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In the elevator he pressed the button for the eighth floor. The silver doors closed and reflected his image back at him. He noticed his forehead was covered with beads of sweat and felt his shirt stick to his back. Just prior to the doors opening, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He exited the elevator and walked down the hallway, stopping at room number 821. As he knocked, he remembered the question he had posed to Jim Oliver on Friday night. On what pretense would I end up in her hotel room?
And now, here he was, the day after they’d slept together, standing outside her room with ill intentions of recording her private conversations. He wiped his forehead one more time, patted the breast pocket of his button-down to feel the small, flat, brushed metal box Jim Oliver had left for him. The door opened and Walt lowered his hand from his pocket.
“Hey,” Avery said.
Walt swallowed hard. “Hey.”
An ear-piercing concussion of silence followed their high-school-type greeting.
“I, uh, missed you this morning,” Walt finally said. “Sorry if I was comatose.”
“No,” Avery said, shaking her head. “I snuck out.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I needed a jog.”
“Yeah. Makes sense. I’m just glad, you know . . . everything’s okay.”
Avery closed her eyes momentarily. “I had an immature moment of panic. I should’ve told you I was leaving. Look, Walt, if you haven’t already guessed, I’m not the greatest at this. And I’m mortified to admit that it’s been . . . quite a while since I’ve been in this sort of situation.”
“I’m not sure that’s something to be mortified about. And the same is true for me. I’ve been hiding in Jamaica for three years. Plus, I’m twice divorced, so I’m no better at this than you are.”
Avery moved her hands back and forth between them. “Then can we agree that this greeting has been awkward enough? Let’s just get back to normal?”
“Done.” Walt held up the box. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”
“Good. Come on in.”
Walt followed Avery into the room. It consisted of a king-sized bed and, on the far end near the windows, a coffee table in front of a small sofa, as well as a desk and chair.
“Ignore the mess,” Avery said, motioning to the bed, where stacks of papers stood in distinct piles on top of the comforter.
“What’s all this?”
“Research.”
“Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“You too,” Avery said as she sat on the sofa. “What did you find?”
Walt sat next to her and placed the box on the coffee table.
“It’s a long story. But I made some calls and managed to track down some more files on the Cameron Young case.”
“In addition to what we went through last night?”
“Yeah. This was stuff only the DA had. I want to show you something.”
Walt reached into the box and riffled through the folders until he found the one he wanted. He placed it on the table and opened it. Inside were photos of Victoria Ford from her initial interview with detectives. Walt fingered through them so they spread across the table.
Avery leaned closer to the photos. “What am I looking at?”
“These are photos of Victoria Ford during our first formal interview with her. They were taken two days after Cameron Young was killed when we brought her into BCI headquarters to question her.”
“Intake photos?”
“Yes.”
