Sole Witness (13 page)

He shouldn’t feel empty without her, but he couldn’t
help it. Lori turned to look back at him one last time. She made a face, then
returned to the table to pat his arm.

She pitied him. Nice.

*          *          *

Noon. At last.

Amber extricated herself from
another boring recitation of the sorority’s fraternity-attracting parties with
a word about her ‘dentist appointment’ and an anticipatory wince for good
measure.

Those doll-faced idiots shooed
her off with useless advice and the promise to cover for her if she ran late.
All Amber wanted was a little luck, for crying out loud. Just a supermodel with
her face in front of her gun. Was that too much to ask?

She stepped out into the blinding
sun and checked the note again.

Shell Motel.

“I’m off to kill the model…”
Amber sang under her breath. She slapped the Glock into her purse and closed
her trunk.

Twelve-oh-three and she was on
her way to spread a little premature death around. Lori didn’t even know how
close she was to a bullet. If she wasn’t scared yet, she’d be scared soon.

Amber turned onto the expressway
and lit a cigarette.

Then again, maybe the Super Slut
was scared already. God, Amber hoped so. Hadn’t Lori put her through enough?
The sneaky visit to her bank, springing Hot Cop and Preggo Pig on her at home…
The least she could do was back off and leave Amber alone.

But no, that witch was crazy.

Yesterday’s events raised the
suspicion that maybe Lori really could identify her. Maybe even knew Amber’s
name.

If so, the only reason the cops
hadn’t cuffed her for a 10-29 and hauled her off to county was because the
little fashion slave had to be running scared. Her sitcom-sucking friend’s
death served as a little warning.

Well, good. At least something
went right around here.

Sassypants Summers needed more of
the same—a slug in her own forehead this time, thank you very much—and fast,
before she got too full of herself and started singing to the cops.

She signaled and pulled off on
Exit 42.

Hadn’t ruining all Amber’s plans
for Tommy been enough? Plugging Lori with bullets would be too kind.

Amber glanced at the time. Half
past noon. Too kind or not, emptying a round into Lori’s face was all she had
time for. Some people had real jobs and couldn’t waste their lunch hours. She
pulled in to park.

The Shell Motel looked
ridiculous.

First of all, it was on the
opposite side of town as the Gulf, so the name was stupid right there. But then
again, tourists were idiots, so maybe that part was a brilliant marketing ploy.

Secondly, it looked about as
ghetto as Isla Concha got.

The building was E-shaped, single
story, and decorated with illiterate graffiti. Each room had a solitary window,
curtains that didn’t quite close in the middle, and a dirt-crusted door facing
the street—ensuring maximum highway noise and a complete lack of privacy.

Thirdly, the place was a dump.

Except for Lori’s blinding pink
monstrosity, the rest of the cars were missing taillights, wheels, or windows.
The concrete was covered with more cigarette butts, beer cans, and Burger King
wrappers than Amber’s freaking trailer park.

Hoity-toity Summers chose to stay
here? God. Goes to show supermodels got no taste. If Amber had half that
chick’s cash, she’d step it up to at least the Quality Inn. This place was
sketchy as all hell.

Good thing she brought her gun.

Shaking her head, Amber
straightened her purse strap and strode into the lobby.

A dozen or so half-naked spring
breakers milled around the small room, swarming over each other like blind rats
in a fishbowl. Every single one of them held a beer in each hand. Amber glanced
around. No bar. Just beer.

Their sandaled feet crushed empty
cardboard twenty-four packs underfoot. Classy.

She made her way to the front
counter, trying not to get groped—or at least trying not to kill the fools that
dared to touch her. Time permitting, she’d deal with them later.

The skinny front desk clerk
sipped from his Styrofoam cup and stared at her as she walked up. Or rather, he
stared at her bouncing braless breasts.

So far, so good.

“Hey, sexy,” Amber purred. “You
do me a favor?”

Coffee sloshed over his hand as
he slapped the cup down on the counter. He didn’t even notice.

“Anything. What can I do for
you?”

Amber leaned closer, half-hoping
one naked breast would swing through her gaping blouse. He’d probably keel over
and die, making her job that much easier.

“Could you get me some pillows?”
she asked, trying to infuse as much suggestive sexuality into the request as
she could.

“Pillows?” he repeated. He cast a
frantic glance around the raucous room. “They’re in the back and I’m the only
one here… What do you need ’em for?”

“Oh, you know how it is. I’ve got
some… friends… over, and everybody wants their own.” Amber gave him a slow
wink, making sure she telegraphed the image of a dozen naked bodies writhing in
her bed. “What time’s your shift over, honey? You bring me some pillows, I’ll
give you my room number… and a whole lot more.”

“I– I– Pillows? Gimme two
minutes. I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared out a side door.
Hopefully the supply closet was four counties away.

Without even wasting a glance
toward the college kids, Amber slid behind the counter and peered at the tiny
computer screen. God, what a simple system. Shell Motel must employ a string of
idiots.

She typed in Lori’s name and got
the number in seconds. 117. Easy peasy.

Now for the key. Amber glanced
around for a stack of plastic key cards.

Nothing. Not that kind of place.

Instead, she found two bursting
key rings marked ‘Custodial’, each key clearly marked with the corresponding
room number.

Yep. Shell Motel definitely
employed idiots.

After flipping to find number
117, she grabbed that ring and left the other. Deciding not to exit through the
same side door as the clerk, Amber threaded her way through the drunken
teenagers and went straight out the front doors.

