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“People are drinking, dancing, looking to get laid,” Morrison continued. “Nobody notices Rozwell follow her. Nobody notices for about fifteen more minutes that she doesn’t come back—or notice Rozwell walk out, leave.”
Beck walked to the door. “He gives her a minute, follows her. Steps in. If someone else is in here besides his target, game over. It’s just oops, laugh, back off. But nobody was, so he’s in. Locks the door behind him.”
“He just has to wait until she opens the stall door,” Morrison continues. “Blow to the face.” He mimed a jab. “Knocks her back, down, dazes her. Music’s playing, and it’s loud.”
“Even if she cried out, who’d hear? He’s thinking about Morgan when he strangles Kayleen, Quentin, but it’s not Morgan, and it doesn’t give him that rush. So he slams her head against the stall wall, takes her bag, and leaves her. Back to his hotel, and he’s gone that night, or the next day.”
“Plays for me.”
“Yeah, it plays. Good hotel, a suite with a view in a good hotel. In the Quarter.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Morrison agreed. “That’s his style.”
“Let’s find it. When we do, when we’re sure, I’ll contact Morgan.”
And the hits kept coming, Morgan thought as she set down her phone. She’d barely had thirty-six hours to adjust to the gut punch of the credit card bill, and now, another woman was dead.
By Rozwell’s hands.
Some poor woman who’d done nothing more than go out for a fun, foolish night with a friend. He hadn’t known her and, according to Beck, hadn’t researched her. He’d just picked her out of a crowd.
They’d found his hotel. Though he’d either dyed his hair or worn a red wig, they’d located his hotel. He’d checked out the afternoonafter the murder—after doing a little shopping on the fake card with her name on it—and had taken a cab to the airport.
But he hadn’t gone inside, not according to the security feed.
Nothing she could do, Morgan reminded herself, but what she was doing. And that meant going to work.
A Friday night wedding rehearsal dinner meant an influx of wedding party post-dinner along with the weekend guests, the drinks-at-the-resort locals.
She had to thank the timing because it would keep her too busy to obsess.
She had Bailey working the backbar again, primarily, she felt certain, because Bailey had appealed to Opal. However it worked, Morgan put her to good use.
“You can fill this table order. A Shiraz, a Chardonnay, a house champagne, and a Pinot Grigio. Double order of cheese fries, four plates.”
Trusting her, Morgan hit the blender for a trio of apricot coladas.
She worked on auto, filling orders, chatting, offering tasting glasses when a guest couldn’t decide on a beer or wine or whiskey.
A guy rounding forty came up to the bar, crooked a finger at her.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m playing stump the bartender with my table. I figure you’re young, can’t have been doing this for long, so my chances are good.”
“What’s the prize?”
“They pick up my greens fee tomorrow.”
“Nice. What’s the drink?”
Smiling, he ticktocked a finger in the air. “No fair googling.”
She held up her hands.
“The Bone.”
“I must be older than I look. Do you want Wild Turkey rye or bourbon?”
