by Gregory Ashe
“One of these men?” Shaw asked. He displayed a picture from Tucker’s cloud backup; it showed Tucker and Rik in a restaurant booth, arms around each other.
“The one of the right.”
North raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure? He’s the one who rented the room?”
“I’m sure. He’s probably been here fifty times. And that’s not an exaggeration—look how many pages are missing from the guestbook. His real name’s Rik something, right? STLToday had something about it.”
“What about the other man?”
“He was in the paper too. That’s who killed the other guy.”
“That’s what they say. Had you seen him before?”
She shook her head. “He’s been here tons of times, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been a lot. More than any of the other guys—Rik, that’s his name?—more than any of the other guys Rik brought.”
“How could you know that? You said you’ve never seen him before.”
“The cars,” Shaw said. The words slipped out before he’d finished processing the revelation. Malika nodded and grinned. “You remember the cars.”
“Well, the ones I can see. I didn’t know it was that guy’s car, but it was here a lot. He parked it close to the office. I guess he thought I’d keep an eye on it because it was a BMW, and he obviously cared about it.”
“That’s about all he cares about,” North said.
“Anyway, the police asked about a BMW, and I told them about that one, and they got excited. So I figured it belonged to the killer. Am I right?”
“Was that BMW here Thursday night?”
Malika shrugged. “I told them I didn’t know. He got mad because it got scratched or dinged or something. I must have been asleep or out of the office, because he left a note on the door, telling me I’d be getting the bill for the repair. I threw it away—I mean, we’ve got those no liability signs all over the parking lot, and I figured he was letting off steam. After that, I didn’t see the BMW anymore. That was a week ago, maybe? Anyway, he could have been here Thursday night, but if he was, he didn’t park where I could see him. He could have parked on the street. Heck, he could have parked at the other end of the lot.”
“You said this guy, the one who drove the BMW, was here the most. Does that mean there were other guys?”
“Rik,” she was still testing the name, “always paid for a full night, and I don’t think he needed a place to crash. Sometimes he had guys in here with him when he paid. They were younger, a lot younger sometimes. Sometimes they’d be drunk and making out. Sometimes they’d be high. Sometimes he came in and rented the room alone, but I figured the other guys were like—” She pointed at Tucker. “—and didn’t want anyone to see them.”
“Would you recognize any of them?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think most of the guys were one-night things.”
“Were there any other repeat cars?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not like I keep a scrapbook. If you had something—”
Shaw displayed a still from Teddi’s security footage, which he had forwarded to himself. It showed the old, beat-up Ford that had followed Tucker.
“Yeah, that one’s here sometimes.”
“As much as the BMW?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t see it as much, but…” She shrugged and gestured at the stairs.
They tried a few more questions, but Malika couldn’t offer them anything else. North got her name and phone number, and they stepped out into the swampy heat shimmering above the asphalt.
“Somebody followed him here,” Shaw said.
“Maybe. Or maybe someone left Teddi’s house around the same time, and it happens to be someone who Rik has fucked before. That group includes most of the male population, by the way. Or maybe it looks like another car that’s been here.”
“Really?” Shaw said. “You want to play the coincidence card?”
North gave him a titty-twister so savage that Shaw yelped and stumbled back.
“That’s for the premature jizzing shit, you miserable son of a bitch. Most indulgent lover my ass. You’re the neediest screw I’ve ever had, that’s what you are.”
“North, I think you tore it!”
“Good. You deserve it. And don’t fucking talk to me about coincidences because you’re the one who spent a whole Saturday in your bedroom, trying to cleanse your energy, because a bird flew into the window.”
“It was a crow! And I found a penny tails-up! And I burned my tongue on my tea!” He massaged his chest, expression injured. “I was cursed!”
“Because you won’t wait for it to cool down! Because you have no fucking patience!”
“Of course I’m patient. Sometimes I have to lie there while you go on and on and—”
North made a noise that was kind of a growl and kind of a scream and stomped toward the stairs. Shaw let him get a head start; he was pretty sure it was the happiest North had been in a week.
From the second-floor corridor, it was easy to tell which room Tucker and Rik had used: police tape still crisscrossed the door. North and Shaw passed the guy with the joint, who smiled at them, chuckled, and under his breath muttered, “Whoa!” before wobbling and clutching the railing tighter. Traffic on Chouteau was slow, but every car managed to hit the same pothole, punctuating the hiss of tires with a regular tha-thunk.
At the door, North crossed his arms and eyed the tape. “I could fart on that lock and it would open.”
“You could? Because I would pay to see that. Lots of people would, actually. And it’s not a fetish thing, although there are some sites where if you did it naked and put the camera at the right angle—”
Shaw had to stop there because North had one hand on his face and was trying to push him over the railing.
