The Girl in the Motel

by Chris Culver

  “That was my assessment, too,” I said. “Can you find Jane and ask whether Michael is her father? Also, ask whether the surname Lewis is familiar.”

  Trisha paused for a second, probably writing that down.

  “Sure. You want to wait, or do you want me to call you back?”

  “Call,” I said. “I’ve got more work to do.”

  Trisha said she would do as I asked, so I put my phone in my pocket and walked. I needed to find whatever secrets Michael Maxwell had before he destroyed them.

  The Maxwells’ open-concept first floor had a dining room, kitchen, and living room all open to the entryway, while private rooms lay off a main hallway to the east. I stuck my head in doorways until I found the first-floor home office. Dark wood paneling covered the walls while French doors led out to a patio in the backyard. There was a couch and a desk and six file cabinets.

  Michael might have stored something incriminating in those file cabinets, but I didn’t have time to search them. Instead, I focused on his desk. Most of the drawers held office supplies, but he had locked the lower left one. When he gave me permission to search the house, I doubted Michael expected me to break into his desk, but I needed to see what he had.

  I reached into my purse for my lock pick set. When I had first become a detective, Harry had taken me to meet a locksmith to learn how to pick locks. I didn’t realize how helpful it would be at the time, but it had become one of the most useful skills in my toolbox. It took about a minute to get inside and open the drawer. At one glance, I knew why Michael had installed the lock.

  He had surveillance photos of his wife making the beast with two backs with a younger man. He wasn’t the only one stepping out on the marriage. If I had to guess, Michael had hired a private detective to take the pictures so he could get a better settlement in a divorce. Things at the house were worse than I’d expected. If the parents were feuding, I didn’t blame the kid for running.

  Before leaving, I locked the front door. Trisha called back as I turned my truck on.

  “The girl’s name is Paige Maxwell, not Lewis. When I asked about her paternity, her parents screamed at one another. They’re both sitting in holding cells right now.”

  That’d make it easier to find them later if we had to.

  “So Michael is Paige’s father?” I asked.

  “Jane says so. Michael isn’t so sure,” said Trisha. “And congratulations. Your probing questions have turned my lobby into The Jerry Springer Show.”

  I laughed a little and nodded. “And the Lewis name?”

  “Girl’s got a boyfriend named Jude Lewis. They go to school together.”

  I wrote the name down and made a mental note to call him when I could.

  “The house is a bust. Paige’s parents are jerks, but nobody broke in here. I think she ran because she didn’t want to be around her mom and dad. We’ll hand out her picture at roll call tomorrow, but I’m not worried.”

  “What do you want me to do with her parents?”

  “Did they get violent with one another?”

  “Nope,” said Trisha. “But they screamed a lot.”

  “Then let them go. I’ve not found anything that makes me think Paige’s life is in immediate danger. We’ll look for her, but I think she’ll come home soon. If she doesn’t, we’ll escalate this.”

  “Can do,” said Trisha. “Will you be around if her parents want to talk?”

  “No. If they want to talk to somebody, tell them to call a divorce lawyer. I’m going home.”

  20

  It was almost nine as I headed home, and the evening’s festivities were in full swing. The town’s bar and restaurants had their doors open, and live music flooded the street. On the forty-foot walk to my car, I heard jazz, blues, and bluegrass. St. Augustine wasn’t usually that cosmopolitan.

  I yawned and drove but didn’t get over ten miles an hour until I hit the outskirts of town for fear of hitting a pedestrian. Children ran everywhere, and many of them carried glow sticks. Four boys I passed were playing with them as if they were swords. I thought nothing of it until I saw a guy selling them out of his food truck. Falafel may not have sold well, but I had to give him some props for the glow sticks. Kids seemed to love them.

  I pulled into my driveway at twenty after eight. Roger must have been at Susanne’s house still, so I grabbed a flashlight from inside before walking along the side of the road.

  My day had not been fun, and my bathtub was calling my name. Fair week had just started, and already I felt as if I had run a marathon. I needed a break, and nothing beat a warm bath and a drink for relaxation.

  When I reached Susanne’s house, Roger bounded off the porch to me. I knelt in front of him and felt some of my day melt away. His tail wagged so hard as he licked my face that his entire body moved. Susanne heard the commotion and came outside, holding a shawl over her shoulders.

  “He’s always so happy when you come home,” she said.

  “And I’m happy to be home,” I said, standing but not taking my hand off my dog’s shoulders. “Thank you very much for feeding him. Everybody is working overtime right now.”

  “My pleasure,” she said. “It’s nice to talk to someone during the day.”

  As someone who lived alone, I understood what she meant. I loved my privacy, and I loved being able to do what I wanted when I wanted, but sometimes, it was nice to talk to somebody. I made a mental note to visit more often instead of sending my dog.

  “Thank you again,” I said. “I’m hoping tomorrow is better.”

  “Have you eaten dinner, sweetheart?” she asked. “I’ve got chicken and dumplings if you’d like some.”

