A Stranger Lies There (9 page)

The place had the air of someone having left in a hurry, and I got the impression they weren't coming back. No clothes, suitcases or toilet articles were visible anywhere in the room, which was untidy and disordered. Something didn't sit right.

I took the matchbook out of my shirt pocket. Considered it. Looked over at the two night tables, each with an ashtray next to the lamp. Only one of them held a book of Blue Bird matches.

Those were pretty long odds. The one in my hand came from this room, I was sure of it. A quick look around wouldn't hurt anybody. I put on my gloves and started on the night tables first. Both were cheap wood veneer, with one drawer at the top and an open space beneath it for linens. I went to the one closest to me first and opened the drawer.

A phone book inside and nothing else.

About to close the drawer, I thought better of it and pulled out the directory. Flipped through it to see if there was anything, a note or a marker, tucked between its pages. I didn't find anything and tossed it on the bed. Then I recalled something I'd said to that reporter on the phone earlier tonight. I picked the book up again, going to the R's in the residential section. It was hard to turn the pages with the gloves on.

“Come on,” I whispered impatiently. Finally I got to the page I wanted.

And couldn't believe my eyes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The “x” was marked in black pen-ink, and it was right next to our name. Which should have been unlisted, but that was the least of my problems. Now I knew that whoever had stayed in this room was looking for me or Deirdre. Maybe both of us.

Was it the boy who'd died on my lawn? Or Glenn Turret? Whoever it was, hopefully his name would be listed in the motel register, although in a place like this, which probably preferred cash, that wasn't a sure thing. I'd have to find a way to ask as soon as I finished in here.

I put the phone book down and went to the opposite side of the bed. The other night table accommodated the phone, and I briefly wondered why the phone book was in the other drawer, then decided it didn't matter. Without thinking, I almost picked up the receiver to check for a dial tone, not sure why that would help me, but I thought better of it, worried that it would somehow alert the office to my presence. Instead, I pulled open the drawer and found a small Bible in a plastic cover sitting inside. Hoping for lightning to strike twice, I went through it in search of any telltale scraps of paper, but found nothing.

I crossed the room to the closet and slid the door open. Nothing inside but an empty shelf and a few bare hangers on the rack, and a luggage holder folded in the corner.

I turned and took a few steps past the mirrored table and the chair. The bathroom was small, with the sink, toilet and bathtub all crammed in together. First I checked behind the door for anything hanging there. Nothing, just an empty hook. The shower curtain was old and brittle, open and bunched at the end of the tub. A smudge of dirt near the drain, but the tub looked completely dry. I took off a glove and checked the shower curtain, lightly sliding my fingertips over the plastic. I felt a few drops of water in the deeper creases near the bottom.

Someone had showered here a while ago, but not too long. Two days at the most, I guessed.

It was time to bring in the police. They'd print the room, get a name or description from the desk clerk and quickly identify the person who'd stayed here. If it was the victim, whose prints they obviously already possessed, this would be a huge break. Knowing the victim's identity would bring them that much closer to the killer.

Unless I had the wrong room entirely. It didn't seem that way, especially with our name marked off in the directory, and I didn't feel like knocking on any more doors anyway. Just make the phone call and let the cops do their jobs.

In the back of my mind, I knew I wouldn't admit I'd come out here. I'd simply tell them what I'd found in the street and they would take it from there. Glad I'd been careful wearing the gloves, I put back on the one I just removed, feeling confident I hadn't left a print on the damp shower curtain. Even if I had, it was probably in an obscure enough place to remain undetected.

I started toward the door, intending to call the police from home. On the way out, I noticed one of the pillows from the unmade bed sitting on the chair. I grabbed it as I walked past, expecting to find nothing underneath.

A small, leather-bound notebook sat in the middle of the seat cushion.

It looked like a diary. Whomever it belonged to had vacated the room in a hurry, had probably flung the pillow into the chair haphazardly without noticing what was there, perhaps in the act of gathering up clothing to pack. Now the small book stared up at me as I tried to decide whether it was worth it to crack the binding and step further into whatever was going on.

