Joe didn’t seem terribly pleased. “Even if he did Reyes, that leaves us with no connection to Cain.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” was as close to encouraging as Healy would get.
“And if this kid killed Reyes, there’s nothing to tie it to Toussant’s murder.”
Healy countered. “Not for nothing, Joe, but who says there has to be a connection?”
“I say. I feel it in my gut.”
“I said that to my brother and he told me it was gas.” Marla laughed. “Can I steal that line?”
“Be my guest,” Healy said. “So, you guys going back to your apartment?”
“Not what I had in mind. There’s stuff that needs to be done this afternoon.”
“Like what?”
“Marla’s going home to get some sleep,” Joe said. “She didn’t get much last night.”
“You’re the one that needs to rest,” Marla argued, a yawn betraying her.
“I’ll rest tonight when Bob’s out with this Strohmeyer kid. In the meantime, him and me, we’ve got somewhere to go.”
“Where’s that?” Healy asked. “A motel.”
“A motel, huh?” Healy puzzled.
“Maybe more than one.”
Even Marla was curious. “Why motels?”
“I may not remember much about yesterday, but I know Frank. He’s scared. There’s a reason he’s taking the fall for somebody here.”
“Blackmail. You think he’s being blackmailed!” Healy said. “I do. What’s the best way you know to blackmail a married man?”
“Sex,” Marla chimed in.
“Exactly. And when I spoke to his wife, she was weird about their marriage.”
Healy was skeptical. “It’s a stretch.”
“Let’s go find out.”
Located on the south service road of Sunrise Highway in Bayshore, the Blue Fountain Motor Inn was a monument to three hour rentals and questionable taste. Not that it showed much of itself to the outside world. It was the kind of place that you’d drive by without noticing unless you knew where it was or were specifically looking for it. Even so, you might miss the place. It had a small, poorly lit sign and narrow driveway. Pull into that driveway and you were greeted by a too-large, cast concrete fountain painted in sun-bleached royal blue. From the looks of the fountain, it hadn’t pumped a drop of water since Reagan’s last term. In the summer, the rain water that collected in its five basins was probably the breeding ground for half the mosquito population on Long Island.
The Blue Fountain was the fourteenth such venue Joe Serpe and Bob Healy had visited since leaving Marla at the diner and making a brief stop to make copies at the local Staples. Joe’s headache, which had come and gone in waves, was cresting again and Healy was getting discouraged.
“Your idea makes some sense, Joe, but you might be wrong.”
“I know Frank,” he said, dry-swallowing another pain pill.
“Okay, but this is the last stop today. It’s getting late and I’ve got to meet Strohmeyer in a few hours.”
“Last stop. Whose turn?”
“Yours.”
They got out of the car and strode into the office. The name of the motel didn’t matter. Whether it was the Blue Fountain or the Spinnaker or the Lighthouse, these places were all pretty much the same-long rows of low slung concrete boxes with beds, bathrooms, and porno channels. The offices were interchangeable as well. The one at the Blue Fountain was no exception. It featured more bulletproof glass than a small bank. There were signs posted all over the place explaining everything from acceptable means of payment to how to use the hot tubs. It kind of reminded Joe of the Suffolk County Jail, only less inviting.
“Hey!” Joe rapped on the glass, holding up the replica of his old detective’s shield that Marla had retrieved from his dresser.
The sloe-eyed, middle-aged man at the desk was so intimidated he nearly fell asleep. He did put his magazine down as a small concession to Joe and Bob’s presence.
“Can I chelp you, officers,” the desk clerk asked in a vaguely Russian accent.
“Detectives!” Serpe corrected.
“Vatever. You are long vay from chome, no? You are New York City police.”
“A long way from home,” Serpe mocked. “Look who’s talking. Where you from, Moscow?”
“Kazakstan.”
“Thanks for the geography lesson. You ever see this guy here?” Serpe asked, sliding a copy of Frank’s picture through a slot in the partition.
He didn’t bother looking. “No.”
“Look at the picture, comrade!” Healy barked.
He looked this time. Healy thought he saw a faint, fleeting glimmer of recognition in the clerk’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. It was just a flash.
“No.” He slid the picture back out.
“You’re sure?” Joe said.
“Many people come to motel. Ve look at their money not their faces. They return key, don’t steal towels, is all ve care.”
“How many other people work the desk?”
The clerk had enough talking for the time being and held up two fingers.
“Okay, I’m gonna leave this picture with you to show the other clerks,” Joe said, jotting down his cell phone number on the back of Frank’s photo. He slid it back through the partition. “Anyone remembers anything, have them give me a call. You mind if we look around, talk to the housekeepers?”
“Go, but don’t bother the guests.”
“Thanks.”
They walked down the four rows of rooms. Only ten had cars out front. They found the housekeeper, a fat, sixty year old woman from Guatemala eating in one of the vacant rooms. She was no help, spoke more Russian than English, and she didn’t recognize Frank from Frank Sinatra.
As they walked back to Healy’s car, Joe hesitated in front of one the rooms. Healy was worried Serpe might be getting sick again.
“What’s up? You okay?”
“Yeah, my head’s feeling a little better, but that’s not it. Forget it. I thought I had something, but it’s gone. I guess my head’s gonna take some time to unscramble.”
They continued on, leaving behind the black SUV parked in front of room 217.
Back in Healy’s car and heading to Serpe’s apartment, they got down to discussing their favorite desk clerk from Kazakstan.
“So?”
“I think he’s full a shit,” Healy said. “I thought he recognized Frank.”
“Me too.”
“So, okay, let’s see what we got. Frank’s cheating on his wife. Maybe he’s getting blackmailed, maybe he’s not. Toussant’s murdered, if not by Frank, then by his gun. He’s willing to take a murder rap to protect someone, but you don’t think it’s his wife.”
“You sound skeptical,” Joe said.
“Sorry, Joe, but it doesn’t hang together. It seems like there’s two, maybe three completely separate things going on here and I don’t see how you can tie them up in any way that makes sense.”
“I know.”
“You may not wanna hear what I have to say next,” Healy warned.
“Never stopped you before.”
“Bottom line?”
“Bottom line.”
“You don’t need any wild theories, magic bullets, or anything else to make sense of it.”
“Then what do I need?” Joe asked. “To believe Frank did it.”
Joe crashed: too tired to think, almost too tired to breathe. There is a dimension of the womb in the surrender to exhaustion. He surrendered, falling into bed and letting the warmth and comfort of his weariness wash over him, pull him under and consume him. But only one sleep lasts forever and tonight was not the occasion for his. No, tonight he would be spit out, returned to finish what he had started.
When he opened his eyes he noticed the answering machine light flashing, flashing. He checked the clock. It was 9:27. His headache, though not completely gone, was now of human proportion. He almost smiled. He’d had sinus headaches worse than this. He had lived through those.
He pressed play.
You have two messages. First message:
It was a woman. Marla? Not Marla, Tina. She was crying, but not just crying. It was worse than crying. She was choking. Fighting herself, forcing herself to speak, to try to speak. He could make out her saying Joe. She didn’t seem to be able to get beyond his name. Click.