It was true. Following that logic, we’d better be getting ready for a wedding. Oh jeez. I just could not think about that right now. It took more brain cells than I had to go around. “So where were we?”
“Handy Randy may or may not be at some address, and you have a missing uncle,” Eddy said. “I’d love to go investigating with you kids, but”—she jerked a thumb over her shoulder—“Kate’s decided today would be a good day for cleaning. I told her I’d handle the crowd.”
“Well,” I said, “let’s go see what we can find. Time’s a wastin’.”
“Let me pack up, and we’re outta here,” Coop said.
“Hey,” Eddy called after us. “Drop by Maria’s uncle’s motel first. In case he had a heart attack and keeled over or something. Bet he doesn’t have one of those ‘Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!’ thingies they show on the television.”
As we snarfed leftover grub from Eddy’s refrigerator, Coop Googled the Starlite Motel. It was actually in Columbia Heights. Michelle, Maria’s foster mom, had part of the city’s name right, anyway.
We cleaned up and soon I was following Coop’s directions, headed north on I-94.
He said, “You know, I could check with Luz, see if she’s heard of this Hector Delgado.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Okay. Just in case I’m not off the phone, go east on 694 when you get to it, and then south on Central. It’s probably less than a mile, I think on the right-hand side.”
Luz picked up right away, and Coop summarized our predicament for her. I zoned out as he spoke, letting the act of driving and the monotony of the highway mesmerize me.
“Well,” Coop said, jarring me back to the moment after he disconnected, “Luz hasn’t heard of Hector, but she said she’d talk to her remaining contacts.”
“Okay.” I turned right off of Central Avenue, crossed a frontage road, and pulled into the parking lot of the Starlite Motel. “We’re looking for room two two four. That’s the number Michelle thought Hector was in.”
Coop looked around. “This place belongs in Vegas. I don’t really want a repeat performance of the Shamrock Dumptel. Let’s just try the room and if he’s not there, we’ll check again later.”
“Absolutely.” I wasn’t in any rush to cough up more bribery dough to shady proprietors.
The motel itself was a U-shaped, two-story from the late Fifties or early Sixties. The sign out front was an upside-down triangle with an arrow pointing into the parking lot. A big white star sat on top of the arrow. At night, I was pretty sure the whole thing would light up obnoxiously.
An old van and four other cars were parked on recently laid blacktop. I pulled into one of the diagonally painted spots at the outside corner of the motel and killed the engine. This joint was a step up from the Shamrock, but it was still light years away from the Hilton.
“Here goes nothing.” I climbed from the truck and scanned the building. A staircase at the end of the motel accessed the second level. An open-air walkway ran the length of the building and extended over the sidewalk below.
The sidewalk and regularly spaced pillars holding up the second-story overhang were all that separated the parking lot from the motel.
A number 127 was mounted on a raised plaque secured to a door almost directly in front of the truck’s grill. If logic followed, Hector’s room 224 should be just above us, a few doors down the way. I headed for the stairs, Coop close on my flank.
Without pausing on the landing at the top of the steps, we rounded the corner of the stucco structure. The first room was 227. I glanced over the railing into the lot. My pickup was tucked in the spot right below us.
Cars on the main drag whizzed noisily by, and if the motel rooms weren’t soundproofed well, the racket would bleed right through the walls. I had a hunch a lot of bleeding went on here.
The next room we passed was 226, then 225. Part of the 5 had fallen off the plaque. The low rumble of a television seeped through the door to room 224.
Coop whispered, “Someone’s home.”
“Yeah.” I rapped on the door, waited a few seconds, and tapped again. “Hector Delgado?” I called, hoping he’d be able to hear us as well as we could hear the TV. The chatter was suddenly silenced. Maybe if Hector heard something about his niece, he’d open up. “Mr. Delgado, we’re here about Maria.”
For long moments there was nothing. Then a muffled, accented voice said, “She is okay?”
“Yes, she is,” I said. “Can you open the door?”
