Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller)

by Ty Hutchinson

  It had been a long time since I had pulled an all-nighter like this. And when I had, it had been with my late husband. I didn’t grow up with a slew of boyfriends, nor did I have a chance to experiment during the college years. I had none. At that age, I was fresh out of the police academy, trying to prove myself on the streets of Hong Kong. Thankfully, I had a couple of girlfriends whom I lived vicariously through. No man or act was safe from their detailed tell-all. What little sex I did have back then was mostly bad sex. It wasn’t all gloom though. Like I said, Peng introduced me to sleepless nights.

  Sometimes I wish I’d had a time in my life that was like Samantha on Sex and the City, but that definitely wasn’t me. Orgasm? I didn’t have one until I was twenty-seven. Until then, I’d thought something was broken down there. Thankfully, I had the brilliant idea to buy myself a vibrator. I remember that day. I’m sure the neighbors thought someone was dying in my apartment.

  I saw no end to my sexathon with the Colombian heartthrob. Cabrera seemed to have the stamina of a sixteen-year-old without the constant jackrabbit pounding. Don’t get me wrong; there is a time and place for fast and hard. That was round one.

  The sex we were currently having was dominant—my way or the highway. I couldn’t get enough of feeling him inside of me. Curved and rigid, each thrust hit my spot perfectly. “Enough” never crossed my mind. Tired was a distant memory. He had long ago unlocked the floodgates. But what I loved most of all was the way he said my name when he got close. Because of his accent, he distinctly pronounced both Bs in my name like an exaggerated “Ab-by.”

  I collapsed on top of him, unable to move, as we both worked to catch our breaths. I heard his heart thumping away as I snuggled my face into his muscular chest. I dug both arms under him, essentially clamping myself against his body. Mine, all mine! He was the perfect mattress: soft and firm.

  I spied the blue glow emanating from the clock on the night table. The time was fast approaching four in the morning. Cabrera’s breathing had softened, and he hadn’t moved since we’d finished in unison. I peeled myself off of him and gathered my clothes. I was out the door in five minutes.

  Chapter 63

  The next day, around ten in the morning, I got word that the Witness Protection Program had made all the arrangements, and Elan’s pickup was scheduled for that day. Once they took custody of him, no one would know his whereabouts, including me. I didn’t have that type of clearance. I still didn’t know how I felt about Elan. Part of me did feel a degree of sadness for all the loved ones he’d lost. However, I also realized that he wasn’t blameless here either. Reilly told me that he had passed on my concerns, that it had been noted in Elan’s file. Noted in his file? What the hell is that supposed to do? Oh well, it was out of my hands.

  Still, I wanted to say goodbye and wish him luck. We had endured a lot together. Maybe if he knew someone cared, he would keep his head on straight. So I slipped out of the office and started the fifteen-minute walk over to the hotel.

  As I rode the elevator up to the eighth floor, I couldn’t help but wonder if Cabrera was awake. He should have been unless I wore him out. I stopped myself from knocking on his door. Might be better to chat with him after I see Elan. I listened for a bit though I didn’t know what I had hoped to hear. Reduced to spying, eh, Abby?

  I continued down the hallway until I got to Elan’s room. I knocked twice and waited. There was no answer, so I tried once more. Again, same response. I put my ear up against the door and listened but heard nothing. Maybe Witness Protection picked him up early.

  I pulled out a hand mirror and checked my hair and lipstick. A quick touch-up to both lips, finished with a puckered kiss, and I was ready to see Cabrera. I adjusted my jacket as I walked over to his door. That morning was chilly due to the fog hanging around longer than normal, so I had worn my black pantsuit to work—my favorite one.

  I gave his door a few knuckle raps while I practiced a bunch of smiles, but he didn’t answer. I tried once more but got the same response. Where the hell is everyone?

  Before I could exit the hotel, a couple of suits with slicked-back hair stopped me in the lobby. One of them looked familiar. He flashed his ID along with a toothy smile; the other couldn’t be bothered.

