Sole Witness

by Jenn Black

  Childish, perhaps. He couldn’t help it.

  Once he hit the highway, Davis punched up Carver on his cell.

  “Yeah?” she barked. “Where the hell are you?”

  He navigated up the on-ramp. “Highway. I’ll hit the station in another hour or so and pick you up.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Interviewing a witness.”

  Carver snickered. “Lemme guess. Miss Summers?”

  “Right in one. And I don’t want to hear about it.”

  An inelegant snort crackled across the line. “Ten-four, big daddy. See you at the station.”

  “Yeah. Later.”

  Davis clicked his phone shut and pocketed it. He turned up the radio and listened to soft jazz until Auntie Lou’s loomed into sight. He couldn’t wait to see Lori. His stomach burbled with anticipation. He felt like a freaking teenager.

  Think she’d punch him if he tried to kiss her?

  Bad idea. No kissing allowed. She was a witness. He was a cop.

  Nonetheless, as he strode to the diner from the parking lot, he couldn’t help but wish he came bearing more than an army-green backpack. Flowers, maybe. Roses.

  He shoved open the door and stepped inside.

  His eyes found her immediately. She was the one in the back corner being ogled by no less than nine dirty old men and at least two illegal-resident cooking staff.

  Holy crap. Was that stabbing actual jealousy?

  No, of course not. Just cop instinct, that’s all.

  Men were bigger and stronger and meaner and dumber and put women of all types at a disadvantage. There’s no gender equality. He shouldn’t have let her come here alone.

  He muscled his way past a drooling busboy and deposited her bag on the seat next to her. She looked up at him and grinned.

  His heart melted.

  “Listen, Davy.” She punched up the volume on the jukebox. “It’s Tommy James. You remember?”

  Did he ever. Davis sank onto the bench like he took a bullet to the gut.

  Thirteen years ago. A ‘sock hop.’

  He thought it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard of in his life. But Lori wanted to go, and in those days, he’d be anywhere she asked. No way was he letting some other guy take her out, dance with her, hold her. Like hell.

  “How can I forget? I fell down eight times.”

  She smiled. “You were so cute. Slippery dress socks were maybe a bad idea, but you did the twist with such… such gusto.”

  Some call it ‘gusto,’ others might call it ‘making an ass of himself.’ Whatever it took to win the girl.

  “You were good, anyway,” Davis muttered.

  She’d been phenomenal.

  No poodle skirt, though—just something else for the ‘cool’ kids to ride him about—but she knew all the steps. Who knew ‘mashed potato’ was a dance? He’d thought it meant the cafeteria was serving midnight snacks, and she hadn’t even laughed at him.

  “So, why weren’t you at your mom’s?” he asked.

  Lori jacked the volume up higher.

  Fine. No questions about her mom. Maybe family meant little to her.

  Maybe she was more like Juliana than he could have ever guessed. Maybe he should run screaming before letting his foolish heart get all sorts of bad ideas about rekindling a romance with Lori Summers.

  Davis twisted the knob on the jukebox until he could talk without shouting.

  “You ate?”

  “Yeah,” she answered and gestured to an empty plate and a half-drunk milkshake.

  Those dormant protective feelings bubbled to the surface again. If he thought the creeps in here were bad, what about the Shell Motel? Talk about sketchy.

  “Can I walk you to your room?”

  Something flashed in her eyes.

  “No.”

  Lori snatched up her purse and tossed a twenty on the table. She slung the backpack over one shoulder and rose to her feet.

  “Lor, I just–”

  “I said no.”

  Lori turned away, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight, the rear of her skirt smeared with dirt and grass stains. She looked like a million bucks. Way out of his league. She stalked toward the door,.

  She didn’t need him. Worse, she didn’t even want him.

  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 t
hem 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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  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 e
mergency 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.”

  “Right.”

  “And that the only person who knew of this change was you.”

  Davis gripped the parking brake without responding.

  “And that she called you directly, herself, with her location.”

  Itchy sweat trickled down Davis’s neck.

  “And that you met her today, next to her motel. Davis, are you still there?”

  “Yeah.” The word came out choked.

  “And that when she got back to her room, the killer was inside.”

  Nice work, Hamilton. He should have walked her back like he wanted to. He should never have left her alone. “Is– Is she–”

  “She noticed the door ajar and got the hell out of there.”

  Davis put the car in gear and made a U-turn on the uneven grass. “Where is she now?”

  “No idea. Wouldn’t say. Seemed to think trusting the police—or at least, trusting you—was a direct line to trouble. And let me just say, Detective Sergeant is not pleased.”

  “He’s the least of my concerns right now. I’m on my way to the motel. And Carver… thanks.”

  Carver snorted a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

  Davis snapped his cell phone closed and sped back to the motel, wishing his rig came with sirens. And maybe a sniper rifle. If Lori’s stalker ever came within his sight, he’d–

  Lights flashed in the Shell Motel parking lot. Davis pulled up next to a squad car and strode inside.

  Although almost empty now, the lobby looked like it had been a major party scene scant moments earlier. The gangly motel clerk speaking to one of the uniforms tried to surreptitiously kick a beer can under a couch. Unfortunately for him, the can was half full and the contents drenched his shoe.