hadn’t listened to the car radio on the way over to the motel.
“Describe the desk clerk,” Joe said.
“A tired looking bottle blond in her late forties. She was pretty once, but hasn’t come to grips with the aging process. She’s the type of woman who thinks that another inch of makeup will undo in a moment what it took cigarettes and gravity decades to create. I guess I shouldn’t be too critical. My mother wears so much makeup you swear you could peel it off in one piece like a latex clown mask.”
Joe shook his head. “Did she have an accent?”
“Accent?”
“What did she sound like?”
“Like blinis and borscht,” Marla joked.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“She sounds like Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle.”
“Now that’s an answer, I think.”
The moment they walked into Room 113, Joe’s suspicions were confirmed. No two motels could possibly purchase the same hideous orange top quilts. This was definitely the place where Frank had made his porn debut and all the sequels. Now to find the right room.
“Okay, time to go hunting for a chambermaid,” Joe said as they slipped out of the room. “You’re sure your Spanish is good enough to make yourself understood?”
“How many times are you going to ask me that?”
“Sorry.”
There were very few cars parked in front of the four rows of rooms. That they hadn’t spotted the maid’s cart in the first three rows was of no worry to Joe. They had the room for three hours and he was sure he and Marla could figure out something to do to kill the time until they went looking again.
“Over there, at the end!” Marla shouted, and then realized she had been too loud. “Sorry.”
When Serpe peered into Room 420, he recognized the woman he and Healy had spoken to the previous afternoon. She was drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and eating the last bite of an egg sandwich. At first, she didn’t seem to remember Joe. When she did recall his face, she didn’t exactly leap up and give him a big kiss. No one likes you when you are a cop and that doesn’t change when you’re only pretending to be one. He didn’t waste time and got Marla involved.
“Her name is Maria,” Marla said, smiling. “And she says she has a green card.”
“I don’t care if she’s got a pair of jacks. Just describe the two women to her and ask if she’s seen them around. If she tells you she’s never seen the black-haired one, she’s full of shit.”
Joe had used that phrase on purpose. It was another one of those lines that usually didn’t require translation.
“The blond, Maria says, she doesn’t know. The one with the black hair… Maybe.”
Joe again decided not to waste time. He knew that maybe meant ‘more money, please.’ He took out the roll of cash he had stored in his pocket just for this purpose. He snapped off a ten. Maria sneered as if he had insulted her honor. He added a twenty. Maria seemed less hurt, but still wasn’t having any. When he added a second twenty, she licked her lips. When she went for the money, Joe yanked it back. Now she just looked angry.
“Tell her the money is hers, but I want to hear everything she knows about the black-haired woman, including what room she always takes her men to.”
Although Serpe understood only enough Spanish to facilitate oil deliveries, he could read the disdain on the chambermaid’s chubby brown face.
“She calls herself Tatiyana. Maria says she’s a real bitch, but that the motel management treats her like royalty, almost like they’re frightened of her. She always gets Room 217. That’s all she knows.”
The chambermaid held out her hand. Joe gave her the fifty bucks as promised. She stuffed the money in the pocket of her silly pink polyester uniform without bothering to thank him. But instead of taking offense, Joe peeled a fifty dollar bill off the roll and waved it at Maria. There was no translation necessary now. Without prompting, Maria began pushing her cart towards room 217.
Even though his moms hated it, living so close to Kennedy airport was a ceaseless source of excitement to Jamal Maybry. Walking to school was the best part of his day. Always out of the house early so he could take a detour through the off-airport cargo area, Jamal enjoyed the rush of the big jets swooping low over his head. In his opinion, the whine of the engines, the suck of the backwash, the smell of spent kerosene were the greatest things a boy could experience. He never tired of it, some days cutting school just to stand at the edge of the runway for hours on end.
Today, however, he had to get to school. They were giving one of those grade level achievement tests and he knew his moms wouldn’t stand for his missing it. So when the JetBlue A320 whooshed past and its tail disappeared over the border fence, Jamal took his special shortcut through the abandoned lots.
He guessed he was in too much of a hurry when he stumbled over some ratty-assed roll of carpet. They dumped all kinds of shit in these lots.
“Damn!”
He stood up, brushed himself off, kicked the carpet roll in anger. But something wasn’t right. When his foot connected, it felt like the stupid thing was filled with jello or some shit. He bent over and gave the carpet a push.
Fighting both the urge to scream and vomit, Jamal ran towards his house.
The chubby blond girl landed flat on her back. The shadow of an inbound Delta 767 passed directly overhead, her fixed blue eyes too dead to notice.
Bob Healy slid the coffee cup across the table to his brother. George took a sip.
“Jesus Christ!” He ran to the sink and spit it out. “The milk’s curdled.”
“Is it? I’m sorry.”
“And look at this place. It’s a mess.”
“I know,” Bob confessed. “It’s not only the emotional things you lose when your wife dies.”
“At least get a cleaning lady in once a week.”
“Okay, George.”
“So like I was saying before you tried to poison me, the lab’s going to do that second set of tests on all the blood samples from the Reyes crime scene. You’re sure the Strohmeyer kid did him, right?”
Bob hesitated. “Well, no. I think maybe he did. But I’m not sure. Last night before he… In his state of mind he might’ve done anything that would have gotten Cathy’s attention.”
“Cathy?”
“Forget it.”
George pulled his attache case onto the table, opened it up, removed a manilla folder.
“Here are those police reports you wanted.”
“What reports?”
“The Highway Patrol logs for the L.I.E. from-”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Thanks, little brother.”
“That’s it from me, though, bro. Go back to being retired before you get something more vital shot off than the bottom eighth inch of your fucking earlobe.”
“Maybe I’ll take up painting.”
“Very funny. Remember how well that worked out for Van Gogh.” George stood, leaned over, and kissed his brother on top of the head. “Go find somebody to love.”
It wasn’t a half-bad idea, Bob thought. Besides, he’d never been much of an artist. He went to the phone and tried Serpe’s numbers again.
Maria parked her cleaning wagon directly between Rooms 217 and 218. She checked over both shoulders one last time to make certain neither the desk clerk nor the motel manager was around. She slid her passkey into the lock, gave it a twist, and shuttled Marla and Joe inside. Maria held up her right hand to indicate they had five minutes. Joe nodded his head that he understood. Maria closed the door behind her. They waited. They heard her knock on 218. No answer. They listened to her step inside and close the door behind her.
Joe turned to Marla. “Get on the bed.”
“What?”