The door opened just a crack. I said, “Mr. Delgado—Hector, I’m Shay O’Hanlon, and this is Nick Cooper. I just visited Maria.”
Hector hesitantly opened the door the rest of the way. A thick, muscular man, probably somewhere in his thirties, stood before us. Black hair was cut to a quarter inch. A wide, neatly trimmed moustache ran across his upper lip, down each cheek, and stopped right above his jawbone. He was dressed in a navy-blue T-shirt, gray sweats, and black tennis shoes.
The one thing that stood out, aside from the gigantic moustache, was that Hector’s right eye was just about swollen shut. A bruise the size of a grapefruit covered half his face. Ouch.
Coop and I stepped inside, and Hector shut the door. The curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a lamp on a table. The television flickered the noon news on channel 4, but the sound had been muted. Pizza had been recently consumed—as evidenced by a grease-stained cardboard box propped on the floor next to the wall. Pizza was evidently the sustenance of choice for motel dwellers.
Hector limped over to the table and sat heavily on the only chair in the room. A bag of ice lay on the tabletop leaking water, which was soaking into a mounded pile of newspapers. A glossy green and white magazine topped the stack.
I noticed the knuckles on Hector’s right hand were swelled up and raw, the skin scraped off in places. Looked like a brawl to me.
“Maria is all right?” Hector repeated hoarsely.
“She’s fine,” Coop said.
I stepped into the circle of light. “I saw her today. She’s wondering where you’ve been. Michelle’s really worried. She tried to get a hold of you …”
Hector closed his non-blackened eye. “I know. I did not want Maria to see me—” He waved his hand at himself.
“In your—condition, I understand.” I wouldn’t want her to see me looking like that either. I glanced down at the table. The magazine on top of the newspapers looked familiar. I peered closer. It was actually an event brochure, folded open to the center. I’d seen that brochure before. It displayed half of a stylized, hand-drawn map. What were the chances? “Hector,” I said slowly, “Were you at the Renaissance Festival Saturday evening?”
My head snapped up and I met Hector’s suddenly squinty eye. His absence and wounded state suddenly made complete sense. My eyes widened as the horrifying realization and its repercussions sunk in. I stood there frozen, mesmerized, watching Hector’s face vacillate from confusion to suspicious comprehension of my own comprehension.
He was the one who stuffed a pickle in Krasski’s mouth. He was the one who pulled the trigger and blew off the back of Krasski’s head. And now Hector knew that I’d figured out his dirty little secret.
Holy hell. We were in the same room as a killer.
sixteen
My heart dropped past my stomach and slammed into my heels. I spun around and bounced into Coop, nearly knocking him on his keister.
“Run!” I gasped, grabbing onto his belt to steady then drag him toward the door.
I yanked it open, lurched onto the walkway, and careened into the railing. I used it to propel myself down the walkway. Coop scrambled right behind me, legs churning.
“Wha—” He was interrupted by Hector’s howl of desperation.
I glanced over my shoulder. Terror overtook panic. Hector leaned out of the room, a
gigantic silver gun in his mitt.
We’d never make it to the end of the walkway and around the corner of the building before he blasted one of us.
Two more strides. The truck came into view through the iron grates of the railing, right below us. “Coop, jump!” I hollered as I leaped over the railing, praying the hood of the pickup was as close as it seemed.
As I flew through the air, everything slowed. I clearly saw the truck hood right below my feet, unmarred and shiny. Coop launched off the walkway and flew over my shoulder past me. I heard him impact the roof just as my feet hit the hood.
A tiny part of my brain registered the fact that my poor truck was never going to be quite the same.
For a split second, the metal hood dipped until it slammed into the engine block. The resulting impact jarred the oxygen right out of me. My momentum threw me into the windshield, which somehow, thankfully, didn’t shatter.
I managed to roll off and land on my feet next to the driver’s door. Coop leaped to the ground from where he’d bounced to a stop in the pickup bed.
