in such a way that he’ll tell the truth. Until we can do that, Morrison doesn’t have to listen.”
Coleman gave a little grimace. “Lynch signed the confession this morning and his hearing is scheduled for Thursday.”
“Three days to recant before it gets in the news and Morrison looks like an even bigger jerk. I remember the guy hates to look like a jerk worse than anything, and he comes by it so easily. Shit.”
“And despite what you say about following my intuition, the evidence in that box makes him seem more guilty than ever.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said. “Why would you research other killers, go to the trouble to print their stories and store them, if you were a famous serial killer in your own right? It makes him seem more like a wannabe. See you.” I got out of her car.
Twenty
I knocked at the door of room 174 first, and when there was no answer, I used the second key I’d gotten when I checked Zach into the Sheraton. He hadn’t killed himself, but he wasn’t around. Where was he going, how was he getting there (even at his lowest Zach wouldn’t use a bus), and what was he doing? I took a brief pass over the room, nothing but his small canvas bag that contained a couple of shirts still in their plastic wrappers, another pair of chinos, and some underwear. Also the neatly laminated five by seven of Jessica balanced against the bed lamp. Electric razor, toothbrush, and travel-size toothpaste in the bathroom.
I wrote a note on the hotel pad next to the phone on the desk, nothing long or heartfelt, just “I was here looking for you. Return call, you idiot.” And my cell phone number. I tore off the top sheet, rewrote it leaving out the you idiot and adding please. I was frustrated. What with Coleman pressuring me about Lynch, my fears that the body in the wash would be discovered, and my own intuition that someone would still try to kill me, I didn’t need this. But then I thought, suck it up, none of that is as bad as losing a child. Nothing is as bad as losing a child.
Twenty-one
Even with my stop at the hotel, I still arrived at Emery’s Cantina before Coleman and took a seat at the bar this time. I ordered a light beer while listening to the conversation around me. They were talking about teeth.
A guy from the metro police who the others called Frank said he needed a root canal and did anybody know a good endodontist in the Northwest? Cliff, who I already knew, said he’d heard about root canals but didn’t know what they were. Emery said no, he had a jaw like a rock, couldn’t remember ever having been to a dentist. Looking superior, he added that he flossed twice a day. Cheri said she went to Gentle Dental because she liked the drugs.
Then they all looked at me like someone my age would certainly know dental work. “I get all my dentures made in Costa Rica,” I said, a little resentfully. “They sound like castanets.” They laughed, but it sounded kind of polite, like they weren’t sure what part—castanets, Costa Rica, or dentures—was meant to be the joke.
Cheri, who was standing near me at the bar, said, “I hear you’re famous.” Frank and Cliff looked at their food.
My cell phone rang. The nerve sparked in my neck and I prepared my what-a-surprise voice for Max saying he’d found the body, which goes to show how it hung in the back of my mind like a nightmare. You know that nightmare where you kill someone and the worst part of it is knowing you can’t turn back the clock and make it not happen? No? Well never mind. I took a deep breath and opened the phone, gave a cautious hello.
“Brigid, it’s Emily. Are you finished at the hotel?”
“Yeah, I’m at the bar.”
“How’s Mr. Robertson?”
“Wasn’t there. Where are you?”
“I just stopped in at the office for messages. I’m on my way.”
While I waited for Coleman I did some quality brooding about how I wished I hadn’t done what I’d done. How I should have called Max right after it happened, and not covered it up. There was no going back on that. But how if I hadn’t done what I’d done I wouldn’t have found the DVD that suggested my assailant was targeting me, and that it might be connected somehow to Floyd