Turning up the Heat

The vacation swiftly got off to a rocky start. Gainesville Regional Airport did not have a car rental agency, and when Rossi and Reid took a taxi to the nearest one available, Rossi left his phone in the car. While Rossi called the taxi service to have them keep an eye out for it, Reid learned that for whatever reason, the car rental agency was nearly out of vehicles, and the only one available was a weathered-looking beater with lights that went on and off almost at random.

"They say they haven't seen it but they'll keep an eye out and if they find it I'll be able to pick it up from the office tomorrow." Rossi handed Reid back his phone as he walked up. He eyed the car. "This is the only one?"

Reid shrugged. "Must be some sort of busy season here."

"Hm. Well, no matter." Rossi swung into the drivers seat. He clicked the GPS button experimentally, but the screen refused to light up. "…this could be a bit more complicated than we planned, though." He looked over at Reid, as the other dropped into the passenger seat. "You'll have to look up those hotels we identified."

"Already on it." Reid was tapping his phone. "Are you sure we should just ask for Reynolds by name? If he was meeting a serial killer, he might not have wanted to use his real name…"

"Whoever sent him that ticket would have made the reservation, and the plane ticket used his real name." Rossi turned the key in the ignition. "It's our best chance. If they sent him a ticket, they must have made a hotel reservation also."

"Excuse me. I have a few questions for you. I'm Special Agent David Rossi of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, this is Dr. Reid. We need to know if there's a reservations for a Thomas Reynolds here?"

"No one by that name, sir."

"Has anyone mentioned expecting him?"

"Not that I've heard, sir, but then I've only been here since lunch. I could ask the others…"

"No, thank you, that will be fine. I appreciate your help."

Gainesville was not a very big town, and there were not many hotels. Unfortunately, that only meant that once they finished with the town, it was time to head out into the country to check the more "off-the-beaten-path" ones.

Rossi and Reid had limited their field to higher-class hotels—at least four stars. If the mysterious benefactor had sent Reynolds first-class plane tickets, it was unlikely they'd have set him up in some dive motor inn. An AirBnB was also unlikely, for other reasons. But there were still plenty of resort areas in the surrounding area of Gainesville, and widely dispersed.

"Excuse me. I have a few questions to ask you. I'm Special Agent David Rossi of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, this is Dr. Reid. We need to know if there's a reservations for a Thomas Reynolds here?"

"Nope. Nothing in the computer."

"Has anyone mentioned expecting him?"

"Not a Mr. Reynolds, no. One of the guests said to look out for a Ms. Reynolds, said she'd be slim in a black dress with an impressive…"

"No, that doesn't sound like our man. I appreciate your help."

"The engine's making that clunk-a-clunk sound again," Rossi observed, frowning at the steering wheel.

"Probably something with the valves," Reid said, tapping at his phone. "It looks like our next resort is about five miles west down the state highway."

"We may as well get rooms there," said Rossi, glancing at him. "It's late enough already."

"I'll make a reservation," Reid said, nodding. "We can start looking at more 'dive' style motels tomorrow, after we wrap up the last few ones on our list."

"And get some sort of mechanic to look at this thing." Rossi checked the gauges as Reid lifted the phone to his ear. "I don't want to get stranded out at some 'dive motel' tomorrow."

Reid didn't hear him. "Seriously?" he said into the phone. "That sounds very unlikely, are you sure there's no… Well, okay. No, thank you, I guess we'll find someplace else. Right. You too. Bye."

"No rooms available?" Rossi asked, as Reid hung up.

"Apparently there's a convention at this particular resort." Reid shrugged, pocketing his phone. "Most of the rooms were booked weeks in advance."

"Hm." Rossi exhaled loudly. "Well… we'll just have to find the next closest place."

The car rattled into the parking lot and came to a rattling halt in the parking space. There was a particularly loud and ominous ka-clunk sound as the car's engine died.

"That did not sound good." Rossi grimaced. He looked over at Reid. "We should call the rental agency and demand a replacement."

"I think this was their replacement." Reid was scanning his phone. "We'd better wrap this up quickly, the nearest hotel is ten miles in the other direction, and it's already late." He winced as he checked something on his phone. "…and my cell is running out of charge." He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. "This would be so much simpler if could just ask them about Reynolds over the phone…"

"They wouldn't answer without a warrant," Rossi answered. "We've been lucky so far that showing up and showing our badges has been enough to get us the information we're after. Any clerk with a basic law degree could simply ask for a warrant and this whole unauthorized investigation would be sunk."

