer. Last thing he needed was to have the number swiped, or worse, leave a way to trace him there. “How much?”

  “One ninety a week, or thirty-five a night.”

  “I’ll take a week’s worth.” He laid out the cash. “Is there any way I can get a room close to the end of the building? Seems like it might be a little quieter down there.”

  The guy laughed. “If you want quiet, you might be at the wrong place.”

  “I said quieter. I didn’t expect silence.”

  “Hang on, I’ll check.” He pulled out a book. There was no sign of a computer anywhere in the place. Were they just old or sleazy? Outside, a man argued with his girlfriend. She took off her shoe and threw it at him as he fled to a car filled with other men.

  There went the answer to Ben’s question.

  “Yeah.” The kid tapped the page of the ledger. “I’ve got three, actually. Two upstairs on the end, next door to each other and one on the ground floor. If you want quiet, I’d advise the upstairs.”

  “Downstairs, please.”

  “You sure? Brenda has about ten kids and just as many boyfriends. If you’re on the lower level, you’d be stuck beside her. The guy on the other side is quiet. At least I ain’t ever had no complaints. But her?” He shook his head.

  “Downstairs is fine.”

  The guy gave Ben a look.

  “Bad knee, I don’t want to climb the steps.”

  “Sure. No problem. What’s your name?”

  “Jon Smith.”

  “How about Berry Warren? You know, it’s more original.” The guy grinned. “Think I’ve already got fifteen Jon Smiths staying here.” What was Ben going to do? Argue?

  Ben waved a hand at the ledger. “I don’t suppose you have an address you can put down too, do you?”

  The guy held up a phone book. “Got all the addresses I’ll ever need.”

  “Thanks.” They exchanged money for keys.

  Ben went to check out the room.

  It had hot water. That was the only good thing he could say about the space. That and the sheets appeared clean. The peeling wallpaper, busted TV, dripping faucets, he’d expected.

  He tossed his duffle bag on the bed. He’d only packed a few days’ worth of clothes when he’d left for his uncle’s. If he was here more than a couple of days, he’d have to wash them. Hopefully, this would be over soon.

  Could he really do this?

  Ben sat on the bed and took out the notebook. He found his mother’s name on the list. Lorelle Annanstein. She’d been born in Russia. That was all Ben knew about her, thanks to his uncle. From what he remembered, she never spoke anything but English to him.

  It wasn’t that Ben didn’t ask questions about her—it was Greg wouldn’t answer them. Except with, Wait till she comes back, then she can tell you. Later on, it became, It’s not important.

  But it was important. Sometimes it had kept Ben up at night. Then the weeks became months, then they became years, then ten years. He didn’t know when he quit asking.

  Had Ben known she’d died? On some deep level, was he aware she’d been slaughtered? It felt like he should have.

  The gun was wrapped in a shirt with the money. Ben’s uncle had kept a Glock in the closet. He’d wanted Ben to understand it wasn’t a toy and took him to the range and taught him how to shoot.

  Then one year, Greg sold the thing so he could afford to buy Christmas presents.

  Didn’t get much. The gun in Ben’s hand had to have cost a grand or more. If that was the case, why did Greg sell the Glock?

  Better yet, how did his uncle save so much money?

  The bank manager obviously knew him well enough to go around the rules for Ben to have access to the safe deposit box without court documents.

  Another unanswered question.

  And there were already so many.

  This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. Marcel was a stone-cold killer. The information Greg had collected proved it.

  Ben reminded himself the man was old, scarred, and crippled. His self-confidence assured him he could do this; his sense of survival warned him this was a hell of a lot more than he could handle.

  He took the card Detective Jones had given him. The guy told Ben to call if he thought of anything. This was definitely something. Detective Jones could get a warrant and search Marcel’s place. If the detective found something to connect Marcel to the murders in the articles, he could arrest him. If he didn’t, Marcel could skip town, and Ben would never find him.

  Two male voices argued outside. Ben went to the window and pulled back the curtain. A dark-haired man in his twenties yelled at another at least a decade older, dressed in high dollar clothes and alligator cowboy boots.

  “We already had this discussion.” The dark-haired man fumbled with his key. The guy in the boots crowded him against the door to the room where Jacob Moser was supposed to be.

  “I thought about it. I’ll triple what he’s paying you.”

  “I thought I was a worn-out piece of ass you didn’t want anymore?”

  Alligator Shoes grinned so wide he could have been an advertisement for a toothpaste commercial. “I got customers who like you. Lots. They’re willing to pay extra.”

  “No.”

  “C’mon, Jakey. This guy you’re working for can’t be all that.”

  “I said no. Now I suggest you leave.”

  “Or what? You’ll flash your scar again?” Alligator Shoes ran his finger down Jacob’s cheek.

