Scudder - Eight Million Ways To Die Part 60

'He took a shower?'

Garfein shrugged, showed his hands palms up. 'Go know,' he said. 'The manager says there's towels missing. When they make up the room they put out two bath towels and two hand towels, and both of the bath towels are missing.'

'He took towels from the Galaxy.'

'Then he probably took 'em here, but who knows in a dump like this? I mean who knows if they always remember to make up the room right. Same with the shower. I don't figure they gave it a scrub after the last party left.'

'Maybe you'll find something.'

'Maybe.'

'Fingerprints, something. You see any skin under her nails?'

'No. But that's not to say the lab boys won't.' A muscle worked in his jaw. 'I'll say one thing. Thank G.o.d I'm not a medical examiner or a technician. It's bad enough being a cop.'

'Amen to that,' Durkin said.

I said, 'If he picked her up on the street, somebody might have seen her get into the car.'

'A couple of guys are out there now trying to take statements. We might get something. If anybody saw anything, and if they remember, and if they feel like talking.'

'Lots of ifs,' Durkin said.

'The manager here must have seen him,' I said. 'What does he remember?'

'Not a whole lot. Let's go talk to him some more.'

The manager had a night worker's sallow complexion and a pair of red-rimmed eyes. There was alcohol on his breath but he didn't have a drinker's way about him, and I guessed he'd tried to fortify himself with liquor after discovering the body. It only made him vague and ineffectual. 'This is a decent place,' he insisted, and the statement was so palpably absurd no one responded to it. I suppose he meant murder wasn't a daily occurrence.

He never saw Cookie. The man who had presumably killed her had come in alone, filled out the card, paid cash. This was not unusual. It was common practice for the woman to wait in the car while the man checked in. The car had not stopped directly in front of the office, so he hadn't seen it while the man was checking in. In fact he hadn't really seen the car at all.

'You saw it was missing,' Garfein reminded him. 'That's how you knew the room was empty.'

'Except it wasn't. I opened the door and - '

'You thought it was empty because the car was gone. How'd you know it was gone if you never saw it?'

'The parking s.p.a.ce was empty. There's a s.p.a.ce in front of each unit, the s.p.a.ces are numbered same as the units. I looked out, that s.p.a.ce was empty, that meant his car was gone.'

'They always park in the proper s.p.a.ces?'

'They're supposed to.'

'Lots of things people are supposed to do. Pay their taxes, don't spit on the sidewalk, cross only at corners. A guy's in a hurry to dip his wick, what does he care about a number on a parking s.p.a.ce? You got a look at the car.'

'I - '.

'You looked once, maybe twice, and the car was parked in the s.p.a.ce. Then you looked later and it wasn't and that's when you decided they were gone. Isn't that what happened?'

'I guess so.'

'Describe the car.'

'I didn't really look at it. I looked to see that it was there, that's all.'

'What color was it?'

'Dark.'

'Terrific. Two door? Four door?'

'I didn't notice.'

'New? Old? What make?'

'It was a late-model car,' he said. 'American. Not a foreign car. As far as the make, when I was a kid they all looked different. Now every car's the same.'

'He's right,' Durkin said.

'Except American Motors,' he said. 'A Gremlin, a Pacer, those you can tell. The rest all look the same.'

'And this wasn't a Gremlin or a Pacer.'

'No.'

'Was it a sedan? A hatchback?'

'I'll tell you the truth,' the man said. 'All I noticed is it was a car. It says on the card, the make and model, the plate number.'

'You're talking about the registration card?'

'Yeah. They have to fill all that in.'

The card was on the desk, a sheet of clear acetate over it to preserve prints until the lab boys had their shot at it. Name: Martin Albert Ricone. Address: 211 Gilford Way. City: Fort Smith, Arkansas. Make of Auto: Chevrolet. Year: 1980. Model: Sedan. Color: Black. License No.: LJK-914. Signature: M. A. RICONE.

'Looks like the same hand,' I told Durkin. 'But who can tell with printing?'

'The experts can say. Same as they can tell you if he had the same light touch with the machete. Guy likes forts, you notice? Fort Wayne, Indiana and Fort Smith, Arkansas.'

'A subtle pattern begins to emerge,' Garfein said.

'Ricone,' Durkin said. 'Must be Italian.'

'M. A. Ricone sounds like the guy who invented the radio.'

'That's Marconi,' Durkin said.

'Well, that's close. This guy's Macaroni. Stuck a feather in his hat and called it Macaroni.'