I dropped the pillow, picked up the notebook and brought it over to the bed. Turned it over slowly in my gloved hands as I took a seat on the mattress. I knew I was pressing my luck by taking the time to do this. Knew it wasn't smart to linger in a room I'd basically broken into while there was still the possibility that its occupant would return. The sensible thing to do was get out as quickly as possible, leaving the book behind, and let the cops handle things from here. But I couldn't resist looking through what was sitting in my hands right now. I just wanted a few more minutes. Five at the most, I promised myself.

The covers had nothing printed on them. Just smooth black cowhide worn shiny in a few places. I went to the front page, hoping to find a name there or inside the cover. Nothing. Same for the back. The handwriting inside looked masculine, for some reason, and the day and date headings told me that it was in fact a diary. I skimmed the material and got snatches of what he'd written, but nothing concerning the events of the last few days. Stuff about school … he was in some kind of communications degree program. What he did with his friends … the band he saw last night at a club. None of it so far told me anything concrete about who he was or where he lived, and my patience was wearing thin. I skipped to the last few entries and found one for Saturday, April 14th. Just two days ago, right before the murder.

… it's so dry out here, and hot! Not like the humidity I'm used to … it irritates my skin so it itches constantly …

My eyes flew over the page, desperate to find something useful.

… when you get out of the car to take a piss or get something to eat, it feels like stepping into a blast furnace …

I forced myself to read faster.

… It's been such a long drive, I sure hope this is all worth it …

I was beginning to wonder whether reading this cold would tell me anything at all. However, it was apparent that the author wasn't from around here, which was at least a start. And if he was coming from the east or south, Indio would have been on the way in to Palm Springs.

A little further down, same day:
Got off the freeway for some food and found this dump after dinner. What kind of a name is the Blue Bird for a motel?

I skipped ahead, turning the page to the last paragraph that had been written.

Just got out of the shower and I'm already sweating. This is miserable. The air conditioner is blowing warm air around the room. Nine o'clock at night and it must be close to ninety. There's no way I'm going to sleep tonight. Too hot, and too much on my mind. Might—.

I looked up, thinking I'd heard a car creep past on the road outside. It was probably nothing but I checked anyway, moving the curtain aside a fraction of an inch for a narrow view of the parking lot and street.

Which were empty.

I craned my neck to see the far end of the lot. The same two vehicles were parked there; nothing had changed since I'd come in. If anything, it looked more peaceful than before.

Deciding it was random traffic or just my frayed nerves, I returned to my seat at the edge of the bed and picked up the diary. I thumbed through it to find the last entry. The gloves slowed me down again, but I eventually found the right page. I tried to relax, but the scare with the passing car had given me a greater sense of urgency. I knew I was pushing the edges of my self-imposed time limit. It just wasn't smart to sit here like this. But I couldn't help myself.

—Might as well drive over there right now, get it over with. I'd have to—

I heard footsteps from outside, saw a shadow flick across the window. I flew to the still-open closet, got inside and crouched in a position that faced the room. Slid the door shut as a key was inserted into the lock.

The room was visible in fractured strips through the louvered closet door. The door opened and I saw his shadow knife into the room before I saw him. After coming inside, he quickly surveyed the room. His gaze stopped on the diary I'd left on the bed, then he closed the door behind him.

A light leather jacket and blue jeans were all I saw before I shrank back into the closet, hoping to remain invisible as long as possible by avoiding the strips of light finding their way through the slats.

The man moved further into the room and stopped directly in front of the closet, in my line of sight again. I held my breath.

Thankfully, his immediate goal was the edge of the bed and the diary I'd dropped there. His back was to me so I couldn't see his face. But he was tall and had short, reddish brown hair. Not Turret, unless he'd gotten a dye job and grown a couple of inches taller. Whoever it was picked up the book and opened it. Leafed through it a few moments before stopping to read something. He nodded to himself, and I got the feeling he'd found what he was looking for.

