Warren was giddy with the success of his plan. The cab company dispatcher had accepted his line about a system check for viruses that had been affecting a number of taxi companies. The best part was that the data was actually saved and after scanning the approximate time periods, he actually caught a shot of a man entering a cab, carrying an envelope.

He copied a screenshot and the file onto the thumb drive he carried, and with an all's well again wave to the unimpressed dispatcher, hurried to find Lynne. They had come to an arrangement whereby she could stay at his place temporarily, exclusive use of his bed, the shower, and the loan of a couple of sweatshirts that Warren felt never looked better.

"I have to apologize, Warren. I never thought you could pull it off."

"I think a kid could have done it. Your dispatcher couldn't have been less interested. But check this out." He plugged the thumb drive into his laptop and brought up the screenshot he'd taken.

"You got him! You actually found this guy with the envelope?"

"Is that your cab?"

"Yes! When was it?"

"Just two nights before we found it. And now for the grand surprise." He opened another picture from the cab camera showing the face of the man they found dead at the Shropshire.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Lynne grabbed the laptop and stared at it up close.

Warren hawed on his knuckles and polished them on his chest. "Not bad for a manuscript editor, eh?"

"It's time we went to the police, Warren."

"What? No. No. What can we say? We entered a hotel room illegally, found a body, didn't report it. Opened what, as it turns out, could be evidence in a killing. Still didn't report it? We could be charged, and then what?"

"What about these people who are looking for us – for me?"

"We need to learn more about this before we can—"

"Warren, this isn't one of your detective stories. We aren't The Avengers. We could be in real danger. What about your job?"

"I told my boss I needed to go out of town for personal family reasons. He said I could use my vacation time."

He knew she was right, but his endless daily consumption of mystery tales, detectives, and plots that taxed the imagination, seemed to demand he solve this particular crime. He went to the kitchen and brought back the papers they had taken and sat down, indicating she join him.

"Look. These must have been somebody's notes from a meeting. There're times, dates – current I might add – which leads me to believe the meeting was in that room. And here, recognize that name, Lawrence Grainger?"

"He's a politician. I've heard him mentioned on the news, but so what? What are you thinking?"

He turned to face her. "Will you bear with me while I give you a theory? No snide remarks, interruptions, or snorts until I finish?"
"Listen, Warren. We barely know each other and despite the fact I'm using your place as a temporary home, doesn't mean we are some kind of team."

"So is that a yes?"

The sigh was theatrical. "Ye-e-e-s."

"Right, so. Because the meeting was held at the hotel, I'm surmising it was secret. I'm also surmising that it was political, maybe members of a party with an agenda, or a gathering to work out some disagreements. The fact that Grainger's name came up either meant he wasn't there, or . . . well, I don't have an or for that – but, whatever was discussed, our dead guy was trying to get his envelope delivered – and anonymously."

"That's it?"

"I thought you might want to comment."

"You told me not to."

"Right. Okay, so my theory. The meeting was something to do with Grainger, and because it was secret, I suspect it was something no good. I did some research, and he is opposing a large defence bill that whatshisname, the Defence Minister, is bringing to the house. So maybe the meeting was about how to stop him."

"Is that it now? What about the envelope?"

"Hah! Thought you'd never ask."

"You told me not to."

He gave her a patient grin and a thumbs up. "Best for last. I told you I did some research, well part of that was a call to the Shropshire at night, where I reached a very obliging, lady night clerk. From her, I learned the room had been rented in Grainger's name!"

He held out his hands. "Well?"

"Our dead guy was sending Grainger ammunition against whatever was discussed at the meeting. He just didn't know it was taking place there."

"Yes! Right! And even though the contents showed him in a bad light, he was willing to take that risk. The guys having the meeting must have been the dead guy's buddies in those pictures."

Lynne got up and paced around, hitting her chin softly with a fist.

"Wait a minute. If he left the cab without the envelope, what was the point of killing him? And how did he wind up in that room dead?"

"Someone must have caught on to what he planned to do and stopped him."

"But that doesn't explain leaving the envelope in the cab. And if this somebody knew, why kill him without getting it?" She flung her arms out and made a grrrr sound.

"Can you remember where you dropped him?"

"Warren, I can't even remember him! Didn't you get that on the thumb drive?"

"I don't know, I never looked past him getting in." He jumped up and went to his computer and accessed the drive.

"Here, look!" They watched the jerky image of the cab camera, as the man seemed to become panicky and reach for the door.

"I remember now!" Lynne pointed. "He threw a twenty over the seat and jumped out of the cab at Kent Station. I thought he was nuts the way he took off. So he was the guy that left the envelope."

Warren replayed the moment and then shut it off. "Something sure spooked him – or someone. Maybe the person that killed him."

"But why put him in the Shropshire . . ." They sat up and pointed at one another at the same time.

"Grainger!" They chorused.

"They did it to put the blame on him - the room was in his name."

"We need to contact the police." Lynne said.

"No! We need to contact Grainger." Warren jumped up, fists clenched, his face a study in eagerness.

****

Peter, Bradford's aide, delivered an update and stayed well back from the desk.

"Sabbi has a picture of the man in the couple and is running a search for his ID. The body has been disposed of and the room at the Shropshire cleaned by his people."

"Who was the victim?" Bradford sat with folded hands staring at his aide.

"Sir?"

"The dead body in the room. Who was it?"

"I uh- I- we haven't got that information yet."

The stare became a glare.