Page 63 of Fatal Fame
The Adirondack Inn's automatic doors whispered shut behind Noah and McKenzie, sealing out the afternoon chill that promised an early winter. The lobby smelled of pine cleaning products and the lingering aroma of coffee from the continental breakfast that had ended hours earlier. A few guests occupied overstuffed leather chairs near the fireplace, reading newspapers or tapping on laptops with the focused concentration of people conducting business away from home.
The hotel bar occupied a corner of the main floor, separated from the lobby by a half-wall topped with decorative glass panels. Dark wood and brass fixtures created an intimate atmosphere that encouraged conversation, while a selection of local beers and wines catered to visitors interested in regional flavors. At this time of day, the bar attracted a mix of business travelers and tourists seeking liquid comfort after outdoor activities.
Marcus sat alone at a corner table, nursing what appeared to be his second or third beer while scrolling through his phone with the distracted attention of someone trying to escape uncomfortable thoughts. His usually pristine appearanceshowed signs of strain—wrinkled clothing, unshaven face, and hollow-eyed exhaustion.
Empty bottles formed a small collection on his table, evidence of an afternoon spent drinking alone in a hotel bar while his professional life collapsed around him. The remaining Cold Trail team members were notably absent, either they were avoiding Marcus or he was avoiding them. Either possibility painted a picture of a group fracturing under pressure.
Noah and McKenzie approached Marcus' table. They positioned themselves strategically, McKenzie sliding into the booth seat across from Marcus while Noah remained standing beside the table, creating a subtle but unmistakable sense of being surrounded.
"Gents?" Marcus looked up from his phone. "I didn't think cops drank on the job."
"We need to speak with you," Noah said.
"I've already told you what I know, which isn't much." Marcus set down his phone but kept his hand near it, as if the device might provide some form of protection. "I told you Pierce and I had an argument outside the hotel, and then I went to buy cigarettes."
"We know you did," Noah said, producing a folded receipt from his jacket pocket and placing it on the table between them. The paper looked innocuous, but Marcus' eyes fixed on it with the wariness of someone recognizing potential evidence. "But that doesn't mean you didn't go back and travel with Pierce out to the cabin."
"I went inside the hotel after buying cigarettes. Straight to my room."
"Allegedly." Noah's tone suggested skepticism about claims that couldn't be verified. "Here's where things get a little foggy for us. Maybe you can clear them up. That receipt shows a purchase time of 7:15 PM. Between 7 and 8, someone made acall to Mike Torres to arrange a meeting at the cabin for 8:30. Then multiple calls were made to Pierce after that. A few that never went through, probably because Pierce didn't recognize the phone number. However, we assert those calls were to let him know about the meeting and that you wanted to go with him."
Marcus frowned, genuine confusion replacing his defensive posture. "What are you talking about? I never went with Pierce. I never made any calls to Torres or anyone else. You can check my phone."
"Not that phone," Noah said, producing a clear evidence bag containing a cheap flip phone. He placed it on the table next to the receipt, watching Marcus' reaction carefully. "This one."
Marcus stared at the phone as if it were something dangerous. "And? That's not mine."
"Then why was it found in your hotel room's garbage can?" McKenzie asked. "You probably thought it would be thrown out with the trash when housekeeping cleaned your room, but the hotel has a policy of only emptying garbage when guests specifically request it during extended stays. It's a cost-cutting measure that gets mentioned in negative reviews pretty regularly."
"Look, I don't know where you're going with this, but that phone isn't mine," Marcus said as if his carefully constructed version of events was falling apart. "I came back from the convenience store and went straight to my room."
"And you can confirm where you were when Pierce disappeared? Because the security cameras aren’t working due to renovations."
"In my room."
"Convenient."
"Yes, it is convenient, because it's the truth."
Noah studied Marcus' face for tells that might indicate deception as McKenzie replied, “It’s also convenient how Pierce's death benefits your career prospects, isn’t it? With Pierce out of the picture, you'd become the primary owner of the Cold Trail podcast, the new face and host. Right now, you're doing behind-the-scenes work while Pierce gets all the recognition. You jump on some of the podcasts but not a lot. Then there are the financial disputes you've had with Pierce over side deals and personal branding opportunities that cut you and the other team members out of the profits. Add in all the control and ego clashes about safety protocols, journalistic credibility, and the ethics of stirring up suspects in cold cases. I think you finally snapped under the pressure."
"You're way off base," Marcus said, but his denial lacked conviction.
McKenzie tilted his head, studying Marcus' neck with professional interest. "That looks like a nasty gash on your neck, Marcus. How did you get that?"
Marcus' hand reflexively moved toward his throat, fingers brushing against what was clearly a recent wound. "Razor cut. I was rushing to shave and slipped."
Noah chimed in, "Did you call Mike Torres and arrange that meeting, then convince Pierce to let you come along?"
"No. I told you already. I might have disagreed with Pierce about business decisions and creative direction, but I didn't kill him." Marcus started to stand, as if he was seeking to escape. "If you don't mind, I'm going to turn in for the evening. Good day."
"You forgot your cigarettes," Noah said, producing another evidence bag. Inside, a pack of Camel cigarettes was visible through the clear plastic. "Very specific brand. The same kind that were found scattered around the crime scene at the cabin. And I think when we get a warrant to test your blood againstsamples collected from the scene, we're going to find a match there too."
The color drained from Marcus' face as the implications became clear. "You've got this completely wrong. I didn’t kill him. I’m done with this conversation."
McKenzie stood, his movement blocking Marcus' path to the exit. "Marcus Greer, I'm placing you under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Pierce Landry."
"That's bullshit," Marcus said, his voice rising enough to attract attention from other bar patrons. "You can't arrest me. You don't have concrete evidence to suggest I was involved in anything."
