“Maybe she still needs it,” Indira said. “Maybe that’s her backup if she needs to run.”
That seemed like a possibility. Most people, after their husband got his head bashed in, probably weren’t thinking about shredding paperwork in their motel room.
“Do you think whoever broke in here took the shredded paperwork?” I asked. “Oh shoot!”
(I did not say shoot.)
“The liner in the bathroom trash can.”
I scooted around Indira to double-check, and I was right—the detail hadn’t really registered until I’d thought about it, but the liner for the bathroom trash can was missing.
“So,” Indira said, “she shredded something and threw it away. Tonight. And there’s no chance the garbage has been collected yet.”
We both stood there, thinking the same thing.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m only doing it because I’m a gentleman and you’re—” I almost saidolder. Indira’s face didn’t change, but I got that strong premonition again about a zap, so I changed it to “—a lady.”
She didn’t even sniff or anything.
We hurried out of the room and shut the door behind us. The latch caught—barely—and then we made our way down to the parking lot and around the back of the Bay Bridge Suites. Two large dumpsters had been rolled up against the rear wall of the motel, and next to them, three parking spaces had been spray-painted onto the concrete. Only one was occupied—a silver Chevy Cruze. Staff spots, I thought. Whoever was on the front desk tonight. The smell of garbage floated up, with the faint hint of burned rubber and a whiff of what my brain processed as deep fryers and hot breading, like we were downwind of a chicken shack. The shadows were deep enough that Indira turned on her flashlight again.
I was starting to do the mental calculus—would crawling around in a dumpster be worse than calling Bobby and telling him everything?—when Indira’s sharp intake of breath pulled me out of my thoughts.
And then I saw the woman on the ground. She wore a sequined V-neck top that looked like too little against the October chill. The same could be said about the short black skirt. She wore heels, but one of the shoes lay several feet away on the pavement. I recognized her from the license photo: blond,perfectly made up. Little details registered: the deep red of her lipstick; a rash of color on her cheek; her press-on nails. Her head was turned at an impossible angle, and the way the light caught her eyes turned them into blank white circles.
Channelle Haskins—or Vance, or whatever her real name was—was dead.
Hand shaking, I took out my phone and called Bobby.
Chapter 9
Bobby came. Then more deputies came. And then the sheriff.
Their cruisers filled the alley with spinning light, the rumble of engines, the choking sweetness of exhaust.
I managed to stuff Channelle’s gloves—which I’d taken from her room—into my back pocket before anyone noticed.
Everyone seemed to know what to do. Of course they did—this was their job. As Salk and Dahlberg began putting up a perimeter, Bobby helped Indira into his cruiser. Then he moved me to the end of the alley, where I couldn’t see Channelle anymore. I hadn’t realized I was shaking until he put a blanket around my shoulders.
“I know I said I was going to talk to Millie,” I said, but my lips felt numb, and the words sounded funny. “But I—”
“We can talk about it later,” Bobby said. And then he took me by the arms, the emergency blanket crinkling under his fingers, and I couldn’t tell if he wanted to shake me or if he was trying to brace himself. He swallowed. And then he said, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
To any amateur snoops—er, sleuths out there, let me tell you: if that didn’t take the remaining wind out of my sails.
I closed my eyes, and he pulled me into a hug.
It felt like a long time before I could say, “I hate this.”
He rubbed my back.
“It’s awful,” I whispered. “It’s always so awful.”
“I know,” he said, and he threaded his fingers through the hair on the back of my head, as though he were holding me together. And maybe he was.
When I was less of a mess, I told my story to Bobby first—with some light editing to make it sound less like, um, burglary. And then I told it again to the sheriff.
When I finished, she said, “The motel doesn’t have any working security cameras, and I’m going to guess we won’t find any prints.”