By the time Shaw recovered from his near-death experience, North was sliding a credit card between the door and the jamb. He brought his hand up and back quickly, and the door popped open. The air from the room was lukewarm, and it smelled like a public bathroom—Shaw figured no one had cleaned it after Rik’s death and the effect that had on his body.
“It’s more impressive when you use picks.”
North grunted. He pointed to the inside of the jamb, where someone had ripped the security chain from the wood. It was obviously old damage.
“Because it looks like you know what you’re doing, even though one time you said you just stick them in there and wiggle them around, which is kind of like how you do sex, only you swear more, and—”
North parted the tape and stepped into the relative darkness of the room.
“North, did you hear what I said?”
“Oh my God.” North moved away from the door quickly.
Shaw slipped between the lines of tape and followed him into the shadows.
Someone had decorated the Sunset Stayaway’s rooms at a point between Eisenhower and Carter, and nobody had touched them—not to update, anyway—since. A double bed with an avocado-colored polyester coverlet, and avocado-colored sheets to match. A chained-down CRT television, its rabbit ears knocked over and hanging to one side. Strawberry-print wallpaper, its edges curling free from the paste and yellowed from decades of age and nicotine. The Dead Sea Scrolls of motel wallpaper. A Turner lithograph hung crookedly on the wall.
“God damn it,” North said from where he stood near the bathroom door, hands on hips. “A hundred people have been through here. We’re not going to find anything.”
“Not if we don’t look.”
North made a face, but then they got to work. They searched all the usual spots—back and undersides of drawers, between and inside the mattress and box spring, the toilet tank and under the sink. Nothing.
“I don’t even know what we’re looking for,” North said, letting the porcelain tank cover clank back into place. “This is a waste of time.”
“We’re looking for anything that might tell us what happened.” Shaw sat on the bed. “And we’ve learned some interesting things.”
North rolled his eyes.
“We have! For example, that door couldn’t keep out anyone who wanted to get inside. The lock is worthless, and the chain is gone. Someone could have easily gotten into this room after Tucker. If Tucker was already blacking out from the alcohol and drugs, it wouldn’t have been hard to kill Rik and frame Tucker.”
“Maybe that’s why Tucker picked this room. It backs up his story.”
“Tucker didn’t pick this room, though. Rik did.”
“Maybe Tucker told him he wanted this room.”
“Ok, what’s going on? Do you think Tucker did this?”
“I don’t know, Shaw. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if you, North McKinney, who was married to Tucker for all those years, if you think he beat this guy to death with his own golf club and then passed out and called the cops in the morning.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
Shaw made an exasperated noise. “Well, I don’t think he did.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Hey! Just because—”
“You’re a professional. Or you’re supposed to be. We’ve been hired to find out what happened, not to make up our minds and then figure out how to make things look that way. That’s what the cops are doing, in case you forgot.”
“I know the last few days have been hard for you, and I’m trying to be supportive, but you’ve got a lot of anger about Tucker that you’ve never processed, and I think it’s affecting how you’re handling things. The way you lost it with him earlier today.” Shaw shook his head. “And that was before…” He trailed off and looked at the floor.
“Before I saw photographic evidence he was fucking the staff on our wedding day?”
“North, it’s ok if it hurts. But locking it all away and not dealing with it, that’s bad; it’s going to make you sick.”
“Ok.”
“Ok? What do you mean ok?”
“Ok, I heard what you said. I’m acknowledging I heard what you said. Is that all?”
“No. No, that’s not all, actually. You’re a wonderful person. You’re so good and kind. You did not deserve to be treated the way Tucker treated you, and what you feel about it, however you feel about it—”
“I don’t have time for this,” North said, making his way to the door.
Shaw studied the threadbare carpet. He practiced the mantra Master Hermes had sold him. And then he wiped his eyes and went after North.
Pulling the door shut behind him, Shaw spotted North near the stairs, talking to the guy with the joint.
“—yesterday, güey, and I’m out of here in an hour.”
“What about someone else?” North was asking as Shaw approached. “Anybody who stays here regularly? Anybody who’s been here for more than a few days?”
“Oh yeah, somebody’s been staying here for a few weeks now.” He toked hard, held his breath, and tilted his head back to exhale. “It’s not Disneyland, you know? The cars? Last night, I go to bed, all the cars were here. They’re coming and going all night. I hear them even though I’m sleeping. I wake up, all the cars are different.”
“Yeah,” North said, his tone thoughtful. “Thanks.”
Shaw caught up on the stairs.
“Call Jadon, would you?”
“Is this because you want to be mean to him? Because you can be mean to me, if you need to get it out of your system. Although you’re not very good at it. When you tried to yell at me about that popcorn machine, you kept walking outside and giggling.”
“For what is literally the hundredth time, a hot plate and a plastic bowl do not make a popcorn machine. And I’m the one who had to put out the fire and clean up the mess. And I was walking outside because the house was full of smoke and I couldn’t breathe.”
“And to giggle.”
“Ask him about Tucker’s car.”
