Page 94 of Six of Hearts
But this was my family. And I was done waiting.
"Let me make a call first," I said.
I dialled a number I'd hoped I wouldn't need to use. It rang twice before a gruff voice answered.
"Special Agent Morrison."
"Agent Morrison, this is Liam Cross. I'm calling about one of your protected witnesses—Adam Rowland, currently known as Ronan Hale."
There was a pause. "How did you get this number?"
"I'm an Assistant District Attorney with connections. That's not important. What's important is that someone has compromised your witness's location and is actively harassing people connected to him."
"Explain."
I laid out everything we'd discovered, keeping it concise and factual. When I finished, Morrison was silent for a long moment.
"Detective Holloway," he finally said. "Son of a bitch. We suspected he might have been digging, but we had no proof."
"Well, now you do. And he's in Dallas, potentially planning his next move."
"Give me the address. I'll have agents there within the hour."
"With respect, Agent Morrison, we're going now. You're welcome to join us, but this ends tonight."
Another pause. Then: "I'll meet you there. But Cross? Don't do anything stupid. I don't want to have to arrest a goddamn ADA."
"Understood."
I hung up and looked at Gabriel. “TheFBI's on their way. But we're going first."
"Damn right we are."
***
The motel was exactly as depressing as I'd expected. Peeling paint, flickering neon sign, the kind of place where people went to disappear or to do things they didn't want witnessed.
Gabriel had changed out of his uniform into jeans and a jacket, but he still moved like a cop—alert, assessing, ready. I'd left my suit jacket in the car but kept my tie. Some habits were hard to break.
"Room 117," Gabriel said, checking his phone. "Around back."
We found it easily. The curtains were drawn, but light leaked around the edges. Someone was inside.
Gabriel positioned himself to one side of the door. I stood on the other. We'd done this before—not together, but the choreography was universal. Cop and lawyer, different sides of the same system.
Gabriel knocked. "Detective Holloway? Dallas PD. We need to talk."
Silence.
Then footsteps. The door opened a crack, chain still attached.
Marcus Holloway looked worse in person than in the security footage. Unshaven, bloodshot eyes, the sour smell of alcohol wafting through the gap.
"I'm not a detective anymore," he said. "And I don't have to talk to you."
"Actually, you do," I said, keeping my voice level. "I'm Assistant District Attorney Liam Cross. We have evidence linking you to harassment and stalking. You can talk to us now, or you can talk to the FBI agents who are en route. Your choice."
His eyes widened slightly at the mention of the FBI. Good. He should be scared.
