Page 65 of Wild Sentinel

I wasn't sure how we would find Brooke once we got to Yucca Flats, but I had a few ideas.

East of LA was an urban sprawl all the way to San Bernardino. We kept heading toward the desert, then took the Palm Valley Highway toward Yucca Flats.

It was right at two and a half hours when we pulled into town. And by town, I mean a small settlement in the middle of the desert. With a population of about 5,000, it was a stark contrast from the LA basin’s 18 million.

I pulled into a gas station and topped off the tank.

Jack stirred from his slumber, hustled inside, and took care of business. He returned a few moments later with bottled water, diet drinks, and snacks.

We climbed back into the Porsche.

Jack said, "That wasn't bad at all.”

I glared at him. He looked a lot more refreshed than I did.

We rolled through town. There were plenty of touristy places to eat, shops, and art galleries. It was an eclectic little town, full of artists and free spirits.

We drove down the highway for a little bit and found the Desert Moon Hotel. It wasn't much to speak of, but it would give us a home base for this leg of the operation. A simple rectangular building with two levels and a Spanish tile roof. I’d stayed in worse.

I pulled under the carport, killed the engine, and hopped out of the SUV. Inside, I flashed my badge to the clerk and said I needed a room, preferably on the second floor. I didn't want somebody above us running back and forth all day, jumping on the beds, doing God knows what. If and when I got a moment to sleep, I wanted to make sure it would count.

"Check-in isn’t until 4:00 PM,” the clerk said. “But I guess I can let you in the room now."

"That would be much appreciated.”

I gave him a prepaid credit card, and he slid two keys across the counter after he processed the transaction. I returned to the Macan, drove it around, and parked by the stairwell.

We hopped out, grabbed our bags, and climbed the steps. Room #12 was just a few steps from the stairs. I slid the key into the slot, twisted the handle, and pushed inside.

It was August in the desert, and even though it was mid-morning, it was already hot.

The AC blasted cold as we stepped inside and settled in. Jack took the bed by the air conditioner, and I took the bed closer to the bathroom.

A small flatscreen display sat atop the dresser. The room was simple, with cream stucco walls, desert art, and teal comforters. The well-worn, deep blue carpet wasn't much to speak of. I don't think it had ever been shampooed. This was not the kind of place where you wanted to shine a UV light on anything.

After we dropped off our gear, we hopped back into the Porsche and drove to the coffee shop where Brooke’s burner phone had pinged the tower several times. I figured it was as good a place as any to post up for a while and see if she strolled in.

I had studied several images of her online from her social media profiles. Brooke was mesmerizing. Blonde hair that tickled her shoulders, fair skin, and glacial blue eyes. If she was smart, she had dyed her hair and would only go out in public wearing a hat and sunglasses. Perhaps a surgical mask to cover her face. But that could be a little obvious. If I were her, I wouldn’t go out much at all. But most people don't have the discipline to sit still for months on end.

Soothing ambient music filtered from speakers, and the murmur of conversation filled the coffee shop. The espresso machine whirred, and fingers tapped keyboards. I wouldn’t say the place was busy. Nothing in Yucca Flats is ever busy by LA standards. But there were a few people.

We stepped to the counter, placed an order, then JD and I took a seat at a table by the window near the entrance.

Isabella had told me that Autumn made several phone calls to the burner last night, but hadn't received a return phone call from Brooke. It was late when Autumn called. Since Brooke only checked her phone from public locations, I figured she never got any of Autumn’s desperate pleas for help.

I texted Isabella and asked her if the burner had popped up on the grid at all today. She told me it hadn't. Brooke was still probably in the dark.

My phone buzzed with a call from the LA County Coroner. He was the last person I expected to hear from. I swiped the screen and held the phone to my ear. “This is Deputy Wild.”

“Deputy, I’m calling about Molly Dean. I found something you might be interested in knowing.”

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"Her hyoid was broken," the medical examiner said. "That tells me she was strangled. I found traces of cocaine and alcohol in her system, but I don't think that was the cause of death. She died from acute asphyxiation as a result of strangling. I also found trace DNA under her fingernails. If you'd like, I can let you know if we get a match on those DNA results."

"I would appreciate that."

"Will do," he said before ending the call.