We nearly bashed heads as we frantically dove inside. I scrambled for the key in my pocket, yanked it out, and promptly dropped it. It hit my knee and disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of the gas pedal. I swore and awkwardly fumbled around the floorboard.
“SHAY!” Coop bellowed. “Hurry!”
I popped my head up. Hector had made it down the stairs. I was afraid he was going to take a run at us. The gun in his hand flashed in the sunlight.
“I’m trying!” I ducked under the dash again and swore some more, cursing my klutziness. Wouldn’t it just be something to be taken out because I couldn’t find the goddamned key in time? Finally my fingers wrapped around it. I straightened and jammed that sucker home. A horrified yowling filled the cab, and I was afraid the terrible sound came from me.
The engine roared to life. I shifted into Reverse and floored it. The back tires squealed as they spun, finally gaining traction. We zoomed backward. I slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel. Rubber screamed on asphalt.
As we started to roll forward, Hector veered away from my pickup and ran flat out toward a rusty maroon and silver van.
I shifted into Drive and hammered the gas, squealing out of the lot and turned left onto the frontage road. In the rearview mirror, I saw the van peel out of the parking lot amid the high-pitched squealing of tires.
“Jesus!” Coop yelled as he twisted around to look out of the back window. “He’s right on our ass.”
Flameburger was coming up on our left. I was going too fast to make a hard right onto Central. Ahead, the frontage road ended in the parking lot shared by Dammit Jayne Liquors and Walgreen’s.
“Holy fuck!” I searched frantically for another out as we whipped past Flameburger.
Then decisions were literally ripped out of my hands as the van violently rammed the back end of my truck. The steering wheel spun but wouldn’t respond. I stomped on the brake pedal with both feet. The truck shuddered as the tires tried to grip the rough roadway. We launched into a full-on skid. Directly in front of us, a bright red 6x4-foot Clothing And Shoes Only donation drop-off bin loomed in front of the Dammit Jayne Liquors sign.
“COO—” I screamed as we careened head-on into the metal container. There was a loud popping sound as metal screeched and crunched. Something blasted me in the face, momentarily stunning me senseless.
Then there was silence.
I struggled through disorientation. “COOP!”
He made a strangled gasp. “Gah. You okay?”
“Think so. Come on!”
He wrenched his door open and fell out onto the ground in his haste to exit.
I found the handle on the driver’s door and shoved. My body felt like it was floating. Focus, Shay. My feet hit the ground with a thump that rattled my teeth. No more floating.
The driver’s side of the van was wedged up against the bed of the pickup. The tailgate blocked the van’s driver’s door. Hector was attempting to crawl across the seat toward the passenger side. In my stunned stupor, I wondered why he didn’t try going out the big rolling side door instead.
Before I could take in any more, Coop was at my side. “Come ON!” He grabbed my arm and yanked. I stumbled. My feet weren’t working as fast as my brain wanted them to.
I found my footing and raced after Coop, who was making a beeline for the front door of the liquor store. I cast a desperate glance back. Hector had made it out of the van and was streaking toward us, a rampaging bronco on crack.
“RUN!” I doubled down, trying to squeeze more speed out of my already pistoning legs.
We were so close I could smell the barley-infused stench oozing through the entrance. Then Coop flung the glass-plate door open so hard it banged against the brick façade of the building. We zipped inside and skidded to an abrupt halt just before we bulldozed a display of Effen Vodka bottles stacked to the ceiling, shaped like a huge jug of the stuff.
Two workers stood transfixed behind the checkout counter.
My mind processed the scene in snapshots, like an off-kilter camera.
Both Coop and I spun as the door slammed open again. Hector burst over the threshold in a frenzy. His hands were empty, no gun in sight. He must have lost it in the crash. But with adrenaline rage fueling him, I didn’t think the gun’s absence counted for much.
I grabbed the only weapon within reach—a bottle off of the display behind me.
Hector paused long enough to take in the scene, then surged forward.
