Free Honor Code by Cathy Perkins

good kids, right?”
    She put down her cup, instantly on alert. “Why? Did something happen? Is that why –”
    “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about them. But if they did do something, we’d forgive them.”
    Sharon eyed him. “Is this related to one of your cases?”
    He looked away. It was an unwritten rule. The job stayed at the office. The rule had been in place so long he couldn’t remember if it was because she didn’t want to hear it, or he didn’t—couldn’t—talk about his cases. But this thing with Hayes and his parents, that wasn’t just the job. How could he explain his anger that they’d washed their hands, erased their child from their life?
    His cell phone rang, shattering the mood.
    He glanced at the screen. “I have to take this.”
    “Of course.”
    It was only when she leaned back that he realized she’d strained forward, as if wanting to hear what he said. About their kids? The case?
    “Robbins,” he said into the cell while he watched Sharon from the corner of his eye. Did she want to know more about what he lived with?
    “You need to get down here,” Jordan said through the phone.
    The call he’d been waiting for. He shifted forward, cell pressed against his ear. “What have you got?”
    “A hit on Beason’s credit card. A motel north of town.”
    “Meet me there.” Robbins closed the connection and rose to his feet. “I may be late.”
    “I’ll wait up. I’d like to finish this conversation,” she said. “Be careful.”
    “I always am.”
    He kissed her goodbye, something he’d gotten out of the habit of doing. Her lips were soft and she tasted of coffee and something sweet, and for a second he thought about going for a second round.
    But his mind was already back on the case, wondering whether the men were still at the motel, or if once again they’d missed the pair.
     
    The motel was one of those no-tell, mo-tell places north of Newberry, located on a narrow state highway that eventually led to the Interstate. It consisted of a single-story string of rooms where the car parked directly in front of the door. Robbins figured the bar next door probably provided most of the customers.
    He bypassed the office, followed the blue lights to the rear of the building, and pulled up beside the patrol unit. Jordan stood with two uniformed officers. Frazier, a sandy-haired guy, had been with the sheriff’s department for a few years. Bowen was new. They were both young, more Jordan’s age than his.
    Damn but they made him feel old.
    “Room 16.” Jordan gestured toward a unit near the end of the cinderblock building.
    “The Caddy isn’t here,” Robbins noted. Only a few pickups and a couple of dusty sedans were parked in the rear lot.
    “They gave its tag when they checked in last night,” Jordan said. “Even if one of them went somewhere, the other one could still be here.”
    “It’d be just our luck to miss them again.” Robbins examined the motel layout. A string of rooms. Wood panel doors. Aluminum frame window beside them. One window per room. “At least we know they didn’t climb out a window.”
    “We got a few peeks from a couple of rooms when we drove up, but no one’s come outside.”
    Typical for a joint like this. Robbins scanned the line of rooms. A few showed lights. A shadow appeared briefly at one window, then faded back into the room.
    “Should we move people out?” Jordan asked.
    The rooms on either side of Unit 16 were dark. Robbins shook his head. “Let’s do this.”
    The uniformed guys went first. Robbins felt the tension in the air. Adrenaline. Testosterone muted by training. The officers’ muscles tensed, ready for action.
    Frazier knocked. “Police.”
    No response.
    Robbins waited a mental five-count. “Open the door, Mr. Hayes.”
    No response.
    Bowen drew his pistol and readied a heavy-duty flashlight. At his nod, Frazier hefted a small black ram, swung it, and the flimsy door popped open. The two uniformed officers