  He slapped the man’s hand away. “Please. Go. I don’t like you, but I don’t want to see you killed.” The flash of pain across his face made Ben’s blood run cold.

  “I got a buddy who says he saw Frankie in Mexico last week.”

  “He’s not in Mexico.”

  “Sounds more plausible than what you’re claim’n.” Alligator Shoes made a cutting motion across this throat. “Really, Jacob. You actually expect me to believe that crippled old man killed anyone?”

  “For your sake. You should.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Then it’s your funeral.”

  Alligator Shoes grabbed Jacob and spun him around. He threw a punch, but Alligator Shoes blocked it. After a brief scuffle, he pinned Jacob against the wall with a hand on his throat.

  “Just like old times, huh?” Alligator Shoes pushed a hand under Jacob’s shirt. “You and me. A little H. Some alone time.”

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “What?” He shook Jacob. “What could I possibly do to you that I haven’t already done?”

  “Just go, Logan. Please, just go.”

  “Not gonna happen. Now open the door.”

  “No.”

  “Open the door, or we can do this right here. I’m sure the kiddies running around here would love to watch.”

  Jacob tried to kick the guy. Another hard shake bounced Jacob’s head off the door. The thud echoed between rooms. Jacob crumbled, and Alligator Shoes let him go. He picked up the key and unlocked the door. Jacob tried to stand but couldn’t seem to get his legs to cooperate.

  “Come on, pretty boy. We got some catching up to do.” Alligator Shoes buried his hand in Jacob’s hair. Even dazed, Jacob’s eyes burned with sheer terror.

  Ben grabbed the gun off the bed and opened his door. “Hey.”

  Alligator Shoes turned. “Mind your own fucking business.”

  “Leave him alone.”

  “You gonna make me?”

  Ben pointed the gun at him.

  Alligator Shoes held up his hands and stepped away. “Whoa, whoa, man, there’s no need for that. We’re just two old friends catching up on lost time.”

  “You don’t act like much of a friend.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure if you ask Jakey here, he’d tell you otherwise.” He glanced at Jacob who cringed. “Tell him, Jakey.”

  “Why don’t just save the bullshit and leave.”

  “Look, man, this ain’t got nothing to do…”

  “Leave, now.” Ben took a step closer.

  Alligator Shoes cut Jacob a vicious look. “Yeah, sure. Guess I’ll see you later then huh, Jakey.”

  Ben took another step. “Move it asshole.”

  Logan fled across the parking lot to his big shiny car.

  Ben walked over. “You okay?”

  Jacob’s gaze locked on the gun.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Promise.” Ben checked the safety before putting the gun in the waist of his jeans.

  Number one on his uncle’s list of rules not to break.

  “My name is Ben.” He offered a hand.

  Jacob reached for it, then fell back on his ass. An ugly cut seeped blood just under his hairline.

  Ben put Jacob’s arm over his shoulders. Aloe and soap perfumed his skin, and his exhales tasted like chocolate. He leaned into Ben, and the contact sent a rush of goosebumps up his arms and his insides pulled tight.

  Jacob watched him as if expecting something. Ben caught himself staring at the man’s mouth. He looked away and helped Jacob inside.

  “Sit here.” Ben left him on the bed and went to find a washcloth. The colors and quality weren’t Sunset Inn standard.

  Ben wet it and brought it back. He wiped Jacob’s cheek and pressed it to the cut.

  Jacob winced.

  “Sorry, but it’s bleeding.”

  Jacob’s glazed expression sobered. He tried to stand.

  “Whoa, give yourself a minute.” Ben caught him by the elbow.

  “I’m fine.” Jacob pushed his way past. He stopped at the vanity beside the bathroom. “Shit.” He leaned on the counter, head down.

  “Do you want me to get you some ice?”

  Jacob laughed. “Ice machine’s broken. And ice won’t fix this.”

  “I didn’t think it would, but it will keep it from swelling.”

  “He’d know even if it didn’t leave a mark.” He examined the cut some more in the mirror. “Sorry. I guess I should say thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “I’ll be fine, so you can go.”

  “Who are you afraid of?” Ben was pretty sure he already knew.

  “No one.”

  “You sure don’t act like it.”

  “I’m not afraid. I…” Jacob shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “Is it your pimp?”

  Jacob’s features hardened. “Leave.”

  “I’m sorry I just—”

  “Go.”

  “I made an assumption. I thought…” What could he say that wouldn’t dig the hole deeper, and leave him with no chance of finding out anything about Marcel? “I thought we were in the same line of business, that’s all.”

  Jacob stared at Ben. “What business is that?”

  “Um, escort.” Ben could only hope it was the right word.

  “You turn tricks?”

  “Uh. Yeah.”

