Murder In Black Canyon. Cindi Myers

entrance and settled in to wait.

      She didn’t have to wait long. Less than half an hour passed before two Ranger Cruisers parked under the hotel’s front portico. Dylan and Carmen climbed out of the first one, while two officers she didn’t recognize exited the second vehicle. As soon as the four were inside, Kayla left her car and headed toward the hotel’s side entrance.

      As she had hoped, it opened into a hallway that wound around past the hotel’s restaurant and gift shop, to the front lobby. A large rack of brochures shielded Kayla from the Rangers’ view, but allowed her to spy on them as they spoke first to the front desk clerk, then to a woman in a suit who was probably the manager. She wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation, but after a few minutes the manager handed over a key card and the four officers headed for the elevator.

      Kayla put aside the brochure for a Jeep rental company she had been pretending to study and walked quickly to the elevator. She hit the call button. The car the agents had entered stopped on the fifth floor before descending again. Smiling to herself, Kayla found the entrance for the stairs and began to climb.

      On the fifth floor, she eased open the door to the hallway a scant inch and listened. The rumble of men’s voices reached her. She was sure one of them was Dylan’s. Risking a glance, she opened the door wider, in time to see the four officers enter a room in the middle of the hall. Kayla stepped into the hall and checked the number on the room—535.

      Now what? She couldn’t just barge in—that was a good way to get arrested. And she didn’t want to interfere, but she wanted information.

      A loud squeak made her flinch. She turned to see a maid pushing a cleaning cart down the hall. Kayla moved toward her. “Excuse me,” she said. “I wonder if you could answer a few questions about the man who was renting room 535.” She opened her wallet and the maid, who looked like a student from the nearby university, stared at the badge. It clearly identified Kayla as a private investigator, not a cop, but most people didn’t bother to read the fine print.

      “Why do you want to know about him?” the woman—her name tag identified her as Mindy—asked.

      “He’s part of a case I’m working on.”

      Mindy bit her lower lip. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to talk to anyone about the guests.”

      “Any information you provide could be very helpful,” Kayla said.

      Mindy pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her uniform top. “I’d better check with my manager.”

      Kayla held her breath while Mindy put through the call. If the worst happened, she could make a break for the stairs, or bluff her way out of this. But when Mindy explained there was a woman cop who wanted to question her, the manager apparently told her to cooperate. Good thing Carmen was along on this job. The manager probably assumed Kayla was her. “What do you want to know?” Mindy asked, as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

      “Did you see the man who rented that room? Did you speak to him?”

      “I saw him,” Mindy said. “But we didn’t talk or anything. I saw him when he left the room yesterday morning.”

      “How did he act when you saw him? What kind of a mood was he in?”

      Mindy shrugged. “I only saw him for a few seconds. He just looked, you know, ordinary.”

      “Did you clean his room? Did you notice anything unusual about it?”

      “No. I mean, it’s not like I spend that much time in the rooms. I clean them and get out.”

      “So nothing about this guy stood out for you?”

      Mindy rearranged the bottles of cleaning solution in the tray at the top of her cart. “Not really.” She avoided looking at Kayla.