Page 117 of Sunset Beach
She let herself into the deserted office again, switching on lights as she went. “Next paycheck,” she muttered, seating herself at her desk, “I buy myself a laptop. Screw the roof.”
The grainy video played out again on her computer screen, and she yawned, wishing for coffee but too tired to trek to the break room to brew a pot. She fast-forwarded the video to the 11:05 mark and watched again as Jazmin Mayes removed her baseball cap, lifted her key card from around her neck and slid it into the door lock, then put the cap in place again before entering the room. She reversed, then froze the frame showing Jazmin’s face, tilted for only a moment toward the camera.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, reaching for her phone.
“Hello?” The childish voice on the other end was breathless.
“Uh, hi,” Drue said. “I’m trying to reach Rae Hernandez.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“This is Drue Campbell.”
“I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now.”
“Is this her son?” Drue asked. “Because it’s really important I speak to your mom.”
“I’m not allowed to say,” the child replied. “How do you spell Campbell?”
“It’sC-A-M-P-B-E-L-L.Like the soup.” At one point in her childhood, Drue’s skate rat pals had actually nicknamed her Soup.
She searched her mind, trying to remember the kid’s name. She could picture him, standing at bat, the legs of his baseball pants bagging over the tops of his high red socks. “This is Dez, right? Rae’s son?”
“I’m not allowed to say,” he repeated.
“Please tell your mom it’s really, really important that I speak to her tonight. As soon as possible. Will she be home later?”
“I’m not allowed to say.” The boy was definitely his mother’s son, as well as a cop’s kid.
“Ask her to call me, will you, Dez?”
Drue paced around the office, too keyed up to sit for another minute. Jazmin Mayes had been killed at the Gulf Vista nearly two years ago, and now she was so close to finding the truth about her murder, she had to do something.
She called Corey. The phone rang four times, but finally he answered.
“Hello?” His voice sounded groggy. She glanced up at the clock on the office wall. It was after ten.
“Oh no. Did I wake you up?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. I’ve got my Iron Man thing tomorrow. What’s up?”
The words poured out in a torrent, tumbling over one another so fast she knew she was barely making sense.
“Corey, I got the unedited security tape from the Gulf Vista. I’ve been watching it, here at work, all night. And I think I’ve figured out what happened, but I need to go over to the hotel and get a look at the last room Jazmin cleaned that night.”
He yawned loudly. “Okay, but it’ll have to wait until Sunday. I’ve gotta be over in Tampa at six tomorrow morning, and I’ll be in no shape to do anything after that.”
“Sunday?” She didn’t bother trying to hide her disappointment. “I really want to go over there tonight. It won’t take that long, I swear. I just need—”
“Honey, I can’t,” Corey said. “I’m sorry, but I promise, I’ll go with you Sunday.” He yawned again. “Wish me luck for tomorrow.”
“Good luck,” she said reluctantly.
She hesitated for a moment, then tried calling Ben. He might disagree with her decision to keep poking around in the investigation, but she felt sure that if she laid out the facts for him, he’d listen to reason.
The call went directly to voice mail. If he and Jonah were still at Taco Truck, he probably couldn’t even hear his phone over the noise of the Friday night crowd. Should she leave a message?
“Hey, Ben. It’s Drue. Listen, I know you told me to leave it alone, but I think I might have uncovered something really big on the Jazmin Mayes case. I want to go out to the Gulf Vista and check out a hunch, and I could really use a wingman if you’re available. Call me as soon as you get this, okay?”