  “Really?” Jacob propped a hip against the vanity. His jeans hung low enough on to flash the wide end of the faint trail of hair crossing his navel.

  Ben swallowed back the saliva filling his mouth. He scanned the room just to have something else to look at. “A few. I don’t exactly have a lot of…customers.”

  “Men, women? Both?”

  Ben hadn’t thought about that. “I’m not picky. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone around here I could work for, do you?”

  “Sorry, can’t help you.” Jacob gave Ben his back. The apprehension returned to his reflection.

  “What about the guy you work for?”

  “I don’t work for Logan.”

  “No, I mean, he said you worked for someone else.” Sweat made Ben’s hands sticky. He wiped them on his shirt.

  A reflection of bright blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes met Ben’s gaze, then was gone. “Marcel isn’t a pimp.”

  “A customer?”

  Jacob shrugged.

  “You think you could introduce me to him?”

  “Like I said, he doesn’t run rent boys.”

  “I’d work cheap.” Ben cleared his throat. “I really need the money.”

  “For someone who needs money, you carry a nice gun.”

  “It was a gift.”

  “From who? Your pimp?”

  “No. My uncle. He was murdered. He left me the gun in his will.” The truth came out sounding as cold as it felt.

  Jacob dropped his chin. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.” Ben crossed his arms to keep from wringing his hands. His palms burned with the need to see if Jacob’s skin was as silken as it looked. Ben clenched his eyes shut. “My uncle, he left some debt, that’s why I need the money.”

  “I still can’t help you.”

  “Please.”

  “No.” Jacob turned on the faucet. “Thank you for your help, but I think it would be best for you to leave.”

  Ben wanted to argue. He needed to get to Marcel. There might have been another way, but he had no idea what it was. If he argued, Jacob might get suspicious. It could make him wary enough to not want to talk to Ben again. At least if he waited, he might get another chance.

  “Sure. No problem.” Ben waved a hand in the direction of his room. “If you need anything. Any help, or if that guy comes back. I’m next door.”

  Jacob nodded, and Ben left.

  Boxes. Move lots of boxes.

  The closer Sam got to his third-period class, the less power the mantra had because all the boxes became snapshots of him and Joe.

  The summer Joe moved into the neighborhood. How they’d play video games into the wee hours of the morning or go get pizza at the hole in the wall restaurant next to the gas station. The hundred degree days they swam in the frog pond. The week they went on a fishing trip with Joe’s dad, and the boat sank. Then there was the crazy brown dog that used to chase them every day they walked home until it got too old to do more than hobble around.

  There were so many boxes, and all of them great. Except for the last one where Sam sat in the leaves, crying his eyes out like some pussy.

  He stopped at his locker located about halfway down the hall, giving him a perfect view of the doorway to Mr. Freeman’s room.

  Chemistry II. A junior class that most juniors couldn’t pass. As a freshman, Sam wouldn’t be passing it if he didn’t study nonstop.

  But he hadn’t done a lot of studying in the last couple of days, because every time he sat down at his desk, he’d see that face.

  Not Joe’s.

  But Marcel’s. The younger unscarred version who looked nothing like the man did now. Except for his eyes. Hard. Cold. Watching. And that same expression on every single one of those kids in that picture. Not to mention the teacher.

  Creepy.

  And it was just the kind of thing Sam would love to tell Joe about, except Joe wasn’t talking to him anymore.

  A shove sent Sam stumbling. He dropped the folder he’d taken out of the locker and the contents spread out over the floor.

  “Ooops, sorry about that.” Karl grinned ear to ear. His two tagalongs laughed like he’d just told the best joke in the world. Karl proceeded to tromp around Sam, putting his foot down on every piece of paper.

  Great. At least Sam had saved his work on a thumb drive, and the report Karl took great pleasure in destroying wasn’t due until next week.

  Karl leaned on the locker. “So, where’s your girlfriend?”

  Sam picked up the papers in hopes Karl wouldn’t see the embarrassment on his face.

  “I’m talking to you, fuckwad.”

  “Yeah. I know. And I’m ignoring you.” Sam stuffed what he could back into the folder and threw it in his locker.

  Karl stepped up to him. “Say that to my face.”

  Sam raised his eyes. “I said I’m ignoring you.” Another hard shove sent Sam into the locker. He landed on his ass. On his way back to his feet, he caught sight of Joe, weaving in and out of the crowd. He stopped, flicked a look at Karl, then back at Sam. Then he turned away as if Sam didn’t exist.

  Karl said something, but there was only the roar of Sam’s pulse, the rage, the shame burning through him.

  Marcel was right. Fear made people do strange things.

  All these years, Sam had seen Joe as just the opposite. He was the one always stepping up to the plate. The first one to stand up when something was wrong. The nice guy everyone liked.