“Ask him what?”
“Just ask him!” North roared.
While Shaw placed the call, North walked off a few paces, pulled out his phone, and placed a call of his own.
“Reck.”
“Hi, Jadon. I’m supposed to ask you about Tucker’s car.”
“Why? Did you find it?”
Shaw wiped sweat from his forehead and cast about for a spot of shade. As he moved under the stairs, he said, “You don’t have it? What happened?”
“It wasn’t in the lot when he was arrested.”
“His keys—”
“He had his keys, but the car wasn’t there. We searched a few blocks around the motel, but we couldn’t find it. Do you know where it is?”
“No, that’s why I’m calling you.”
“Damn. I could really use a win; Fiegler ripped me to pieces today. Had her office door open the whole time. I swear to God, I almost crawled to my car.”
“Jadon, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Look, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Could we—is there a night we could grab a drink or something?”
“Oh, yeah, let me ask North—”
“No, not with North. Just us.”
“Oh.”
“Uh huh.”
“Jay—”
“He broke up with you—”
“Well, technically, I had to break up with me for him because he was doing such a bad job of it.”
Silence. Then Jadon laughed, and it had a strange energy behind—a tangle of nerves and frustration and what might have been anger. “Ok, well, how about that drink? There are some things I’d like to say, and I’d appreciate you hearing me out.”
“Can I think about it?”
“I’ve waited this long, haven’t I?”
Shaw didn’t know how to answer that, but he couldn’t help the slightly punched-out sound of his breath.
“Sorry,” Jadon said. “That wasn’t fair. I hope you’ll at least consider talking to me. Over drinks.” There was a smile in his voice as he added, “You can have a Coke.”
They ended the call, and North wandered into the narrow strip of shade.
“You ok?”
“What? Oh. Yeah. The police couldn’t find his car.”
“That’s convenient. Malika told us he’d stopped parking in the lot, and Tucker claims he can’t remember where he parked it.” North turned to scan the lot. “So where the fuck is it?”
Chapter 8
THEY WORKED A SPIRAL pattern, moving out from the motel, following Chouteau and cutting up and down side streets. The sun beat down on them; before they’d finished the first block, Shaw was dripping with sweat. The lunch rush hit, and people poured out of medical complexes and hospital annexes and the Purina building to hunt down pho or an O’Connell’s burger or whatever other craving might have gripped them. Cars whizzed up and down Chouteau, and the rhythmic tha-thunk of the unavoidable pothole quickened its tempo. No matter which block they were on, the air was thick with the smell of exhaust and rotting grass clippings.
Street by street, North’s shoulders came down, his pace smoothed out, and his fingers uncurled. Work had always been an escape for him; Shaw understood that now. An escape from his father, when he’d taken construction jobs as a teenager; then an escape from the complexities of a new school and a new kind of people when he’d arrived at Chouteau, only seventeen and already more mature than half the kids Shaw knew; then as an escape from Tucker, as their marriage foundered and the walls at home closed in. When North had started showing up with black eyes and taped hands, a few times with a broken nose, when he’d told those bullshit stories about boxing, Shaw had believed them in part because he knew North needed an escape from something that came after him in dark, quiet places, where no one could help him. But Shaw should have remembered then, should have known, that work had al
ways been the escape hatch. He should have found a way to help.
“Tell me about Tucker,” Shaw said.
North groaned. “Come on. I was just giving myself this great pep talk about how I’m a piece of shit and I need to apologize to you because you were trying to help me back there. Then you go and say a thing like that. Get over here so I can rip that other nip off.”
Grinning, Shaw put a hand over his chest and backed around a parked station wagon, putting the car between them.
“I’m not going to tell you twice.” North put his hands on his hips. “If you make me chase you down, I’m going to add an Indian burn.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
“I think I’ll be fine; all you do is yoga.”
“And Kegels!”
“Oh my ever-loving God.” North put his hands over his face. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“I’ve heard you when you get back from a run, North. You’re wheezing and gasping. You definitely couldn’t catch me.”
“That’s because I need to quit shitting around and cut out the—” He stopped.
Shaw raised his eyebrows. “Cut out the what?”
“TV,” North said flatly. “Now, are you going to get your ass over here so I can give you the worst purple nurple of your life, or are you going to make me run you down and throw in an Indian burn and a dead arm?”
“You didn’t say anything about a dead arm!” North took a step, and Shaw threw up both hands. “Wait, wait, wait! I only asked about Tucker professionally. That’s what you do when you want to find someone or something. You do research. That’s all!”
North studied him. Then he said, “Get over here.”
“I wasn’t trying to therapize you or psychoanalyze you or—”
“Get your ass over here.”
Shaw covered his chest again. “Why?”
“Because I told you to, and you’re damn well going to start doing what I tell you. Your ass, Shaw. Right here. Right now.”
Shaw slunk around the station wagon.
