Johnser Riley’s body lay hidden behind the Dumpster. She planted the bar’s napkin and the magnetic room key on him, retrieved his gun and the handcuff s. She returned to the hotel room; she’d left the door unlocked by blocking the bolt with the HBO guide. She put Johnser’s Glock and the handcuff key on top of the TV, climbed onto the bed, and chained her left wrist to the aged radiator. Then she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. Just as she used to do in the field. FBI, LOS ANGELES FIELD OFFICE Lucas Bell said, “Yes, ma’am. Covina? . . . Closest intersection? . . . Thank you, ma’am,” and hung up. He checked his watch. Almost 4 P.M. In a little over four hours, the crash would hit the forty-eight-hour mark. He dashed from his office, rapped on the door of Henry Deits, who looked up from a deep pile of paperwork. “What?” “The Gibron woman called Ray. I checked with Ray’s cell provider. They traced her end of the call to a pay phone outside a hotel in Covina.”
