“He’ll never know we were there.”

A car horn sounded. Another honked back. Down the alley, the plastic bag broke free and spiraled upward with a soft snap.

Phoenix made her decision. Unhooking a chain from her belt loop, she detached one key and held it out to Ryan.

“Number fourteen. All the way down on the end. Leave it in the room. I got another.”

“Thank you.” Ryan’s smile was damn near priestly.

“Don’t hurt her.”

The Marlboro hit the wet pavement in a shower of sparks. Phoenix crushed it with the heel of one boot.

* * *

For several years Edmonton enjoyed the dubious distinction of having the highest homicide rate of any major Canadian city. In 2010 she slid to number three. Winding through the dim post-midnight streets, I wondered if E-town’s ratings slump had caused her citizenry to question the burg’s official nickname: City of Champions.

En route to the Paradise Resort, we discussed Susan Forex. Or tried to. Mostly the men sniped at each other.

“She’s holding back,” Ryan said.

“Gee. Why would that be?”

“Probably writing her memoirs. Thinks a spoiler might lower the value of the property.”

“She’s covering her ass,” Ollie said.

“But is it that simple?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

Unsure, I thought for a moment. Didn’t help. “Susan Forex and Phoenix Miller both tried to protect Annaliese Ruben,” I said.

“Must admire her mothering skills.” Ryan’s tone was acid.

“Even hookers hate baby killers.” Ollie’s way of agreeing.

“So why help her?” I asked.

No one had an answer to that.

“Can you really get a search warrant for Forex’s house?” I asked Ollie.

He shook his head. “Slim chance. I’d have to convince a judge that I think Ruben is there, that she’s the subject of a felony investigation in Quebec, that she’s on the run, and that we don’t have time to get an arrest warrant from Quebec.”

Phoenix Miller’s home sweet home was a two-story L-shaped affair with outdoor walkways accessing maybe thirty rooms. An enormous sign proclaimed Paradise Resort Motel in mile-high letters. A flashing arrow pointed would-be guests to a covered portico. Below it, the office door was flanked by planters luxuriant with dead vegetation.

Clearly, the place offered neither of the delights promised by its name. Total Dump would have been a more appropriate moniker. Perhaps Last Resort.

A few cars and pickups occupied a swath of concrete fronting the building. Off to the left, beyond them, were several campers and an eighteen-wheeler.

Most motels, you’d hesitate before staging a stealth strike at one in the morning. The Paradise Resort was not one of them. Office dark. No security. Not a soul in sight.

We fell silent as Ollie cruised the L. Room fourteen was at the end of the arm tangential to 111th, its entrance obscured by an iron and concrete staircase shooting to the upper level. No vehicle waited out front or at the adjacent unit.

Ollie cut the headlights, pulled into the slot facing room thirteen, and killed the engine. We got out and quietly closed our doors.