in the edges, soaking the carpet. The floor was strewn with silverware and overturned flower vases.
I sat down across from the lady.
"Tough night," I said.
She brushed a carnation off the table. "Tough year."
"What's your name?"
"Lane."
"That your first or last name?"
"First. Lane S - " She pursed her lips. "Lane Sanford."
She was younger than I'd first thought: in her late twenties, pretty the way a sun-bleached cotton dress is pretty - comfortably worn, slightly faded. The roots of her hair were ginger brown.
"Okay, Lane. The thing is, we should be sticking together. I'm a little worried about you."
She hugged her arms. "A little worried..."
"You're staying alone at the hotel?"
"I thought I was alone."
"I heard you talking to Chris and the maid this afternoon. Something about your ex?"
"I tried to warn them. Bobby will do anything. He's been tracking me and..." She started breathing shallowly. "And that marshal who was shot - "
"Lane, I want you to take a deep breath and hold it."
She gave me a desperate watery look, but she tried to hold her breath.
"Good," I said. "Now let it out slowly, and tell me about your ex."
She exhaled. "You don't understand. You don't know him."
"Do you have any evidence your ex is here? Have you seen him?"
"I...No, but - "
"Was there some reason he would've targeted Longoria?"
"Longoria?"
"The marshal who got shot."
"I don't...I don't know. I told Chris I shouldn't have come."
"So the hotel manager, Chris...you know him personally?"
She stared at the boarded-up windows. "I told him I couldn't run anymore. I'm so tired of hiding from what happened."
"What do you mean?"
Before she could answer, the college guys came tromping into the room. "Yo, Navarro," the redheaded guy said.
"Navarre," I corrected.
"Whatever," he said, but he wasn't pulling off his angry-young-man routine very well. His face was ashen. His two friends looked queasy. "We, um, found something maybe you should see."
In the back of the kitchen was a triple-wide stainless-steel refrigerator. The college kids - who strangely enough possessed names: Chase, Markie and Ty - had decided to raid it looking for snacks. They'd lost their appetites when they saw what was on the floor.
"You were all together?" I asked.
Chase, the redhead, glanced at his friends. "Well, we were kind of...not." He nodded at the sickly-looking Latino kid. "Ty was throwing up."
"Too much information," I said. "And you two?"
"Markie was getting glasses from the cabinet over there," Chase said. "I was gonna get the food. Then I saw that."
"It's blood, isn't it?" Lane Sanford's voice trembled.
"Chase," I said, "you and your friends take Miss Sanford back to the parlor, please. Tell my wife..." My voice faltered.
I was used to relying on Maia's opinion, but she already felt queasy. I couldn't ask Maia to look at this. "On second thought, ask Mr. Lindy to come in here."
I finally convinced Lane to go with the college guys, which left me alone, staring at the skid mark of red on the white tiles.
I didn't hear Mr. Lindy come up behind me until he spoke. "Blood, all right," he said. "Someone slipped in it. Partial shoeprint, there."
I looked at the old man. "Are you retired law enforcement, Mr. Lindy?"
"Criminal lawyer. Thirty-seven years. I've seen my share of blood."
His voice was as dry as a South Texas creek bed.
"Maybe this is from when they were moving Longoria's body," I said hopefully.
Lindy shook his head. "I stumbled across Chris Stowall and the cook, Jose, while they were doing that. I tried to convince them it, ah, wasn't a good idea...but Mr. Stowall was not entirely rational. He insisted he couldn't let the guests see the body. At any rate, the cellar where they took the body is around the corner there. They didn't come through this way, and no one tracked blood as far as I could see. They used a plastic tarp."
I crouched next to the red smear. Sure enough, the edge of a shoeprint was visible - a man's shoe, I thought. Smooth sole, about a size 11. There were no other red prints on the floor, though, as if the man had slipped in blood, then taken his shoe off to avoid leaving a trail. But if that was the case, why had he left this stain?
"I don't want to think this is someone else's blood," I said. "I mean, besides Longoria's."
Lindy's eyes glinted. "Mr. Huff said you'd retired from private investigations. I take it you've dealt with murders before?"
Had I dealt with murders? Under different circumstances, I might've laughed. "Yes, sir. A few."
"And