Licensed to Kill

Chapter 22

Pushing away the nagging discomfort in the back of my mind, I continued my work on the padlock until it finally surrendered to my efforts with a loud click.

"Got it?" Dallas turned to face me with a smile.

God, that sweet, tantalizing smile. It never ceased to make me weak, even at the worst of times.

"Got it."

He walked over while I put away my tools and he reached down to grab ahold of the handle. "Let's see what's in this sucker, eh?"

He lifted the heavy metal door with ease while I pretended not to drool over the sight of his biceps flexing in the process. I knew he'd noticed, though, when I caught a glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

He was in for it once I could get him into a motel room.

Once the door was lifted, we peered inside to see a medium sized cardboard box on the floor with the flaps folded over each other. There was a small cot with a blanket and pillow against the back wall. An empty whiskey bottle, some granola bar wrappers, and other trash littered the floor between the box and cot.

Before stepping in, I shined a flashlight around, inspecting for booby-traps or anything that could harm us or alert someone else to our presence. Neither of us spotted anything, and I decided it was okay to enter the unit.

"Damn. This is a dump." Dallas's brows rose as we stepped forward. "You think somebody was living here?"

I shook my head, frowning. "Why the hell would anyone want to live in a storage unit?"

I was starting to wonder if Alana might've mixed up the unit numbers. It didn't make sense that Santiago would rent storage space for someone to use as a living space.

"This case is getting more complicated by the minute," Dallas said.

Bizarre was probably a better adjective.

He stayed standing right in the entryway so he could still keep an eye out while I investigated the scene.

"What do you want to do? Swab the whiskey bottle for a D.N.A. test to see who was here?" Dallas suggested in an unsure tone that told me he'd definitely spent way too much time in an office rather than in the field over the last four years.

I looked at him, unamused. "This isn't C.S.I., Dall."

I couldn't remember the last time I'd processed D.N.A. at a scene. We only did that if we had absolutely no idea who in the flying fuck we were looking for, which only happened about two percent of the time for A.R.T. If evidence like that was involved, we'd usually leave it up to the F.B.I. or whichever other law enforcement entity we were working with.

"The investigation doesn't warrant that," I told him and frowned when I discovered that the box was empty.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I'd hoped that there would at least be something of use to us lying around.

I scanned the tiny unit again. The granola wrappers didn't matter. The blanket was all disheveled on the cot, as well as the pillow holding an imprint where someone had laid. That didn't tell me anything either.

"Are you finding anything?" Dallas asked, leaning back to glance down the way between units again.

I groaned in frustration, wishing a clue would light up or make noise or fucking come to life and wave itself in my face.

"Does a short blonde hair on the pillow count?" I held it between my thumb and pointer finger, looking to him with an exasperated expression.

He chuckled and shook his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest and leaning against the wall of the unit, watching my work – or lack thereof.