I wound up that Effen bottle and swung as hard as I could. It impacted Hector’s noggin with a hollow crack. The reverb ran up my hands into my arms. It took everything I had not to drop my impromptu bat.
The man’s forward momentum slowed but didn’t stop. I managed to somehow step aside as he lost his footing, and we watched him do a slow motion barrel roll in midair. His body glanced off Coop’s and crashed into the display of vodka bottles. The carefully stacked arrangement began to topple, one bottle at a time. The collapse picked up speed as supporting bottles fell. Some bounced off Hector while others skittered and spun or shattered when they hit the cement. In a few short moments, Hector’s feet were the only thing left visible from under the Effen avalanche.
Someone was shouting in my ear. “Let it go, Shay. Come on, let it go.”
It was as if a rubber band snapped me in the back of the head. Instantaneously, my thoughts realigned and reality returned. I came back to the here-and-now with a jerk.
Coop’s voice seeped into my consciousness as he continued to try to talk me out of the bottle of vodka I wielded in front of me. My hands were locked around its neck.
I blinked hard, then again. Coop was on one side of me. The two workers, alarm radiating from their faces, flanked the other. I lowered my bludgeoner.
One of the employees—a short, brown-haired, round-faced gal whose nametag, honest to God, read Bad Carol—breathed, “Oh, my goodness. Are you okay? Is this a robbery?” Her eyes were as wide as the bottom of the Effen bottle.
A thin, dark-haired woman, whose nametag read Dammit Jayne, silently perused the state of her store and rolled her eyes. She tried to appear stern, but the corners of her mouth curved upward. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was getting quite a charge out of the commotion. Then she gently extracted the weapon from my hand, and surveyed my face with a critical eye. “Nope, Carol. It’s not a robbery. This one looks banged up, but she’ll be fine, I think. Grab the first-aid kit.” She nudged Hector’s boot with her shoe. “It’s dingleberry here under this mess who’s going to be really sorry.”
The stinging smell of the alcohol pooling at our feet began to seep into my senses.
All of a sudden the adrenaline I’d been riding dissipated, replaced with exhaustion so heavy I wasn’t sure I’d remain upright. I sagged against Coop, thankful he was still besid
e me. Half my face was wet, and my chin felt like the skin had been rubbed right off. It hurt to breathe.
Jayne walked over and set the bottle on the countertop with a gentle thump. That was the last straw for the poor container. It shattered into a gazillion little pieces. Booze and shards of glass spilled across the countertop and onto the cement.
Effen Vodka—innocuous stuff till it hit you in the head.
seventeen
Bad Carol doctored both Coop and me as best she could until the cops—and then an ambulance—showed up at the liquor store. Hector sat on the floor with his head in his hands, not trying to run or fight, mumbling to himself. Dammit Jayne kept a wary eye on Hector, ready to crack him another one if the need arose. When the police showed, they unpacked Hector from his Effen pile and loaded him into a squad.
Tow trucks appeared and sorted out the mess of twisted metal that had been my pickup and Hector’s van. I didn’t hold out much hope either was going to be repairable.
Coop and I got what I was sure was going to be a not-so-free ride in an ambulance to the emergency room. I tried to con the driver into putting the lights and sirens on, but she was having none of it, and the paramedic attending to my face wasn’t happy with my squirming around.
The ER intake folks processed us right away, and I was amazed to be shuffled into one of the tiny, curtain-walled “rooms” almost immediately. We must have lucked out and hit the Monday afternoon lull.
Coop was tucked into a space somewhere nearby. The curtained walls blocked visuals but didn’t impair hearing, and I could hear his voice. A baby screamed bloody murder, and with any luck I wouldn’t do the same thing. I sure hoped that whatever brought the tyke in was something that could be fixed fast; that noise was murder on my skull. Poor thing.
I sat on the edge of the hospital bed/gurney and dangled my legs impatiently. My head pounded in time to the beat of my heart, and everything hurt. I so wished I could wake up and start the entire weekend all over again.
Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder Page 19