Then the man stiffened, as if sensing another presence in the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Without turning, he slowly stuck the little book inside his jacket. When his hand came out again, it was holding a gun.

Shards and splinters of wood exploded outward as I burst through the closet door, ripping it from its hinges. The slide at the top tore out of its track with a loud shriek and I caught a surprised look on his face, eyes wide as he turned toward me. Part of the closet door was still between us. Then my forward momentum toppled him backward onto the bed, knocking the gun from his hand when I crashed into him. I heard it thump on the floor somewhere behind me amid the crazed bellow I'd let out in the attack.

He was pinned under me and what remained of the closet door, struggling violently to get free. I had a piece of wood pressed into his Adam's apple, and heard the breath wheezing in his throat. His eyes were bugged out inches from mine, fixed on me with frantic pleading. He clutched both sides of the slat, trying to force it upward to catch a breath.

I let up on the pressure slightly and asked him, “You with Turret?” my voice tight with exertion.

His eyes flickered back and forth, struggling to come up with an answer. Then he settled on one. “Yeah … he sends … his … regards.”

That surprised me, which gave the man an opening. He slammed his open palm under my chin and threw me off the bed, backward onto the floor. I landed hard amongst the splintered fragments of the door. The gun was right there. I grabbed it as he took a step toward me, and I'm sure the weapon in my hand was the only reason he didn't stick around to beat the hell out of me.

Instead, he stumbled to the door, throwing it open as I spun to my left, still on the floor, and pointed the gun at him through my upraised legs. He was briefly framed in the lighted doorway as he fled, distinct as a paper target on a shooting range. The gun shook in my hands. I probably could have hit him with my eyes closed, but I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. He sprinted through the small parking lot to the street, then headed toward where I'd parked my car. And he still had the diary in his jacket pocket.

I dashed out the door after him, not seeing anyone else around. As I reached the street a car blew past me, headed in the direction I'd come from. It was him. Again, I chose not to shoot, cursing myself afterward, certain I could have blown out one of his tires.

Too late now, the car speeding away too quickly for me to even get a plate number. My car was down the street the opposite way. I rushed over, praying the man hadn't punched a knife into a tire or something. No time, I was sure.

Precious seconds were wasted removing a glove so my hand would fit in my pocket for the keys.

Finally, I got them out, unlocked the door, threw the gun on the seat with both gloves and jammed myself in behind the wheel. The car started immediately, coming to life with a guttural roar. I gunned the engine and accelerated down the block, hoping to pick up the man's tail, which I'd already lost sight of. Traffic lights, red or green, meant nothing to me; I raced through the deserted streets, desperate to overtake the fleeing vehicle and the man I knew was somehow involved in the murder. Streetlamps and store signs and traffic lights blurred together in an unbroken stream of color, like those time-lapse photos of nighttime traffic.

I thought I saw brake lights flash in the distance several blocks ahead, then slide around a corner and disappear. I accelerated further, the engine humming, and almost clipped a pickup truck advancing into an intersection I'd barreled through against the light. The driver was so startled, I didn't even get a horn.

The close call made me a little more cautious going through the next couple of lights, removing my foot from the gas pedal momentarily as I neared the intersections, then mashing it to the floor once I determined they were clear. In my excitement, I wasn't sure I could identify the exact street the taillights had turned into. But I took my best shot and made a screeching left back toward the highway, retracing the way I'd come into the city.

Banging over the railroad tracks again, my car bottomed out, its underside scraping against the humped concrete and iron rails. Sparks flew out behind me in the rearview mirror. Up ahead to my right, I caught a lone pair of taillights streaking down the southbound lanes of Highway 111, leaving me no choice but to assume they belonged to the car I was chasing. After crossing over the Coachella Wash, I wrenched the wheel to the right and shot up the onramp in pursuit.