  “I’m Agent Cummings. We haven’t met, but I’ve seen you around.”

  I shook his hand and agreed with his assessment of our relationship. It all came back to me. He was an agent with the US Marshals Service.

  “This is Agent Blackwell. He’s new to the department. We’re here to pick up your wonder boy. Is he ready?”

  “What are you talking about?” My left eyebrow rose.

  The looks on their faces did a fine job of telling me they thought I was a few leaves short of a tree.

  The same guy continued. “Elan Ortega. He’s scheduled to go into Witness Protection today. We’re his escorts.”

  “I just came from his room. No one answered. I assumed he had already been picked up.”

  We tracked down the hotel manager right away and headed back upstairs. Polite and neatly groomed, the svelte metrosexual led the way down the hall. He didn’t seem nervous, but again, he inquired about our business.

  “Like I said earlier, Mr. Howell, we can’t get into the details.”

  “Of course, I understand. Here we are. Room 812.”

  He knocked then waited a moment before sticking his magnetic card into the slot. The gears inside the handle made a whirring sound before he pushed the handle down and opened the door.

  “Mr. Jones,” he called out politely. Elias Jones was the alias we had given the hotel when we had checked Elan in. I pushed past the manager only to find myself staring at an empty room. His personal effects were still scattered on top of a desk and across an unmade bed.

  “Bathroom’s clear,” Cummings called out. “I don’t understand. I thought someone was on him 24/7?” His shoulders rose and stayed there.

  “Because of recent events, the security detail was pulled as of yesterday,” I answered.

  “You think maybe he went out for a bite or to stretch his legs?”

  I frowned. “Well, he was instructed not to leave his room under any circumstances without an escort, but it is possible.”

  “He got a cell phone?”

  “Confiscated.” I walked into the bathroom and checked his toothbrush. Dry. “Either he’s been gone for a while, or he doesn’t brush his teeth before going out.”

  “It’s obvious that he slept here,” Cummings called out. “Also, no signs of a struggle or anything suggesting a second person was involved.”

  I clucked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a DEA agent involved, Dominic Cabrera. He’s staying a few doors down the hall. I also checked on him this morning, and he wasn’t in his room. Maybe the two went someplace.”

  “What’s the DEA got to do with this?”

  Realizing the Marshals Service wouldn’t know much about my investigation in Bogotá, I brought them up to speed on the basics to eliminate unnecessary questioning.

  “I’ll put in a call to him.” I dialed Cabrera on my cell and got his voicemail. I shook my head and let out a disappointed breath before leaving a message.

  “You really think our guy is with this agent?”

  “It’s an educated guess.”

  “Give me his number. We’ll try for a GPS location on the phone.”

  I was about to question why but decided against it. The two agents were only doing their job.

  While the Marshals busied themselves, I toyed with the idea of having the manager open up Cabrera’s room. One thing had me moving cautiously: what condition was that room in? What did it smell like? Lastly, would I discover something that could place me there? I didn’t think there was any proof, but I wasn’t sure. No pain, no gain.

  I told the two Marshals I would be back, then asked the manager to follow me. “I need you to let me into Agent Cabrer
a’s room. Will that be a problem?”

  “No, not at all.”

  This time, he didn’t bother with a polite knock. I heard the familiar whirring sound, and a beat later, he pushed the door open, allowing me to enter first. My initial reaction was that we were in the wrong room. I took two steps back and checked the door number. It was right.

  “Is something wrong, Agent?”

  “No. Just double checking.”

  The room looked as if a maid had serviced it. The bed was tightly made. The pillows were fluffed with that familiar crease down the middle. There was no visible trash, no clothing strewn about. I checked the drawers and the closet; both were empty. There were no toiletries in the sink, no wet towels—even the glass I know I’d drunk water from last night had been returned to its position on the mini bar. The room even smelled lightly fragrant. It was nothing like I had remembered.