Now, which way was 117?

She squinted to the right in the
direction the clerk had gone. Room 150, 151, 152…

Amber headed off to the left,
tugging on her gloves and hat. If anyone asked, she’d claim leprosy.

She found Lori’s room in less
than thirty seconds. Excellent. There might be time for lunch, after all.

“Ready or not, here I come,”
Amber sang out.

She twisted the key and kicked in
the door.

Freaking empty. Unbelievable.

Amber stepped inside and the door
closed to a crack. Christ, where the hell was she? It wasn’t like there was
anything to do in this dump except watch TV, unless you wanted to drink
Milwaukee’s Best with nineteen-year-olds.

Aargh. Amber felt like screaming.

Instead, she stalked through the
room, smirking at its dowdiness. Crappy place didn’t even have any branded
bedside pens or pads of paper for her to steal. What was the world coming to?

Amber plopped on the edge of the
bed to wait for Lori.

She rattled her purse for
lip-gloss. How come she could never find the damn stuff when she wanted it?

Handgun, tampon, Coors Light
pocketknife, crumpled sticky-note… no lip-gloss.

Hold on. Pocketknife.

Maybe she could have some fun
here while she waited. Slow down the investigation a little.

With a smile, Amber opened the
pocketknife and began walking along the perimeter of each wall, digging deep
grooves in the drywall and smirking at the flurry of flaky plaster coating the
room.

Can’t wait to see the checkout
charge for that one.

When she passed the TV, she
knocked it off the side. The metal chain anchoring it to the table didn’t
prevent the screen from imploding when it hit the floor.

Amber cut abstract designs into
the sheets and mattress before heading to the bathroom and slicing up the
mold-covered curtain. They should’ve replaced that disgusting thing years ago.

She was doing a freaking public
service.

When she couldn’t see anything
else to deface, Amber glanced around for the alarm clock. Five after one
already. Damn.

If Miss Priss didn’t show up
soon, Amber’d have to go back to work. She tapped the toe of one restless
stiletto against the bedpost. Lori better hurry.

Amber was dying to kill somebody.

Lori clutched her backpack to her chest and burst
out of Auntie Lou’s into the muggy parking lot. She hoped her dramatic exit
hadn’t come across as moody and childish, but seriously…

She’d already had one man mistake ‘autograph’ for
‘etchings’ and wind up dead. The last thing she needed was Davis following her
to his death. Or to her bed. Death was worse, sure, but if she let Davy into
her heart again… No.

Too risky. Ever.

First and foremost, the last time he’d had her
heart, he’d abandoned it in the cold when he’d disregarded both her feelings
and their past in order to hook up with a smarmy, conceited cheerleader.

Not that all cheerleaders were caricatures of
evil—just that one.

Second, a madman was on the loose. Maybe Davy wasn’t
convinced yet that the killer targeted Lori specifically, but she was pretty
sure. Tommy may have had enemies, but Kimber sure didn’t.

Lori was the connecting thread.

She fished her key out from her purse and walked
faster. The sweltering sun was impossible. She’d have to take another shower.
At least she had clean clothes to change into this time. With luck, they even
matched.

Ten feet from her door, Lori halted.

Maid service. Great timing.

Her door stood slightly ajar and shadows simmered
through the crack in the curtains. Maybe if she asked them to leave, just long
enough for her to take a shower…

Lori took another step forward and stopped walking.

Wait.

The clerk had been very clear—checkout was at two
o’clock on the dot because the maids cleaned from two to five. What time was it
now? Lori glanced at her wrist. No watch. She grappled for her cell phone.

One seventeen.

Growing unease morphed into a roiling sensation
close to nausea.

The motel was many things, but Lori doubted
over-punctual was one of them. No towel-laden cart parked in front of her
window. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign still dangled from her doorknob. Oh no.

He was here.

Lori turned on shaky heels and ran.

*          *          *

Davis was less than a mile from the precinct when he
got the call. He barely had time to say his name before Carver interrupted him.

“Where are you?” she barked.

Not by Lori’s side, where he wished he was. Being so
close to her and yet unable to touch had been torture. If only… “Corner of
Seventh and Gaspar. I’ll be there in five. What’s up?”

One of her stupid cough drops clicked between her
teeth as she spoke. “Don’t know if you really wanna be here right now. Remember
Detective Sergeant’s threats to lateral you?”

“Yeah?”

“According to him, he just might
can
you
instead.”

He frowned. “What?”

“The lead witness to our career-breaking high
profile case just called and said that not only did the killer strike again,
she thinks that Detective Davis Hamilton may have tipped him off with her
location.”

“
What?!
”

“I thought you were out protecting her, big man.
What gives?”

Davis wished he knew.

He pulled to a stop in the emergency lane on the
side of the grassy median and stared at three lanes of Spring Break traffic.
The car tilted, half on overgrown weeds and half on gravel, but now was not the
time to lament the loss of his parking skills.

“Take it from the top, Carver. I left her not twenty
minutes ago. Whole, healthy, and killer-free. She drank a milkshake right in
front of me. She didn’t seem to suspect me of anything.”

Except, maybe, of trying to get in her pants. After
all, they’d been lovers once. And… he was male. No doubt that was why she
insisted on returning to her hotel room alone.

“Ms. Summers says she did not go to her mother’s
house, as she told police.”

“Right.”

Carver crunched on her cough drop. “Contrary to last
night’s report, she says she went to a motel instead.”