"I know," Reid grimaced.

"Well." Rossi opened up the door. "How about I ask for a phone charger or something to call the tow-truck? I'm not comfortable starting that motor unless we absolutely have to."

"Cell phone chargers?" The lady at the front desk gave an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, those are reserved for hotel guests."

"I'd be willing to purchase one," Rossi suggested.

"I'm sorry, it's not permitted." The lady shook her head. "Is there anything else?"

Rossi sighed. "Do you have a phone, then, that we could use to call a tow truck or something? Our car is badly broken down."

"We do…" The woman scanned the lobby, "…but… I think you might be able to do one better. One of the convention attendees is an auto mechanic, I think, or at least that's what I saw on his nametag. You could ask the man over there—" she pointed at the heavyset man sitting near one of the doors. "I believe he's responsible for the convention attendees."

"Ah, I see. We'll try that, thank you." Rossi walked away from the desk. He tapped Reid's shoulder as he walked up to him. "There's apparently a mechanic staying here. We might be able to get some off-the-books help."

Reid didn't seem too concerned. "This convention was booked months in advance, so it's unlikely that Reynolds would be meeting with his contact here."

"Unless, this whole time, Reynold's mysterious trip was simply to go to some sort of hobbists' convention." Rossi snorted. "If so, then his name should be on the log, even if he were staying somewhere else or bunking with a friend. We should ask the convention leader if there's a 'Reynolds' on his list."

Reid nodded, but his eyes were flickering across the room. "He may not like telling you. These people seem to like their privacy; even the 'name tags' don't have names."

"So we just tell him we're FBI agents." Rossi shrugged. Turning away from Reid, he stepped quickly up to the conference table desk, where a heavyset black woman was just selecting a card. "Excuse me," he said to the overweight man, as the latter turned a pair of unfriendly eyes on him. "I have some questions for you." He reached into his pocket. "I'm…"

"…lookingforacarmechanic!" Reid rushed forward and grabbed his arm, smiling nervously at the obese man with the mustache. "A car mechanic," he repeated. "We are looking for a car mechanic, because our car is broken down, and we need a car mechanic, and the lady at the front desk said she saw a car mechanic, so we are asking you if there is a car mechanic at the convention, because we are looking for a car mechanic and nothing else."

Rossi stared at Reid. It was unlike the younger analyst to be so assertive. But also, his voice was high pitched, his throat was tight, he was blinking—or rather, not blinking—at a strange rate. He barely seemed to be breathing. His gaze seemed fixed on the fat man.

The fat man himself seemed unfazed. "No visitors are allowed in the convention area."

"Look, we're having problems with our car and our phones are dead," Rossi said to the man, brushing aside Reid's strange behavior for the moment.. "I understand the man doesn't want to do business while he's on vacation, but we're in a tight spot and we'd be willing to pay. If we could just talk…"

"No visitors." The man shook his head. "And honestly, I don't know if he even works on cars. His name tag…" he suddenly stopped. "I don't know if he really works on cars," he repeated.

Rossi's eyebrow did not go up. He had very carefully trained his facial expressions to give nothing away if he didn't want them to. But nonetheless he felt a tiny prickling. This man is hiding something. No surprise, though. Everyone hid something. He could be telling any of a thousand innocuous lies, or one very big one. But Reid's extreme reaction had Rossi wondering if something more was going on here.

Sometimes with lies you wanted to finesse them out, but often a sufficiently intimidating hit, like "we're from the FBI," could knock answers out right away—or at least give an idea as to the scale of the lie. This man seemed bitter, resentful, the sort who could lash out and give away things without meaning to. It might be worthwhile. "What do you mean…"

There was an almost savage tug on his arm. "Sorry. Right. Our bad." Reid flashed a quick smile. "Car Mechanic. Better not to bother him though, I think, maybe someone else, should we head back out to the parking lot? Let's go back to the parking lot. Try elsewhere. Let's both go right now." Reid whirled on his heel and speed-walked toward the door.

This time, Rossi's eyebrow did go up.

"Weird friend of yours," said the overweight man.

Rossi looked back to respond, and for the first time saw the name tag on the man's shirt.

Fun Land.