The Ellis is a high-end boutique hotel in Downtown Atlanta. They style themselves as historic elegance blended with contemporary comfort. The manager was doing everything he could to help the police while trying to minimize the visual impact of a police investigation on his premises.

Specifically, he had provided four dedicated parking slots at the back of the hotel and had issued temporary key cards to the service elevator so investigators would not need to come through the lobby.

Angie used a pass on the service door and Damien slid through as she entered. They entered past the timecard station and down a short corridor. The service elevator was on their left, across from the laundry room. He immediately felt a chill, noticing how cold it was. It seemed strange to him since he had not been aware of temperatures before; not even while sitting at the wet curb after his murder.

Room 407 was close to the service elevator. A torn police seal hung from the open door, with the other half still stuck to the doorjamb.

Sandy looked up as Angie entered and crossed to meet her. "The Fibbie is in the bedroom, but you might want to talk with Miller first."

Joey was sitting in a chair by the window. A piece of blue painter's tape was stuck on the back of the chair, signifying that CSI was done with it. He crossed to Angie, and they stepped out into the corridor.

"I don't know what this agent is going to tell you, but this whole thing stinks of an FBI op," Joey told his sargent. "The charges in Kansas City were bogus. I talked to the desk Sarge there and he said he had been there twenty years and no Peter Berwicks had ever been booked through him. He pulled up the record on his computer and the arresting cop on the record is not anyone he has ever heard of. That pimping charge was planted in their system."

Sandy added, "This room has barely been used. CSI says there is no way our vic has been living here for a week."

Angie nodded. "Let's see what our FBI agent has to say."

Damien was on edge. It wasn't just the room. He had been uneasy since entering the building. As they walked through the sitting room, his eyes were drawn to the window. He could see the service alley and a shudder went through his frame.

He got a further shock when they entered the bedroom. The FBI agent waiting for them was a tall sturdy woman in a pantsuit. She wore her dark hair cropped short, was wearing no makeup, and had a no-nonsense look about her.

She crossed to Angie offering her hand for a shake. "Sergeant Hill, I am..."

"Erin Langston," Damien echoed her. A flash of memories flooded his head like a preview for a movie. The two of them arguing; a dinner in a restaurant; a meeting with file folders and video clips. Anger, frustration and heartache were strong overtones to their relationship. And fear.

Not fear for himself, but an overpowering dread and fear for someone else. Someone he couldn't identify yet.

He realized that the two women were leaving the room. He followed them to the corridor.

"I am not here officially," the agent told Angie. "I need to show you something. Do you have a master key?"

Angie replied that she did and asked where they were going.

"Up one floor; where your vic was really staying."