A Perfect Stranger

Now that, she thought through a lovely warm haze, was a kiss.

He didn’t say a word afterward, just stared into her eyes, then turned and walked out.

Darcy knew his mind was working. On what, she wasn’t sure. But that was enigmatic for you.

He returned a moment later with her laptop. The haze vanished when he told her where Umer Lugo was staying.

It took them twenty-five minutes to reach their destination in Marlowe’s Land Rover. During that time, Darcy rattled off a dozen questions, most of them concerning the state of Lugo’s mental health.

“The Declaration Inn.” She read the dimly lit sign from the parking lot off the westbound Interstate. “Aka the Bates Motel. I see five cars, three of them old and rusty, outside four doors. The only visible lights are in the lobby, and there’s no one behind the desk.”

Marlowe surveyed the low structure as they got out of the car.

“Question,” she said as they navigated the ravaged lot. “Why do you suppose Lugo is staying in a place like this?”

With his fingers wrapped around her bare upper arm, Marlowe swept the line of doors. “I don’t know.” He glanced down when she turned her ankle. “You probably shouldn’t have worn heels.”

“If I’d known about this parking lot, I’d have worn combat boots.” And full camo gear, she thought, although the pale pink dress that stopped just above her knees and crisscrossed in the back was definitely cooler. “I hope the manager isn’t a weirded-out mama’s boy.” She peered through the spotty glass. “Still no one in sight.”

“Easier for us to find Lugo’s room and get inside.”

“It’s a fine line between cop and crook, isn’t it?”

“Ex-cop.”

“And the line gets finer.”

The lobby door creaked, but no bell announced them. In fact, the only sound came from a pair of droning flies and a whiny Merle Haggard song emanating from the dusty wall speakers.

Steadier now on the cracked linoleum tiles, Darcy eased her arm free. In her mind, she was still going over a kiss that had left her breathless and oddly light-headed. At this moment, though, and given the circumstances, distance was more prudent.

She ran a finger down the open register while Marlowe checked out the shadowy back room. “There’s someone named Jones in three,” she told him. “A double X in eleven and a squiggly line with two big rabbit ears in five.”

“Anything that looks like Lugo?” Marlowe asked from the inner door.

She ran the list. “Lucky number seven.” Then she glanced at the Peg-Board. “There’s no key.”

Returning to the desk, Marlowe took her hand. “Let’s go.”

Drawing a gun she hadn’t realized he was carrying from the waistband of his jeans, he nodded forward.

At the door of room seven she gave two firm taps. “Mr. Lugo? It’s Darcy Nolan.”

Five seconds ticked by. “Mr. Lugo?” she tried again. “Are you there?”

No light came on.

“Door’s paper-thin,” she noted. “Unless he sleeps with earplugs, I’d say he’s— Oh, God, you’re not. A credit card?”

Seconds later, Marlowe opened the door to an expanse of black, the smell of must and Rambo playing on a very old TV.

He located a tippy floor lamp. The low-watt bulb cast a long shadow over a pair of twin beds, an open bottle of Bordeaux and an unzipped suitcase.

Darcy swung in a slow circle. “Well, this is really icky. Even on the lam, Janet Leigh wouldn’t have showered in a motel room that had splotchy walls and vermin in the once green carpet.”

“There’s a reason he chose this place,” Marlowe told her. He switched on a second lamp.

It didn’t help, only made it possible for Darcy to step over the more suspect stains.

Her eyes landed on the desk behind him. “Laptop.”

With a gleam in his eyes, Marlowe opened it, leaving Darcy to search the bathroom.

Palms braced on either side of the computer, he scanned the screen. “There’s something here.”

“Mr. Lugo?” she called at the bathroom door. Reaching for the knob, she paused, then shrugged and went for it. “Mr. Lugo?”

The first thing she saw was a dirty window with just enough light trickling through to reveal yet another empty room. Still, she felt strangely deflated as she lifted the hair from her overheated neck. Whatever the man’s program might be, his absence wouldn’t help them uncover it.

“What’s on his computer?” she called back.

“Looks like an unsent e-mail.”

Humor speared through her when she spied the drawn shower curtain. “Bet it’s filthy,” she murmured. But she gave the thin plastic a tug anyway.

And felt her mind freeze.

The faucet wasn’t running, but there was water in the tub.

“Looks like Lugo was working on a report for his client,” Marlowe said from the other room.

The sound of his voice fractured her temporary paralysis. With her eyes on the bathtub, she backed toward the door. “Unless he brought someone with him, he won’t be finishing it.” The words wanted to stick, but she forced them out. “Lugo’s dead, Marlowe. He’s got a bullet hole the size of a quarter in the middle of his forehead.”

Chapter Three

Darcy had seen death before in the Amazon rain forest. And all things considered, the circumstances had been much more grisly. But she hadn’t expected Lugo to be there when she’d opened the curtain.

“Drink this, Darcy.”

She felt something cold in her hand and, looking down, saw a bottle of mineral water.

“Thanks.” From her perch on the bed, she regarded Marlowe, then the now-closed bathroom door. “I’m okay. Shocked, but not in shock. It’s just…” The memory repeated in garish neon. “He’s fully dressed, Marlowe. Shirt, pants, tie. And yet the only visible blood relates to the bathtub. So he was what? Running a bath when the killer came in? Killer forced him into the tub?”

“It’s as good a theory as any. You’re sure you didn’t recognize him?”

“Positive. Believe me, I got a very good look at his face.”

Crouched in front of her, Marlowe trapped her chin so he could bring her gaze in line with his. “I called a friend of mine, Darcy. He knows Lugo hired me to find you. His name’s Val Reade.”