In a way I didn't understand, my chest hurt, as if a pressure had built within me until some part of me cracked and the pressure escaped. The picture was part of an article about me published in a local magazine. The reproduction was poor and murky, like it might have been copied off a library microfiche; my eyes were dark smudges, my mouth was a black line, and my face was mottled, but I knew it was me. I found two more articles under the first, one I remembered from the Daily News and another from the L.A. Weekly.
This was his room.
John Doe #05-1642.
I put the articles aside and searched the rest of his suitcase. I felt through his underwear and three rumpled shirts, then felt along the inside lining of the suitcase for some kind of identification, but instead I found something hard and round inside a roll of socks. I unrolled the socks and counted out $6,240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
I counted the money twice, put it back in the socks, then finished searching the room. Nothing identified the occupant, almost as if he was purposefully trying to hide himself.
I put everything back as I had found it, let myself out, and went back to the lobby. The older couple was gone. A name tag on the clerk's blazer read James Kramer.
I gave him my best cop tone.
"My name is Cole. I'm investigating a homicide, and we believe a person or persons involved might be a guest at your motel. Do you recognize this man?"
I held out the morgue shot, and watched Kramer's mouth tighten.
"Is he dead?"
"Yes, sir, he is. Do you recognize him?"
"He looks kinda different, like that."
They always look different when they're dead. I put away the picture, and took out my notepad.
"We're trying to identify him. We believe he was staying in room one-sixteen. Can you tell me his name?"
Kramer moved to his computer and punched in the room number to bring up the invoice.
"That's Mr. Faustina-Herbert Faustina."
He spelled it for me.
"Could you give me his home address and phone?"
He read off an address on College Ridge Lane in Scottsdale, Arizona, then followed it with a phone number.
"Okay. How about his credit card number?"
"He paid cash. We do that if you put down a three-hundred-dollar cash deposit."
I tapped my pad, trying to figure out what to ask next while he stared at me. You should never give them a chance to think.
He said, "What did you say your name was?"
"Cole."
"Could I see your badge?"
"If he made calls from his room, those calls would show up on his bill, right?"
He was beginning to look nervous.
"Are you a policeman?"
"No, I'm a private investigator. It's okay, Mr. Kramer. We're all on the same side here."
Kramer stepped back from the desk to put more distance between us. He didn't look scared; he was worried he would get in trouble for answering my questions.
"I don't think I should say any more. I'm going to call the manager."
He turned to pick up his phone.
"You need to do something before you call. Someone else might have been involved, and they might be in his room. That person might be injured and need help."
He held the phone to his face, but he didn't dial. His eyebrows quivered, as if he was sorry he had ever taken a crappy job like this.
"What do you mean?"
"Check his room. Just peek inside to see if someone needs help, then you can call your manager. You don't want someone dying in that room."
He glanced back toward the hall.
"What do you mean, dying?"
"Faustina was murdered. I knocked on his door before I came to you, but no one answered. I don't know that anyone is inside, but I'm asking you to check. Make sure no one is bleeding to death, then call."
Kramer glanced toward the hall again, then opened the desk drawer for his passkey and came around the desk.
"You wait here."
"I'll wait."
When he disappeared down the hall, I went behind the desk. Herbert Faustina's account still showed on the computer. I found the button labeled CHECKOUT INVOICE, and pressed it. A speedy little laser printer pushed out Herbert Faustina's final room charges on three pages. I took them, and left before Kramer came back. I did not wait. The World's Greatest Detective had struck again.
10
Ten hours start to finish, and I had Faustina's name and address, and a list of every call made from his motel. I was thinking about calling Diaz and Pardy when