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He exhaled. “That’s what you’re going to find out. I have to finish up a couple of things here, and then I’ll meet you over there.”
“You got it, Sarge.”
Chapter 7
Somehow the temperature managed to rise at least twenty degrees during the ten-minute drive to the Beaulac City Hotel. At least it felt like it. It didn’t help that the cheap asphalt of the parking lot soaked up the heat and radiated it back in concentrated waves, designed to wring as much sweat as possible from anyone silly enough to be outside.
The Beaulac City Hotel—where rooms could be rented by the hour or the week—hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades. Several windows had been replaced by plywood, piles of old trash lurked in corners, and an ashtray by the door to the office had reached its capacity a few hundred cigarette butts ago. A sour smell of sweat and piss mixed unpleasantly with the heat rising from the asphalt, enveloping me as I approached. Crime-scene tape had been strung around the rusted metal poles that supported the second-story balcony, and I could see the officer manning the sign-in log standing in the meager shade offered by the second floor. After a hard look at the battered poles, I wasn’t so sure it was a better option to be in the shade.
I signed the log, then ducked under the tape. Another uniformed officer leaned against the outside wall by an open hotel-room door, his usually bald head covered with about a millimeter’s length of hair. I’d known Scott Glassman for years and had worked on the same team with him when I was on the road. He was a solid cop with no desire to ever go into Investigations—a “good ole boy” who was perfectly happy being perpetually assigned to patrol. He had a troubled expression on his face that shifted to a sad smile when he saw me, and I abruptly remembered that Scott and Brian Roth had been good friends and hunting buddies outside work. This whole situation had to be pretty hard on him.
“Hey, Scott,” I said. “Are we sure that it’s Brian’s wife? Who made the ID?”
His expression was grim. “I did. I thought I recognized her, but I verified it with the driver’s license in her purse. And the blue Prius in the parking lot is hers.”
“Damn,” I said. “I was really hoping that Brian had just been using a figure of speech.” I swept my gaze around the nasty hotel. “Any clue yet on why she was here?”
“Well, I spoke to the manager. He says she checked in night before last, alone—under the name ‘Jane Smythe’—but apparently she was something of a regular.”
“At a dump like this?” I had a hard time wrapping my mind around that.
He scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his head. “I guess it was a game they played more than once. I dunno. But the manager says he doesn’t know shit about anyone else coming to the room.” He scowled. “Manager doesn’t know shit about a lot, but I’m about to run his ass to see if he has any warrants, because he’s being a pain in my ass.”
“If you could lean on him, that would be a big help. Why’d it take so long for her to be found?” My gaze swept the exterior of the building. “Place like this probably turns the rooms over pretty quickly, I would think.”
He scowled. “Manager said that she would always be out in a few hours, so he didn’t bother checking in the morning.” I made a face, and he sighed and nodded in agreement. “And the chick who cleans the rooms called in sick yesterday, and obviously he’s too much of a lazy fuck to do it himself.”
“At least she was finally found.” I grimaced and swiped at the sweat that snaked down my forehead. “Maybe now we can figure out what the hell happened. I guess there’s no such thing as surveillance cameras around here?”
He shook his head. “Not that work. I already checked.”
I gave his arm a companionable squeeze. “I appreciate the effort.”
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “I just wish the whole situation wasn’t so fucked up.”
I merely nodded in response, suddenly very glad that no one knew the other horrific detail about Brian’s death. It was hard enough on everyone to lose a member of the force, especially under these circumstances, and it wouldn’t help to know that, on top of all that, his essence had been eaten.
A shiver walked down my back, and I turned to step into the gloomy hotel room, steeling myself against the knowledge that this body might be like the others, with nothing but tattered remains of essence fluttering in an ethereal wind.
Jill was inside, taking measurements. She looked up and gave me a small nod of greeting as I entered. “Hell of a way to spend a day, huh?” she said with a shake of her head. “Anyway, I’m finished here. She’s all yours.” She gestured to the floor on the other side of the bed.
I stepped around and was rewarded by the sight of a woman’s body, nude except for a red silk scarf that hung loosely around her throat like an accessory. She lay on her side as if sleeping, eyes half closed with the flat, dull look of death in them. Her hair, auburn and artfully highlighted, snaked across her face, plastered in spots with dried sweat and saliva. She was young—late twenties perhaps—and she had the kind of slender figure I could never hope to attain, no matter how much I exercised. The portion of her body nearest the floor was mottled in red, and a naïve observer might first believe that she was heavily bruised, but I’d seen lividity—or livor mortis—on enough corpses to know that the redness was due to the settling of the blood in the body once the heart ceased pumping.
I crouched by the body, placing my feet cautiously even though the scene had already been photographed and processed. I was still learning the ropes when it came to homicide investigations, but I’d been a cop long enough to know that you had to watch where you stepped on a scene.
I couldn’t tell how long she’d been dead—that determination would have to come from the coroner’s office—but even my limited experience told me that she obviously hadn’t died in the last few hours. But that was a minor concern for me right at the moment.
I was far more focused on her essence, or what might remain of it. I shifted into othersight, nearly swaying in relief when I saw nothing more than a faint shimmering glow. Yes, this was what it was supposed to look like. No tattered threads, no torn edges. Just a soft residue from an essence that departed its shell the normal and natural way instead of being ripped free. This residual glow would linger for a day or two more, then naturally dissipate.
I pulled myself out of othersight and let my gaze travel over her, taking in the whole scene. There were articles of clothing scattered on the floor, but I didn’t see any suitcases or bags.
I glanced back at Jill. “She had a purse?”
“It’s on the table.”
I glanced over. It was a small clutch-size thing—not one of those career-woman monstrosities that could have held a week’s worth of clothes and toiletries. It didn’t look as if she’d planned an extended stay. Or even an overnight one. “Any trace evidence? Fingerprints?”
Jill grimaced. “Sure. Tons. Which is the problem.”