  I thought of the bottle of wine I had hoped to open at home, but then I thought about sitting down and talking to someone I liked. It had been a while since I ate dinner with a human being. Maybe Susanne wasn’t the only one who needed a friend. I shook my head.

  “I’d love chicken and dumplings,” I said.

  Susanne smiled, and her entire face lit up.

  “Come on in. I’ll make you supper.”

  Roger lay down on the front porch, and I walked inside. Susanne had eaten earlier, but she sat with me at the table and listened as I talked about my day. She told me about the garden she planned to plant, and then she told me that a tulip poplar fell in the woods behind my house. She and Roger had gone for a walk earlier, and she thought the tree would make fine firewood if someone cut it up and let it season for a year or two.

  We didn’t talk about anything special, but I felt better than I had when I walked in. When I finished dinner, Susanne insisted on taking my plate to the sink herself. I joined her in the kitchen.

  “Thank you for dinner,” I said. “I didn’t realize how much I needed a night with a friend.”

  When she turned around, she beamed at me. “You’re always welcome at my table, Joe. Girls like us need to look out for one another.”

  I smiled and looked down.

  “That’s true,” I said, nodding. “Goodnight, Susanne. Roger and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she said. “Roger’s got work to do around here. I can’t chase those rabbits away myself. They eat my seedlings.”

  I laughed and started toward the front door. Susanne walked beside me.

  “Roger’s getting a little old to be chasing rabbits, but I’ll send him over and see what he can do.”

  “We all get old,” she said. “Few of us get wiser, though.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “I know I’m right. I’m a member of that rarified group who’s gotten wiser.”

  I smiled. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  She nodded and took a step back. Roger and I left the house and walked into the darkness. We lived out in the country, so I didn’t worry too much about cars. Instead, I looked for bobcats. My dog thought he was tough, but he was a sweet boy at heart. A real predator—a bobcat, mountain lion, or something
else—would tear him apart.

  I put my flashlight on and whistled as we walked, hoping that would scare away any animals who saw us. I had enjoyed the evening, but I still wanted my drink. Roger, though, didn’t want to hurry. He kept his nose to the ground, and he was looking for something. Most of my neighbors had dogs; one of them had probably walked by and peed on Roger’s favorite spots. It happened a lot.

  Then he slowed down, and the hair on his back stood on end.

  We were two hundred yards from my house. Few animals walked this close to the house, so I put one hand on Roger’s back and the other over the firearm on my hip.

  “Easy, boy,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  Several hunters in the last year had reported seeing a mountain lion in the area, but the Missouri Department of Conservation couldn’t confirm that we had one. The prospect of having big cats back in the area excited their scientists, but they didn’t live in the country like I did. As someone who walked through the woods, I would have preferred to avoid having a two-hundred-pound predator in my backyard.

  I slipped my hand from Roger’s back to his collar as a deep, guttural growl came from his throat.

  “What’s out there?” I asked, scanning the horizon. Nothing moved at first, but then a man darted from the trees across from my house. Roger’s growl turned into a bark. I held his collar tight as he tried to lunge forward. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Roger was a sweetheart who loved everyone he met. If he thought someone was a threat to me, though, he became a maniac.

  The guy jumped in a car and drove off. Roger wanted to chase him, but that wouldn’t end well for anybody, so I held on until he calmed down. Then he looked at me with his big brown eyes and licked his nose. I scratched him behind the ears, and he leaned into me.

  “You are my brave protector, Sir Roger,” I said, looking into his eyes and stroking the back of his head. His tail thumped against the top of my thighs. I broke eye contact with him and looked at the spot where I had seen the man standing. Then I sighed. “Let’s see what this guy wanted.”

  Roger and I walked across the street. He smelled a few things and peed on some high grass. I flashed my light at the ground and looked around. The guy would have had a clear view of my front porch and truck from where I stood. That was creepy. During another time of the year, I would have asked my department to send extra patrols by the house, but the evening shift during fair week had drunk drivers to arrest and bar fights to contain.

  I wasn’t worried. Roger had good ears and a bark that carried for miles. If anybody came near the house, he’d scare him off. And if Roger couldn’t scare him off, I was a cop, and it was a terrible idea to sneak up on a cop’s house.

  I grabbed my keys and crossed the street. The house looked secure. Not only that, Roger had stopped growling. Even still, I checked the backyard and the windows to make sure they were locked, and then I searched the house to make sure nobody had broken in. Roger and I were alone, though.

  I locked the front door, poured myself a tall glass of vodka, and started my bath. Within five minutes, I was relaxing in the tub. A John Coltrane album played on the small stereo in my bedroom. It felt good to relax.

  Unfortunately, my cell rang before I could even finish my first drink. I would have ignored it, but Roger whimpered. He did that when the phone rang. My ring tone bothered his ears.

  I reached out of the bathtub, grabbed my pants, and fished my phone out of the pocket. Before answering, I pointed it at the dog. He cocked his head to the side.

  “I’m doing this for you, dude,” I said, glancing at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway. “Yeah. This is Joe Court.”

  “Ms. Court, I’m Angela Pritchard. I’m a reporter with channel three in St. Louis. How are you doing today?”

