The room smelled of rot. The furniture was from the seventies and looked as though it had seen hard nights. The veneer sideboard was chipped, the chairs buckled and the bed sagged. The drapes were thin and worn and every crevice in the bathroom was filled with black mould. Detective Evan Hill winced and pulled the stained bedspread off his legs to look at his ankle. He was convinced something had just bitten him, but when he examined the yellowing sheet, there was nothing there. He rubbed his leg, got to his feet and crossed the rough carpet to turn on the ancient television. The tube took a moment to come to life, but when it did, Hill was shocked to see his own face staring back at him.
‘Social media sources have identified Detective Evan Hill as a possible suspect in the Midas killings,’ the anchor said over Hill’s photo. ‘The information seems to have come from a number of reliable accounts who have a track record of breaking controversial stories. Authorities are eager to locate Detective Hill, who is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous.’
Hill cursed inwardly. Someone was setting him up. Maybe Lang? The attack on the biker bar was a clear sign the guy was tying up loose ends. Or maybe it was Salamov, out for revenge. Or the woman he’d arrested, Leila Nahum. Whoever was behind the fake news story was smart. A missing cop didn’t stick in people’s minds, but the Midas Killer was sensational. Hill thought about all the people he’d interacted with since arriving at the High Mountain Motel just north of Mitchell Hill. The manager had got a good look at him, as had the two guests he’d bumped into as he’d left reception. Then there was the convenience store clerk who’d sold him a week’s worth of supplies, and the chambermaid who’d taken offence when he’d told her he didn’t want his room cleaned because nothing she could do would make the slightest difference to the ground-in filth. Each and every one of them would probably instantly forget a missing cop, but a notorious killer . . .
He pulled on his jeans and threw his T-shirt over his head, before sitting on the end of the bed to tie his shoes. He’d just started on the second lace when he heard a noise outside. It was faint, like a rodent scratching at his door. He stood and backed away from it hesitantly.
He jumped when the door burst open and a squad of Seattle police officers in full tactical gear stormed the room. They threw him to the floor, knocking the wind from his lungs, and each cop restrained a limb, rendering him completely immobile. It was standard procedure for dealing with violent suspects and terrorists.
They think I’m one of the bad guys, Hill realized as one of the cops started reading him his rights. Urgent radio chatter drew Hill’s attention to the car park outside his room, which was full of uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives. They’d sent an army to bring him in.
Defeated and despondent, a single thought went through his mind before they took him away.
Maybe I am the bad guy.