Chapter 3 - ROOM 214
Lucas Granger had come into the diner every night for four days before he died. Always booth seven. Always black coffee. Always tipped twenty percent exactly. The last night, he looked scared. Not drunk. Not paranoid. Scared. He asked: “If someone leaves something here, how long before you throw it away?” I said: “Depends what it is.” Then he slid a motel key card toward me. Room 214. “Keep it until Monday.” It was Friday. Then: “If I don’t come back, give it to someone who isn’t local police.” I laughed because I thought he was being dramatic. He did not laugh. Then he said: “Especially not local police.” That night, he died. I taped the key card under the counter because I was afraid. Then told myself I had forgotten. I had not. Now Captain Mercer stared at me. “Where is it?” I reached under the old cash drawer. Still there. Derek saw it. His entire body changed. He surged up from chair. State troopers pinned him. “NO!” Too late. Mercer bagged the card. Then asked which motel. Prairie Star Motor Lodge. Six miles east. Room 214 had been rented under a false name when Lucas stayed there.
Records still existed. Then Warren said: “He was investigating campaign money.” I stared. “Whose?” He did not answer. Mercer did. “Warren’s.” The district attorney. The room went still. Warren did not deny. Then: “I asked Lucas to look.” Why would a DA hire a salesman? Lucas was not really a salesman. He was a forensic accountant working undercover for a state public-integrity task force. His public identity was cover. Then: “Why close his murder?” Warren said: “I didn’t.” His chief investigator, Deputy DA Martin Shaw, had pushed closure after local sheriff’s office reported no evidence. Warren signed the public statement. “I believed my people.” There. Another person trusting a system he controlled. Then Mercer said: “Lucas found money moving through roadside businesses.” What businesses? Gas stations. Motels. Diners. Our diner? My stomach dropped. Then she looked at Jack. He went pale. “Jack?” He stared at floor. “I don’t own the building.” True. The diner belonged to an LLC called Highway Seven Properties. Owner? A shell company. Then Mercer said:
“Lucas traced shell ownership to a political action committee donor network.” Warren’s campaign donor network. Then Warren said: “I didn’t know.” Maybe. Then Derek laughed from handcuffs. “He knows enough.” Then Mercer told him: “You can talk later.” Derek leaned toward me. “Ask Nora what her ex-husband did for a living.” My blood turned cold. My ex-husband, Daniel Hayes, had disappeared from my life four years earlier after our divorce. He worked in commercial insurance. At least that was what I believed. Then Derek said: “He moved money.” I stared. “No.” Then: “He moved all of it.” Warren looked at me. Mercer too. I felt suddenly exposed. Then I remembered something Daniel left behind after the divorce. An old external hard drive. I had almost thrown it away. Instead it sat in a plastic bin above my garage. Then Mercer asked: “Do you still have anything from his work?” I whispered: “Yes.” And Derek smiled. Because whatever was on that drive apparently mattered enough to turn a diner robbery into a state corruption case.
