Fallen Honor: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 7) by Wayne Stinnett Page A
Authors: Wayne Stinnett
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only when the various city speed limits required him to.
Less than an hour later, they rolled onto Stock Island, the GPS on the dash telling Erik to take the next left. A bus pulled up onto the road, belching blue-gray smoke, as Erik slowed to make the turn. A block later, they stopped in front of a seedy-looking motel wedged between two dilapidated boatyards.
“Wait here,” GT said and climbed out of the car, looking around the nearly empty parking lot. There was only one car, a beat-up and rusted old Chevy.
The lobby was small, with fake plants in the corners and a thick glass window between it and the clerk behind the counter. When the man sitting there looked up, GT gave his best smile.
“Looking for a friend. Name’s Grabowski. Checked in sometime today? Michal Grabowski?”
“Room eight,” the man said without glancing at his computer.
“You sure?” GT asked. “You know the room numbers and names of all your guests without looking?”
“It’s summer and lobster season ain’t open yet, so we don’t get many. He’s the only one checked in today.”
GT muttered a thanks and went back out to the idling Escalade. Climbing in, he said, “Number eight. But park a couple spots down from it.”
With the quiet interrupted only by the ticking of the engine as it cooled, the two men climbed out of the SUV. It was late afternoon, but the heat and humidity were still unbearable, especially in the jackets they were wearing.
“Lose the jacket and holster,” GT instructed, quickly shrugging out of his own and using the door to shield anyone watching as he removed his empty shoulder holster and tossed both in the backseat.
Approaching the door to room eight, GT noticed the peephole. His back to the wall, he reached a long left arm out and knocked three times, then twice more, before pressing himself close to the wall and listening. Erik hugged the wall beside him.
Waiting only a moment, he knocked again. No answer. The guy was either not inside or cagey and not making any noise. “Wait here,” he ordered Erik and turned to go back to the office.
Stepping into the dusty lobby, GT stepped up to the glass again. “Are you sure he’s in room eight?”
“Never said he was,” the old man behind the glass replied, looking up from a little TV on the desk. “You didn’t ask if he was here, just if he’d checked in. Left not twenty minutes ago. Asked where he might find a hooker! Like I’m some kinda pimp.”
“Look, mister, I need to find him,” GT said, knowing that even if he had his gun, the thick glass between them meant he couldn’t intimidate the man. He pulled a twenty from the roll in his pocket and slipped it into the tray under the glass. “If he was successful in finding what he was looking for, where do you think I might find him?”
The old man snatched the twenty. “Duval Street, where you can find anything.” He grinned and added, “One end swings one way, the other end swings the other, families in the middle.” Then he turned back to the TV and turned it up, the familiar sound of a porn movie coming through the little holes drilled in the glass.
“Duval Street,” GT said as he climbed into the car. “It’s the main drag in downtown Key West, just across the next bridge.”
With the air conditioner turned on high, the big Escalade maneuvered through the traffic on Truman and then went up and down Duval Street for the next two hours, which was exactly three trips. Not that Duval Street is long—it’s barely over a mile end to end, but traffic was very slow moving. After the first trip to the south end, they both realized that they wouldn’t find the guy there. It was mostly a quiet residential area, not a hooker in sight.
The narrow pavement north of Truman Street, coupled with the high volume of tourists, in cars, on mopeds and bicycles, and on foot, made for very limited space to maneuver the enormous SUV. GT noted a few girls who looked like hookers, even a couple of
Less than an hour later, they rolled onto Stock Island, the GPS on the dash telling Erik to take the next left. A bus pulled up onto the road, belching blue-gray smoke, as Erik slowed to make the turn. A block later, they stopped in front of a seedy-looking motel wedged between two dilapidated boatyards.
“Wait here,” GT said and climbed out of the car, looking around the nearly empty parking lot. There was only one car, a beat-up and rusted old Chevy.
The lobby was small, with fake plants in the corners and a thick glass window between it and the clerk behind the counter. When the man sitting there looked up, GT gave his best smile.
“Looking for a friend. Name’s Grabowski. Checked in sometime today? Michal Grabowski?”
“Room eight,” the man said without glancing at his computer.
“You sure?” GT asked. “You know the room numbers and names of all your guests without looking?”
“It’s summer and lobster season ain’t open yet, so we don’t get many. He’s the only one checked in today.”
GT muttered a thanks and went back out to the idling Escalade. Climbing in, he said, “Number eight. But park a couple spots down from it.”
With the quiet interrupted only by the ticking of the engine as it cooled, the two men climbed out of the SUV. It was late afternoon, but the heat and humidity were still unbearable, especially in the jackets they were wearing.
“Lose the jacket and holster,” GT instructed, quickly shrugging out of his own and using the door to shield anyone watching as he removed his empty shoulder holster and tossed both in the backseat.
Approaching the door to room eight, GT noticed the peephole. His back to the wall, he reached a long left arm out and knocked three times, then twice more, before pressing himself close to the wall and listening. Erik hugged the wall beside him.
Waiting only a moment, he knocked again. No answer. The guy was either not inside or cagey and not making any noise. “Wait here,” he ordered Erik and turned to go back to the office.
Stepping into the dusty lobby, GT stepped up to the glass again. “Are you sure he’s in room eight?”
“Never said he was,” the old man behind the glass replied, looking up from a little TV on the desk. “You didn’t ask if he was here, just if he’d checked in. Left not twenty minutes ago. Asked where he might find a hooker! Like I’m some kinda pimp.”
“Look, mister, I need to find him,” GT said, knowing that even if he had his gun, the thick glass between them meant he couldn’t intimidate the man. He pulled a twenty from the roll in his pocket and slipped it into the tray under the glass. “If he was successful in finding what he was looking for, where do you think I might find him?”
The old man snatched the twenty. “Duval Street, where you can find anything.” He grinned and added, “One end swings one way, the other end swings the other, families in the middle.” Then he turned back to the TV and turned it up, the familiar sound of a porn movie coming through the little holes drilled in the glass.
“Duval Street,” GT said as he climbed into the car. “It’s the main drag in downtown Key West, just across the next bridge.”
With the air conditioner turned on high, the big Escalade maneuvered through the traffic on Truman and then went up and down Duval Street for the next two hours, which was exactly three trips. Not that Duval Street is long—it’s barely over a mile end to end, but traffic was very slow moving. After the first trip to the south end, they both realized that they wouldn’t find the guy there. It was mostly a quiet residential area, not a hooker in sight.
The narrow pavement north of Truman Street, coupled with the high volume of tourists, in cars, on mopeds and bicycles, and on foot, made for very limited space to maneuver the enormous SUV. GT noted a few girls who looked like hookers, even a couple of
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