  My eyes closed, and a groan escaped my lips as soon as she introduced herself.

  “I have no comment.”

  “I asked how your day was.”

  “I have no comment.”

  She paused before clearing her throat. “Well, I’m working on a story involving Emily and Megan Young. I understand you knew them.”

  “For the record, I have no comment on Emily or Megan Young.”

  “How about off the record?”

  I sighed. “Off the record…I have no comment. Please don’t call me again. In fact, who gave you this number?”

  “I understand you lived with the victims, so I know it’s difficult to talk—”

  “I have no comment,” I said, interrupting her. “If you won’t answer my basic question, I won’t answer yours. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “I want—”

  I ended the call before she could say anything else. Then I drank the rest of my vodka and sat up straighter. My bath no longer relaxed me. If nothing else, the call put my stalker in context. If one reporter knew I had lived with Emily and Megan Young, the others would, too. My stalker was probably a journalist looking for a quote for a story.

  I tossed my phone on top of my clothes and looked to the dog. He perked up.

  “Mommy’s going to have another drink. You see anybody outside tonight, rip his nuts off.”

  21

  The house was huge, more a monument to its former owner’s ego than it had ever been a home. Its front facade looked like a bizarre mating of the Parthenon and a classic redbrick schoolhouse.

  Sherlock didn’t understand the appeal of living in a house like that, but he had little in common with its previous owner. Christopher Hughes would have described himself as a visionary. Sherlock knew him to be a lecherous moron, though. To use the foster care system to identify vulnerable girls he could recruit to work in his whorehouses made business sense, but it was repugnant. More than that, it was dangerous. Hughes was lucky the police hadn’t caught him earlier.

  That wasn’t Sherlock’s concern that evening, though. He parked his twelve-year-old Mercedes in the circular drive out front and walked to the portico. The front lights popped on. Whether someone had seen him, or whether Christopher Hughes’s ex-wife had installed a motion sensor, he couldn’t say.

  Before getting out of the car, he reached to the seat beside him for the hammer and tarp he had purchased earlier that day. This would be a long night. He should have picked up coffee before coming over. As Sherlock walked to the front door, he yawned and set his purchases on the ground before knocking.

  Diana Hughes opened the door a few minutes later. She was younger than her ex-husband and better looking. Her straight black hair cascaded down to her shoulders, drawing his attention to her chest and the pink, silk robe she wore. Her hair was still wet from a recent shower, and her cheeks were flushed with heat. Her brown eyes locked on his. Her gaze was probing and intelligent. Why she’d married Christopher Hughes, Sherlock would never know.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I’m James Holmes,” he said. “I’m your ex-husband’s attorney. He’s asked me to come and talk to you.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m not sure how much I have to say to my ex-husband’s attorney, but I hear the state plans to release him from prison soon. Is that your doing?”

  “It is,” he said, nodding. “Does that upset you?”

  “Christopher deserves to die in prison for the things he’s done.”

  “Many people deserve to die in prison,” said Sherlock. “Part of my job is making sure they don’t get their just deserts.”

  “And do you like this job?” she asked.

  Sherlock allowed his eyes to travel up and down her body. She was a remarkable woman.

  “It has its perks.”

  Her lips parted as they drew upwards into a demure smile.

  “Why are you here, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Christopher asked me to come and kill you,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “He wanted you to die screaming.”

  She didn’t react for a moment. And then she took a step back. Sherlock took that as an invitation to come inside, where he kic
ked off his shoes. He had stepped in dog shit outside a detective’s house earlier that day, and Diana wouldn’t have appreciated him tracking dog droppings inside the house.

  Polished marble covered the floor while a winding wooden staircase led to the second floor. An elegant bronze chandelier hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in a warm yellow light. Sherlock shut the door behind him, leaving his tools on the porch. They’d be fine for a while.

  “How much did Christopher offer you to kill me?”

  “Fifty grand,” said Sherlock. “I balked at first, but then he said he wouldn’t mind if I fucked you first.”

  She brought her hands to the tie that held her robe shut.

  “Is there anything I could do that would persuade you to let me live?” she asked, untying the knot. The robe slipped open, exposing her athletic form.

  “I can think of a thing or two,” said Sherlock. He kissed her and felt her body against him.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered as she pulled her lips away from his.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” he said, smiling. “Sorry I haven’t been able to come by for a few days. Work’s been keeping me busy.”

  She took his hand. “Come on. I want to show you what you’ve been missing.”

  She led him upstairs where they made love in her bedroom. Afterwards, as he held her close, she looked at him and sighed, their hands and legs intertwined.

  “You are so much better than my ex-husband. I wish I had met you before I met him. Life would have been so different.”

  Sherlock looked around the spacious master bedroom. “You might not have had all this.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted all this,” she said, kissing his neck. He thought she wanted another round, but then she pulled her head back. “So what did you leave on the porch?”

  He grunted, remembering everything he still had to do that night.

  “A hammer. Christopher said he hid money inside the wall in the master bedroom closet.”