and that shirtdress draping off one shoulder, she still looks like a beach bunny pretending to be a grownup. Mr. Adkinson is behind her, leaning up against the credenza, monitoring the sputtering coffeemaker that’s brewing us all a fresh pot of caffeinated mud.
“When did you first notice the vehicle’s presence in your parking lot?” asks Ceepak.
“This morning, when I was taking a load of towels out to the laundry room. I mean, it’s probably been parked out back for a while, but cars always are. I don’t really pay much attention to them. Sorry.”
“I take it the Mustang did not belong to a registered guest?”
“Nope,” says Mr. Adkinson. “I ran the plates through our records. Unlike a lot of motels, we have more spaces than rooms. Sometimes families take two units, but arrive in one car. A minivan or whatever.”
“So there are typically empty spaces in your lot?”
“Yeah. Except Saturdays, when the day-trippers show up. If they behave and we have space, I let ’em park.”
“For free,” Becca adds, sounding astonished.
Her dad smiles. “It’s good for business. Maybe not mine, but, well, Skipper Dipper across the street sells a couple extra ice cream cones and maybe, one day, they recommend my motel. It all comes out in the wash.”
“Can I ask a question?” I say.
“Certainly,” says Ceepak.
“You guys ever see any motorcycles parked back there?”
“Sure,” says Mr. Adkinson. “Sometimes.”
I keep going. “You ever hear one pull in at like two or three in the morning?”
Becca gasps. Her cheeks flush red. “Shut the front door!”
Like father, like daughter.
“How did you know that, Danny?”
“I-”
“Daddy, do you have a security camera aimed at the pool?”
“Yeah. For-”
Becca whips back at me. “Danny-did you see me naked?”
26
“What?” I sort of sputter.
“Did you see me naked?”
“Not in the pool-”
“I can
“Sweetheart?” says her dad, reassuringly, “I turn the pool camera off when we lock it up at eleven P.M.”
“Oh. Then how did you know, Danny?”
I toss up my hands. “Know what?”
“A week ago. Last Thursday night. I’d been out on a very bad date. Jim and I broke up. For good this time.”
“Thank goodness,” her father editorializes.
“Daddy?”
“Sorry.”
“Afterwards, I couldn’t get to sleep. So, at like three in the morning, I came down, opened up the pool and, you know, took a dip.”
Me and Mr. Adkinson sort of nod slowly.
Ceepak, however, has his note pad out and needs the facts. “Naked?” he says.
“Yes.” Becca is blushing like she’s swallowed a stoplight. “When I need to unwind, sometimes I skinny- dip.”
“Did you adjust the chemicals afterwards?” asks her father.
Becca sighs. “Yes, Daddy. I showered off before jumping in and I adjusted the chemicals after I got out, okay?”
Mr. Adkinson holds up both hands to make the classic “hey-I-was-just-asking” gesture.
“Did you see or hear anything?” asks Ceepak.
She nods. “I heard a motorcycle pull into the parking lot, just like Danny said.”
“At 3 A.M.?” says her dad.
“Or a little after.”
Guess she wasn’t even wearing a watch.
“Did you go out back to see who was pulling in at that hour?” asks Ceepak.
“No. I was naked. I swam over to side of the pool and tried to hide.”
Ceepak leans forward in his chair. “What did you hear, Becca? This is very important. Try to remember everything.”
“Okay.” She closes her eyes. “The motorcycle cut out its engine. I remember thinking, ‘Oh, great. Whoever it is, they’re gonna come through the breezeway and see me.’ So I dunked my head under the water. When I came back up for air, I heard a car door open and slam shut. And then …” She squeezes her eyes tighter. “Another car door thunked open.”
“You’re sure?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah, because then I heard it thunk shut again.”
I glance over at Ceepak. This doesn’t make sense. Why did Paul Braciole drive the Mustang over to the Mussel Beach Motel when he left Mandy’s place? Why did he get out of the car, and then go back and open and shut the door again? Did he have something in the car the killer on the motorcycle wanted?
“Did you hear a gunshot?” I ask.
“No,” says Becca.
Okay. Maybe the killer used some kind of noise suppressor on the muzzle of his weapon.
“Perhaps a soft popping sound?” asks Ceepak.
“Nope,” says Becca. “There were no more sounds for a while, except, of course, the water gurgling down the drain.”
“What did you do then?”
“I waited. Like five or ten minutes. Then, since everything was still quiet, I figured whoever it was had gone down to the beach or whatever. So, I climbed out, found my towel, grabbed my clothes, and ran up the steps to the second floor.”
She pauses.
“What is it, Becca?” I say.
“When I got to the top of the staircase, I had to cut across the sundeck to get to my room. I wrapped myself up in the towel and tiptoed as quietly as I could. That’s when the motorcycle started up again.” She puts her hand to her heart. “It startled me. So I looked down. Saw the two people on the motorcycle.”
“Two?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah. The driver and a passenger behind him, hanging on tight to his waist.”
“You’re certain the motorcyclist was a man?” says Ceepak.
“No. Not really. He had on one of those tinted racing helmets and like a leather jumpsuit, so I guess he could’ve been a girl.”
“And the passenger?”
“Oh. He had on a helmet, but I could tell: he was definitely a guy. He was wearing a muscle shirt to show off his biceps and junk-just like Paulie always did on
Becca’s eyes go wide.
“Omigod. That was him, wasn’t it? On the back of the motorbike. Right before he died.”
“Perhaps,” says Ceepak.
