pillows had no depressions in them.
The Yankee Doodle was the sort of a place where things like lamps and televisions were bolted down, just in case some low-class guest might be tempted to walk off with them. But Donna’s killer had still managed to find something to club her with-a night table drawer. It lay on the rug next to the bed, smashed, splintered and bloodied. Her shoulder bag was on the dresser next to the TV, as was her gauzy summer peasant dress, carefully folded. Also a see-through black nightie, very slinky, very hopeful, very sad.
The bungalow was tiny. There was barely enough space to squeeze around the bed to the bathroom, where Donna was on the floor. From where she stood, Des could just make out her bare feet.
“Did you touch anything, Danny?” Des asked him as he remained outside, pulling nervously on a cigarette.
“Not a thing, I swear. Her purse is just as I found it. I’m not here to steal no twenty bucks from some poor woman’s billfold.”
“I know that, Danny,” she said, flashing a reassuring smile at him. “I’m just trying to assess the crime scene.” Now she went farther in for a better look.
Donna was naked on her knees before the bathtub with her big butt sticking up in the air for the whole wide world to see. Not that she was obese but she wasn’t a nineteen-year-old runway model either. And the bathroom floor is not the most dignified place to die. Go ask Elvis. There was a foot of blood-tinged water in the tub. By the look of things, her killer had knocked her unconscious with the drawer, dragged her in there and held her head underwater until she was gone. Her center of gravity had tumbled her a bit backward after she’d died, lifting her face up out of the water. There were broken blood vessels around the eyes, and her lips were blue. The bloody wounds to the back of her wet head were readily apparent to Des from the bathroom doorway. There was some blood on the floor, but not much. No bloody shoeprints. The floor had been wiped. Des could not see any bloody towels in there. No towels at all, in fact. He’d taken them with him. Whoever he was, he was careful.
Standing there gazing at Donna Durslag, Des experienced that same mix of despair, horror, and fascination that she always felt when she saw what people were capable of doing to each other. She would need crime scene photos. She would need to get this down on paper. Possibly life-sized, so she could bring forth the full impact of Donna’s figure as it knelt there in death. She would draw this. Had to draw this. It was how she kept it together.
And to hell with Professor Weiss and his damned trees.
“How often do you run the vacuum in here, Danny?” she asked, starting back around the bed toward him.
“Once a week… maybe,” he replied.
Meaning there would be tons of hairs in the rug from past guests. Most likely, the tekkies wouldn’t even bother with it. But they would for sure check the surface of the bed for hair or fiber transfers, and the blood spatters for a blood sample that was not the victim’s. Alsothe smashed night table drawer for prints, although he’d doubtless wiped that clean same as he’d wiped down the bathroom. Des was certain that they’d find nothing. It smelled like a clean kill all the way.
“Where’s her car, Danny?”
“Around in back.”
It was faded gray Peugeot station wagon. Locked. Both the passenger seat and backseat were strewn with empty take-out coffee cups and food wrappers. There was one other vehicle parked back there, a red Nissan pickup truck that belonged to Danny.
He led Des back to his office now, where there was a reception counter made out of fake wood, a Coke machine, television, a couple of green plastic chairs. The worn linoleum on the floor was the color of canned salmon. A door marked Private led back to the inner office.
“What time did she check in?”
“Just after ten o’clock,” Danny replied, taking his place behind the counter. The man seemed much more at ease now that he was back there, straighter and taller.
“Was she alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did she sign the register?”
“You bet. We run a clean operation here. No hookers, no minors, no monkey business.”
Des glanced at the register-Donna had signed her own name, clear as can be. “Did she pay you in cash?”
“Credit card,” he said, his bony hands shaking slightly as he produced the credit card slip for her. She suspected he was in need of a drink. He settled for another cigarette.
“The lady had a husband,” Des said, surprised that Donna had made no apparent effort to cover her tracks. “Is this typical?”
“Yes and no,” Danny answered, thumbing his stubbly chin shrewdly. “Some of ’em are real careful about keeping their after-hours activities off the household books, others aren’t. Depends on who takes care of the bills every month, is how I always figured it.”
“Had you ever seen her before?”
“No, ma’am. She was a first-timer. On my shift, anyway, and I been here on overnight for thirteen years.”
“How did she seem to you? Had she been drinking? Was she high?”
“She was nervous. A lot of ’em are. Men and women both.”
“And what does that generally tell you?”
“That they’re doing something they never thought they’d be doing.”
Des turned and glanced through the front window at Donna’s bungalow across the courtyard. “Did you see him arrive?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. Got no idea who he was.”
“Maybe you saw his car pull in. Think hard, please. This is important.”
“I wish I could help you, ma’am, but we’re real busy that time of night. Eleven, twelve o’clock is my rush hour. Lots of folks coming and going. Going, mostly. Some drop the key off in here with me. The rest just leave it in the door-the ones who don’t want to be seen together by anybody, if you know what I mean. Shoot, I must get one suspicious husband in here a week, offering me cash money for the lowdown on his missus.”
“And do you give it to him?”
“Hell no,” Danny replied indignantly. “Our guests have a right to their privacy. That’s why they come here.”
Des had happened upon this peculiar phenomenon before-people with tremendous professional pride where you least expected to find them. And why not? Danny Rochin certainly had more class than, say, Dodge Crockett. “That lady got herself pretty beat up in there. You didn’t hear them going at it?”
“Well, maybe…” Danny cast a longing glance over his shoulder at the office door.
“You want to go take care of what you need to take care of?”
He slipped gratefully into the back room, shutting the door softly behind him. Des could hear a desk drawer slide open and shut. A moment later Danny returned, smelling of whiskey. “I did hear awoman… shriek, I guess you could say. And it did come from the direction of that bungalow, number six.”
“What time was this, Danny?”
“About one-thirty,” he replied. “Look, it may have been nothing. Some couples, they make certain noises when they’re…” He trailed off uncomfortably, his eyes avoiding hers.
“I’m right with you, honey. Just keep on going.”
“So I didn’t think much of it-not until I started cleaning out the bungalows this morning and I found her in there. I’m real sorry if I did wrong, ma’am.” He seemed genuinely upset. “But I can’t go knocking on doors every time somebody lets out a shriek, can I?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Danny. There’s no way you could have known what was going on in there.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“I really do.”
“I never had nothing like this happen before on my watch. Worst thing was an attempted rape charge three,