  The manager picked up on my puzzled look because he picked up the phone and checked with housekeeping to see if the room had been serviced this morning. He looked at me and shook his head. He then called down to the front desk to see if Cabrera had checked out. “Not to their knowledge,” he told me.

  “Ask about Elias Jones.”

  “Ivy, could you check on a Mr. Elias Jones in room 812… Hmmm… Okay, thank you.” He hung up the phone and straightened up. “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded, still lost in my own thoughts. First, I never got the impression that Cabrera was a neat freak. Where are his things? He hasn’t checked out yet. Secondly, could he be with Elan? I tried his phone once more and got his voicemail.

  The manager cleared his throat. “Will you be requiring any more of my services?”

  Before I could say no, a thought popped into my head. “I’d like to look at footage from the hotel’s security cameras.”

  Chapter 64

  The man in charge of loss prevention at the hotel met us in the lobby. Since the two agents from Witness Protection were Federal Marshals and not FBI, we parted ways.

  “We’ll alert you once we have a location on that cell phone,” Cummings said before leaving.

  I turned to the man standing next to me. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

  “Not a problem,” he smiled. “My name is Earl Compton.”

  I reached out and shook his hand. “Agent Abby Kane.”

  “So, FBI, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do to help you.” He turned on his heel and motioned with a wave. “Follow me, please.”

  Compton had a brown, clean-shaven head with a soft shine to it. His walk was authoritative yet relaxed. He was physically fit and had a pleasant smile and professional demeanor that wasn’t uptight. As we walked, one attribute about him stood out above the rest—his likability. The man greeted every hotel staff member we passed, and he knew all their names. In my book, that went a long way.

  He ushered me through a door with a brass sign that read Employees Only. On the other side lived the belly of the hotel: a maze of whitewashed corridors. Room service, engineers, front desk attendants: the corridors were how staff moved around the hotel hidden from the view of guests. We passed a hustle of women chatting each other up as they exited housekeeping with their fully stocked carts, ready to tackle the pigsties left behind. A few more rights and lefts, and I found myself entering an unmarked door that led to a small but functional security office.

  “Welcome to our Control Center.” Compton pointed at a bank of monitors. “We have one hundred thirty-two cameras on the property. Nothing goes on without us knowing about it. Now, what do we want to look at?” Compton’s smile was infectious. I couldn’t help but return his warmth.

  “For starters, the last twelve hours on the eighth floor.”

  “All righty.” Compton ordered one of his men to pull up the footage.

  There were three cameras on the floor: one near the bank of elevators and one at each end of the hallway. I told Compton which rooms were in question and relayed enough about Cabrera and Elan to identify them. To start, we focused on the hallway angle. We fast-forwarded through the footage at a fairly brisk pace, slowing only when a guest appeared in the hallway. A few minutes in, it dawned on me that I would be in this footage. No sooner did I have that thought than I made my entrance.

  But Compton, being the professional, said, “Keep going. The guests we’re looking for are male.”

  Sure enough, at 8:15 a.m., Cabrera could be seen meeting Elan outside his door. “Stop right there. That’s Agent Cabrera and our witness. Could I see the footage of them at the elevators?”

  Compton’s man switched to the other camera angle and pulled up the same time frame. We were able to get a close-up of the two as they waited for the elevators. From what I could see, it was business as usual. They were talking. Both appeared to be in positive moods, and neither looked as if he were being forced to go anywhere. Cabrera had his carry-on luggage with him, which explained why the room was empty. Was he going to leave without saying goodbye?

  I glanced down at my watch; it was near noon. If they had gone out for breakfast, they would have been back long ago. I was puzzled by Cabrera’s actions. Clearly, he knew this was against protocol. Even though our investigation was wrapping up, Elan, for all intents and purposes, was still a witness for the FBI and under our protection. Cabrera should have known better.

