“The Chestnut?”
“It’s a motor lodge off 118. It’s on the way out to Mike’s.”
Fogel nodded and wished she hadn’t.
Officer Jun produced a bottle of Advil from his pocket and handed it to her with a weak smile.
The Chestnut Motor Lodge was a real dump. If not for the naval base, they were lucky if tourists stopped here for gas. The owners of the Chestnut tried to sell, couldn’t, and eventually decided to let the motel die a slow death.
“That’s all just fine by us,” Officer Jun said. “The prostitutes need somewhere to bring their Johns. At least this place keeps the riffraff outside the city limits.”
By the looks of things, the riffraff had been busy last night.
Officer Jun’s coworkers had the entire parking lot taped off along with the west end of the building. The remains of a large SUV smoldered at the center of the lot and several cars were taped off, too.
“What happened here?”
“Someone vandalized every white car in the parking lot, even set that one on fire. We had reports of shots fired. They found some blood in the stairwell, but no victim.” He reached across the car, popped open the glove box, and rummaged around inside. He found a couple boxes of 35mm film, checked the label, then closed the glove box. With his free hand, he scooped up the camera at his feet. “We think whoever did this started up at Mike’s last night—we got nine more damaged cars up there—sliced up the tires, only the white ones, though. Got a thing for that color. Some special kind of crazy, I suppose. Wait here—”
Officer Jun shot out the door toward a group of officers near the far west stairs.
How many white cars did you see in the parking lot?
Thatch had been obsessed. Why would he disable them? Would he seriously set one on fire?
Fogel opened the door and stood beside the car. Jun’s back was to her, lost in some animated conversation. On the opposite end of the building, near the motel office, a detective in plainclothes was questioning a woman with a name tag pinned to her lapel, maybe the manager or some kind of employee. Several times, she pointed up at an open door on the second floor, then turned back to the detective.
Officer Jun glanced back at her.
Fogel waved.
When he turned back to the other officers, she bolted across the parking lot to the center staircase and took them two at a time. On the second floor, she followed the sidewalk around to the open door. There was a bloodstain on the concrete just outside the door. The earlier rain had partially washed it away—no evidence tag, no crime-scene tape. They hadn’t gotten up here yet.
An angry voice shouted up at her from the ground floor. She couldn’t make out the words.
She didn’t have much time.
Fogel carefully stepped over the stain into the room.
Typical rundown motel room. She’d seen hundreds over the course of her career. A ratty bed, heavy drapes, shag carpet. Something had happened here, though. The room felt off. She spotted a bottle cap on the floor, otherwise, nothing appeared out of place. She quickly crossed to the bathroom—a towel on the floor, otherwise normal. Nothing on the counter around the sink.
A matchbook on the floor near the bed.
A Bible in one of the drawers.
Motel notepad next to the phone.
Fogel tore off the topmost three sheets and shoved them in her pocket before ducking and taking a look under the bed.
When she stood back up, three men were standing in the doorway. A plainclothes detective, a uniform, and Officer Jun.
Jun’s face was red. “I told you to wait in the car.”
“She’s with you?” the detective said. A pudgy man, half a foot shorter than Jun, with stringy hair combed back over his flat head.
“You’re standing in evidence,” Fogel said, glancing down at the concrete.
The detective followed her gaze. “Oh, hell.”
