Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,50

an undistinguished suburban motel on a major highway near a big shopping center. It had a central building where the front desk, bar, and restaurant were. There was a wing on each side. Hawk and I went in the side door of one of the wings and up the stairs without passing the front desk. We were at room 323. Room 203 was at the other end. When we got there the privacy sign was hanging on the door-knob. Hawk stepped to the side. I knocked on the door. Nobody answered. I knocked a couple more times. It seemed pretty clear that there were no plans to open the door.

I put my ear to the door. The television was playing loudly. I looked at Hawk. He shrugged.

“Call the manager or kick it in?” he said.

“Call,” I said.

We were at the end of the corridor. I went to the house phone on the small lamp table. In a minute or two a nervous-looking young guy with an ineffective combover got out of the elevator and walked down the hall to us. He looked uneasily at Hawk. Then at me.

“You the man that called?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you guests of the hotel?” he said.

“No. We were invited here by the occupant of this room,” I said. “We fear something untoward might have happened.”

The desk guy was wearing a white shirt with a green tie and a green vest. The collar on the shirt was curled up at the tips.

“Untoward?” he said.

I had a sense he might not be on the fast track.

“I’m a detective,” I said. “Working on a case. We need the door opened.”

“I can’t just override his privacy sign,” the desk guy said.

From outside the motel there was the dim sound of a siren being turned off.

“Ah,” I said.

“I took the liberty of calling the police,” the desk guy said. “I will wait for them, if you don’t mind.”

In maybe a minute, two Burlington cops came out of the elevator and walked down to us. Both were young guys who looked at if they got a lot of exercise. They were carrying their nightsticks.

“What’s the deal,” one of them said.

“My name is Spenser,” I said. “I’m working with a state police captain named Healy on a case.”

“I know Healy. What’s the case?”

“Has to do with the kidnapping a while ago on Tashtego Island.”

“Yeah,” the cop said. “I remember that. No progress is what I heard.”

“We might make some,” I said, “if we can get this door unlocked.”

The cop looked at Hawk.

“Who’s this,” he said.

“My partner,” I said.

Hawk had no expression.

“Tell me more,” the cop said.

His partner had taken a few steps away and stood quietly watching Hawk and me. Especially Hawk.

“Guy called me and said he was in trouble and needed to see me right away.”

“Guy in this room?”

“Yeah. He’s registered as Bailey, but his real name is Bradshaw.”

“Like the Bradshaw broad on Tashtego?”

“Estranged husband,” I said.

The cop nodded at the desk guy.

“Open the door,” he said.

The desk guy did. The door opened a couple of inches and held.

“Security chain,” the desk guy said.

“Mr. Bradshaw?” the cop said. “It’s the police, Mr. Bradshaw.”

Nothing.

“Kick it in,” the cop said.

“Me?” the desk guy said.

Hawk grinned.

“Me,” he said.

He shifted his weight and drove his right foot into the door just above the knob. The safety chain tore out of the doorjamb and the door banged open. The cop went past Hawk into the room and stopped. I went in behind him. The window opposite the door had a bullet hole in it with spiderweb fracture lines spreading across the pane. On the floor, on his back, in front of the window, with a bullet hole in his forehead and a spread of blood soaking into the rug beneath, was the late Harden Bradshaw. The cop bent over and felt for a pulse.

“Gone,” he said after a moment.

“Blood’s starting to dry,” I said.

The cop nodded and yelled to his partner in the hall.

“Call the captain, Harry,” he said. “We got a homicide.”

Then he looked at me.

“You and your partner stick around,” he said.

56

When all the crime-scene fuss was over, the place dusted, the photographs taken, the grounds searched, the room sealed, Healy sat with Hawk and me in the coffee shop of the motel and ate a sandwich.

Healy put his sandwich down and swallowed and looked at Hawk.

“I seem to be consorting with a known felon,” Healy said.

“Think how I feel,” Hawk said.

Healy nodded.

“Motel’s dug into a sort of low hillside,” Healy said.