  Compton escorted me back through the corridor maze to the lobby. “If there’s anything else I can do to help, let me know.” He handed me his business card.

  “Thanks. And the footage?”

  “Screenshots and video of the two men in question will be emailed to you ASAP.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  I knew my next call needed to be to Reilly, but I hesitated. It’s not like some stranger had wandered off with our witness. It was Cabrera. He was a DEA agent and my partner in this investigation. To make matters worse, I was intimately involved with him. If that got out, explaining it would be, well, a nightmare. I pulled out my phone and dialed.

  Chapter 65

  Third time, no charm, and time had run out.

  Dammit, Cabrera. Why aren’t you picking up? I couldn’t hold off reporting Elan’s disappearance to Reilly any longer. He was bound to find out anyway from Witness Protection if he hadn’t already been notified. Man up, Abby. I dialed his number.

  Before I could say a word, Reilly blew up about Elan Ortega missing. Too late.

  “Look, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but let me tell you what I know.”

  “Start talking.”

  I gave him plenty of play-by-play of how I discovered Ortega’s disappearance, Cabrera’s absence, and their departure from the hotel.

  “And you haven’t heard back since?”

  “Nothing. Three calls so far.”

  “What about the footage? I’m told you were looking into that.”

  “I did. I’m walking back to the office as we speak. I can forward the email with screenshots and the video clip now if you want. It shows both of them getting into the elevator together and leaving the hotel. Nothing looks out of place or suspicious.”

  “Forward it.”

  I remained on the phone while he tried to download the footage. I kept a fast pace in case he couldn’t get it to work.

  “Got it. I’m watching it… Any thoughts as to why Agent Cabrera would walk away with our witness?”

  “No, sir. I, uh…”

  “What is it, Abby? Tell me.”

  “Well, this may or may not be something, but Cabrera did confide in me about wanting to find out the missing ingredient for MZ-1.”

  “I’d say that’s something.”

  “Reilly, he’s an agent with the DEA. He’s not some criminal.”

  “Abby, we have a missing witness and video footage showing Agent Cabrera leaving with him. The fact that he mentioned an interest in a recipe for a drug that is responsible for killing close to thirty people in the last few days is
all the cause I need. I’m issuing an APB for Cabrera. In the meantime, keep trying to reach him. Don’t let on that we’re officially looking for him.”

  Reilly hung up before I could say anything. It pissed me off when he did that, but I knew better than to call back that time. Pick your battles, Abby. I couldn’t help but wonder if my relationship with Cabrera was screwing with my judgment. Still, my supervisor’s a-hole behavior didn’t help.

  I opened the email that Compton had sent me, and I watched the video footage again, dissecting it for clues. Maybe I had missed something the first time around. Their movements, their actions—it all seemed normal. Could Cabrera really be trying to discover the missing ingredient? And if so, how long does it take before one stops asking and tries something else? I allowed those and other thoughts to stir the pot inside my cranium.

  No sooner had I tucked my phone back into my purse than it started ringing. It was Cabrera calling.

  “Hey, Abby.”

  “Sheesh. Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m on a boat, fishing—a treat to myself before heading back. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? You don’t return my calls. Elan is missing, and so were you… Dom, the FBI has an APB out on you.”

  “Wait, you put out an APB on me?”

  “There’s video footage of you two getting into the elevator together.”

  “Yeah, we went out for breakfast. There’s a diner around the corner.”

  “Is Elan with you?”

  “No. After breakfast, I walked him back to the hotel.”

  “To his room?”

  Cabrera paused. “Sorry, I didn’t. I went to the porter’s desk to see if it was okay to pick up my bag in the evening.”

  “Wait, you’re flying back to Bogotá tonight?”

  “I meant to call you. My supervisor called this morning and said to get on the next flight. So I grabbed the latest flight possible, midnight, in hopes that we could fit dinner in. I know it’s not ideal, but duty calls. Plus I knew you had to work today, so I went fishing.”