While Calderón was explaining his alibi, Jack cast his gaze toward the open bedroom door.
The carpet there, while also featuring a gray pattern, was high-quality wool, inconsistent with the nylon fibers found on the deceased.
He shook his head slightly at Beckett, suggesting that Dr. Monroe likely did not die in this suite.
However, when the female detective produced the surveillance footage and asked Cesar Calderón if she had seen the man in the photo, who was supposedly the last person Dr. Monroe saw before his death, they received a surprising insight.
However, the clue came not from the drug lord himself, but from his brother Manuel, who had been standing silently behind him.
"I've seen this man before. A few times, Valerie would ask me to drop her off at a nearby restaurant when I was driving her home, and one time I saw this man standing there waiting for her."
Manuel's face was also tinged with sadness. It seemed that, as the county hospital director had described her, Dr. Monroe was indeed a very approachable woman.
After learning the name of the restaurant from him, the three of them departed.
After leaving the Fairclos Hotel, Beckett called Kevin and asked him to verify Calderon's alibi with the hotel. He then headed for the restaurant called "Amelia" with two of his men.
"Having a reader with such a special status, I thought you'd be as excited as ever to show us off," Jack said, puzzled by his silence.
Cassel, sitting in the passenger seat beside Beckett, glanced back at him curiously. "I know you hate drug dealers, even if they're long-dead drug lords who still enjoy a life of luxury funded by blood-stained money.
Actually, I was worried the moment we entered the room. What if you suddenly pulled out a gun and killed him? How would I come up with a story to cover it up?"
"Thank you, but please correct your impression of me. I'm a law enforcer, not a paranoid vigilante." Jack, far from moved, rolled his eyes.
Clearly, his image in the great writer's mind had been completely shattered since his last trip to Paris.
From a law-abiding FBI agent to a superhero who hates evil and will stop at nothing to pursue justice, or perhaps a secret agent as formidable as his father, navigating the shadows.
Beckett, driving, glanced at the two men with suspicion. When Castle had returned to New York alone with the two girls, she had told her a rather outrageous story.
She had single-handedly stormed into the traffickers' den, shooting every shot, every little Karami, and heroically rescuing two girls from near-sale.
The clever female detective suspected a hidden agenda, informed by the series of ambiguous news reports breaking out of Paris at the time.
If Castle had been capable of such a feat, he would have been a genius by now. But if Jack were the protagonist, it would have made sense.
However, Beckett lacked someone else's inquisitiveness. In fact, even Castle had never inquired about what Jack and his father had done after she and the girls left Paris.
"Actually, I've been wondering, is there a possibility that what's between them isn't love but family, and that Dr. Monroe is actually Calderon's daughter?"
Cassel said, his confidence growing as he spoke.
"Just imagine, to protect his wife and daughter, Calderon had to..."
"Dr. Valerie Monroe is a pure blonde with blue eyes and typical Nordic features. The possibility of them being related is practically zero." Jack's words killed Cassel's plot idea.
"But you can't deny it's a brilliant idea: a heinous drug lord, his wife and daughter, forced to hide their identities, unexpectedly reunite years later.
They want to reunite, but are overwhelmed by hesitation. Ultimately, their enemies discover and kill them, forcing them to bear the consequences of the evil they inflicted years ago."
Cassel raised an eyebrow triumphantly at Jack, but the latter felt a sense of déjà vu.
Beckett pulled over and swiftly unbuckled his seatbelt. "You two can discuss your writing experiences while I ask the staff if they've seen the man in the photo."
It was still before 11:00, still some time before the lunch rush, so Beckett walked into the restaurant alone to inquire, leaving Henchmen A and B bored and leaning against Beckett's plainclothes police car, scrolling through their phones.
"Alexis said you've never won money in Las Vegas. Is that true?" Jack suddenly asked.
"Yes, what's wrong?" Cassel peeked over. "Huh? Were you talking to her?"
"Yes, I convinced her to replace her motorcycle with an electric scooter, the kind with a top speed of only 30 miles per hour." These days,
Margrave Town doesn't just make electric three-wheeled vehicles; they've also obtained a license from that Italian company to make electric scooters that look similar to the Vespa, selling for over $6,000 each, more than the original gasoline-powered scooters.
Beckett also walked out of the restaurant, a touch of surprise on his face. "The waiter said he was a regular lunch customer here, but he hadn't been here today, but they didn't know the man's name."
Cassel clearly didn't believe things would go so smoothly. "Maybe he's the murderer and he's already escaped. We should just check the surveillance footage and then the credit card records. That should reveal his identity."
Beckett didn't argue. "Perhaps, but we can also choose to wait here a while. The waiter said he usually shows up around 11 o'clock."
"But I'm a little hungry," Cassel said, deliberately looking pitiful.
"You can choose to wait until 11:30 and then go into the restaurant in front of us for lunch, or you can walk to the corner now. I just saw a food truck there selling Mexican chicken burritos."
Jack said unhappily, and turned to ask Beckett.
"Kate, you don't give me the feeling of a woman who is easily overwhelmed by maternal instincts. Why do you like this old boy who never grows up?"
"I like him?" The female detective's eyes widened, as if she had heard some incredible joke.
Cassel looked around for a while, pretending not to hear the conversation between the two, but he actually discovered it.
"Look, that's him!"
The two followed his gaze and saw that the middle-aged white man in the photo had just gotten out of the taxi and was walking towards them quickly with his hands in his pockets.
(End of this chapter)