Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,88
close today. He should have had him in cuffs.
“He’ll mess up,” Kendra said. “Trust me. He already has.”
The motel door opened, and Bailey stepped out. She held a folded newspaper over her head to shield it from the rain and ran to the room next door. The door to 112 slammed shut as Bailey slid her keycard into 114. She didn’t notice Jacob parked here in the Kia.
“What’s the bad news?” he asked.
“I just got off the phone with my FBI contact in New Orleans. He said there’s still no sign of Tabitha Walker. She’s in the wind again.”
“No, she’s not.”
“She’s not?”
“She’s with Bailey.”
Silence.
“Tabitha Walker. Is with Bailey Rhoads.” It was a statement, not a question. “Why is she with Bailey?”
“She trusts her.”
Silence again.
“Kendra?”
“How the hell did—wait, don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know. You’re involved in this, aren’t you? Are you freaking with the two of them? Wait. Don’t tell me that, either. Shit, shit, shit, Jacob. I knew this would happen.”
“What?”
“You’re letting her cloud your judgment. And why would Tabitha Walker trust a reporter over a team of federal agents who want to help her? I don’t get it.”
Jacob didn’t, either. He could see what Bailey was getting out of it—a crucial source for her story. But what was Tabitha getting from Bailey?
“When are you coming back from New Orleans?” Kendra asked.
He wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, but there was no reason to tell Kendra that. The less she knew about what he was up to, the better. His job was already at risk if things went sideways and they were looking for someone to blame. Kendra’s job didn’t need to be in jeopardy, too.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.
“Okay, I don’t know what you’re doing, but . . . be careful.”
“I will.”
“And don’t get in any more shootouts on public streets, all right?”
“It wasn’t—”
“I’m kidding! Geez. The story’s all over the squad room, so you better get used to it.”
She hung up, and Jacob looked down at his phone again.
David Langham. He clenched his teeth as he studied the picture. One minute sooner. One minute and he probably would have had the guy down and cuffed before he got that shot off. Instead, Jacob had watched the whole thing go down from fifty yards away and then jumped in a cab to go after him.
Tabitha could have been killed.
Bailey could have been killed. She was even closer to the shooter than he was, although he didn’t know it at the time. Jacob’s gut churned every time he thought about it.
He grabbed the bag of carryout off the floor and got out. He jogged through the rain to Bailey’s door and popped the car locks with a chirp. The curtains parted and Bailey yanked open the door before he had a chance to knock.
“Find something?” she asked.
He stepped into the dim little motel room, dripping water all over the carpet. Not that it mattered. The place was a dump. It smelled of mildew and had the same sad brown carpeting that had been in Jacob’s first apartment back when he’d been a boot.
“Hope you like po’boys.” He set the bag on the fake wood dresser.
“Love ’em. They come with fries?”
“And hush puppies.”
“Even better.”
He unloaded the food and turned to face her.
She was soaking wet from the short sprint from Tabitha’s room. Her skin was damp, her makeup was smudged, and her wild curls were everywhere. She looked like she had the day he’d first met her, and he felt a jolt of lust, same as he had then.
She smiled up at him. “What?”
“How’d it go over there?”
She tipped her head to the side. “Okay. Not great, but okay.”
“Sure she doesn’t want a sandwich?”
“I asked her twice. She’s stocked up on junk from the vending machine.”
Jacob leaned against the dresser. “How is she?”
“Freaked out. Like you would expect. But she calmed down some as we talked.” She stepped to the end of the dresser, where she had two Cokes chilling in a plastic ice bucket. Jacob wished he’d stopped for some Jack Daniel’s when he’d gone out for food. He looked at the rip in the knee of Bailey’s jeans. She’d torn them on the pavement when she dived out of the way of that bullet. The palms of her hands were torn up, too.
“Coke?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Did you convince her to talk to the FBI?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means maybe. She isn’t sure she wants to. She cooperated once already, and it didn’t work out