number that Dr. Dave gave me: Here.
I get a response that says, 4.
I make sure my handgun is in place on my belt. I don’t want to need it, but I’d be an idiot not to come armed to this, and besides, he’ll know that I will. Dr. Dave is many things. He’s not stupid.
Room 4 is at the far end of the first level, isolated. As I stand ready to knock, for a disorienting second I have a sense-memory of another motel like this. Gwen and I stayed in several while we searched for Melvin Royal. I blink and see Gwen coming out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. That was the first time I knew, really knew, that I was completely in love with her. That moment is fixed in my mind, eternal and bright. We weren’t lovers then.
But it was the start.
I knock on the door, and the memory breaks apart under the hollow sound. I don’t hear footsteps, but the door swings open.
Dr. David Merit smiles at me. Good-looking white guy, strong face, great teeth. He looks normal, and that’s the terrible thing about Dr. Dave. He’s a fairly prominent local dentist. His patients have absolutely no idea that the man they’re letting put his fingers in their mouths is a vicious, amoral, sociopathic troll. He likes to cloak himself as a “victim defender,” but—like many of the Lost Angels hangers-on—he really just likes any excuse to cause harm, and directing it at those the site identifies as abusers and predators and killers is perfect cover for a sadist.
It is never a good idea to put yourself at Dr. Dave’s mercy. And I don’t. I stare him down, as emotionless against his false warmth as I can be, and I move my jacket so he sees the gun. “Just so we’re clear,” I say, “I don’t like this.”
“Nice to see you, too, Sam.” He steps back to allow me in. The gun, as I expected, bothers him not one bit. I keep my gaze fixed on him, alert for anything that might tell me he’s about to shift his affable mask, but he just calmly closes the door and turns with his arms folded. Still smiling. “Been a while, buddy. But I understand why. Fucking the woman who fucked your sister’s killer must be one hell of a drug.” His opening shot, looking for a weak spot. It’s accurate, but I’m ready. He gets nothing but silence. After a long moment, he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Down to business. What do you want?”
“Let’s talk terms first,” I say. “Because I’ve still got the recordings from three years ago. Before you try it, Tennessee is still a one-party consent state. You admitted to things that you really don’t want the public to hear. Or the cops.”
“That again.” Dr. Dave waves it away like a bothersome black fly. “Lots of people say things. It’s another thing to prove I did any of it. You know that.”
“I know your business depends on your reputation. And I’ve got your reputation by the balls.” I hate doing this so much. But dealing with Dr. Dave means staying in control, staying ahead, because he’s a hyena who’ll crush your bones and laugh while he’s doing it.
“Okay,” he says. He’s still smiling. “What brings you here, this time of night? Because I’m guessing it has something to do with Gina Royal. It always does these days.”
It’s so strange talking to him; my skin crawls every time I do it, because he sounds so normal. His patients love him. He’s got high marks on all the ratings sites. And he wouldn’t blink as he killed you, if it came to that. I don’t think Dave’s ever killed anyone, though he’s hurt plenty of people. He’s a controlled kind of sociopath, one who understands how to work within the rules, even if he can’t really, emotionally, comprehend why the rules are there.
But I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley either. Bad enough meeting him in this isolated motel room.
“MalusNavis,” I say. “He’s on the LA boards. You know him. You replied to him and gave him the wanted-poster template.”
Dr. Dave’s smile gets wider. It makes him look a lot less normal. “And? It was a public service. That bitch has been left alone for a while. Time to heat things up, don’t you think?”
“What do you know about MalusNavis?”
“Not a lot, if you’re asking for personal details. But he’s . .