Page 77 of Skeletons in the Closet

“I’m hoping whoever is working the desk might share who rented the room on Friday night.”

“Smart. Do you think they’ll tell us?”

“It could easily fail. Unless it’s a dumbass kid with shit for brains who doesn’t understand the law, we’re likely going to be told to take a hike.”

“I think you rely far too heavily on the stupidity of our youth. Not everyone has bricks for brains.” I groaned and stretched my neck from side to side.

“Most of them do.”

Part of me regretted not telling Diem to take me to my car so I could go home. I knew better than to fuck with brewing migraines. I also knew better than to have more than three coffees in a day. It was a recipe for disaster. Without immediately taking pills, I was setting myself up for a world of hell. At this rate, I’d be unable to work tomorrow.

Diem watched from the shadow of the driver’s seat, concern creasing his brow.

I nodded at the building. “Let’s get this over with. Cross your fingers and toes.”

“You don’t look well.”

“Careful, Guns. You’ll hurt my feelings. I have a fragile ego when it comes to my looks.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” I tried for a smile, but it came out laced with pain.

“Why don’t you stay here.”

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Because you’re a social klutz when left to your own devices, and if we want answers, you know we’re more likely to get them if I do the talking.”

Diem didn’t argue.

We got out of the Jeep and headed to the main office of the sleazy motel. A man in his midtwenties was behind the desk—greasy hair, wide forehead—watching an action flick on a miniature-size TV. The spaced-out look in his eyes barely cleared when he glanced to the door at our entrance.

Why did Diem always have to be right?

“Got a reservation?” the guy asked, heaving himself from a chair behind the counter and meeting us at the computer. Hisclothes were too big and hung unattractively on a rail-thin frame. The scraggly scruff on his face suggested he couldn’t grow a healthy beard if his life depended on it.

“No reservation. Just a few questions,” I said, jumping in before Diem opened his mouth. I tried to find a cocksure smile but feared it was less than genuine and showed my suffering instead.

“We’re private investigators, chum. I’m Inspector Clouseau, and this is my partner, Inspector… um, Gadget. We were wondering if you could give us a hand.”

Diem made a noise in his throat. It was one of those choked-off sounds that might have been a repressed laugh but probably wasn’t. I had yet to figure it out.

The man behind the counter scrunched his brow as he breathed through his mouth. “I think I’ve heard of you.”

“We’re pretty famous. Look, kid.” The guy was no older than me, but I didn’t care. I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “There was a man who checked into room eighteen on Friday night. He’s dangerous. Might have killed someone. We need to know who he is. You could help us save lives.”

The guy’s eyes widened as he shifted his attention from me to Diem and back, then narrowed them. “Wait a minute. Do you have badges? You don’t look like investigators.”

“Are you kidding? He has a fedora. What more do you want?”

The guy puzzled Diem’s hat but he still didn’t look convinced.

Fuck.

I smacked Diem’s chest, smile straining. “Show him your ID. I left mine in the car.”

Diem glared for a long time as though trying to communicate something, then reached into his back pocket and flashed his PI credentials to the man, too fast for him to read the name.

I huffed and patted Diem’s broad chest. “Excuse my partner. He’s got a bad headache, which prevents him from havingpatience. Turns him surly. Room eighteen. Friday night. We’ll get out of your hair. I promise.”

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