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Wally’s struggling with the door of his Chevy pickup. It’s an old, beat-up piece of crap, and sometimes the handle sticks. Especially, when a guy like me slapped a bunch of that fancy super duct tape along the bottom, the real strong kind. Wally’s in too much of a panic to notice that the bottom’s not coming loose and all he’s got to do is give it one solid yank with all his might. Instead, he’s jiggling the handle and cursing.
“Hey, Wally,” I say. “Stop trying to run and listen.”
The guy looks at me, looks at the truck, and I can see him doing the math. Motherfucker, he better not bolt like a scared deer, I don’t feel like chasing him down.
But Wally’s not bright. He turns his back and sprints as fast as he can—which isn’t very fast—away from the motel and toward the small wooded area that separates the parking lot from the main road and the sidewalk beyond.
I run after him. Bastard, I didn’t feel like getting all fucking sweaty today. He reaches the woods right as I catch up and grab him from behind. His yelp is pathetic, and I manage to yank his arm hard and swing him right into a tree. He hits and crumples, holding his face with one hand and waving the other in the air like he’s warding off a gun.
“Please, don’t, I don’t know anything, I really don’t, I absolutely swear I don’t—”
“Easy, Wally,” I say and crouch down beside him as Sara’s heels clack on the pavement nearby. I glance over as she hurries toward us, looking horrified. “He tripped,” I tell her innocently.
“God damn it, Angelo,” she says, shaking her head.
Wally’s pale. He’s trembling and bleeding from a split lip. But he doesn’t seem to mind the pain. “I don’t know who you people are, but I don’t know anything.” He spits blood into the leaves. “I never know anything! I take bookings, I give out keys, and I stay in my office. That’s all I ever do.”
“Wally.” I lean toward him. “That’s a lawyer behind me. She’s not a cop. She’s not a detective. And she’s definitely not working for some cartel. Who the fuck do you think we are?”
That gets his attention. He takes a few gulping breaths and tries to sit himself upright. I help out, get him to his feet, even brush some dirt off the poor fucker’s jeans. He clears his throat and spits again as he leans against the tree trunk.
“I don’t like cops,” he says. “Or lawyers. Or whatever the hell you are. I don’t know anything and I don’t talk to anyone. That’s all I got to say, all right?”
I glance at Sara as she steps forward. “Wally, running like that is extremely suspicious, you know that, right? I didn’t even tell you what we want to talk about.”
He opens his mouth as if he’s about to blurt it out, but instead snaps his jaw shut and glowers. I almost laugh, the poor bastard. He’s stupid, but not that stupid apparently.
“The murders,” I tell him. “Five cartel guys, dead in your motel. From what we can tell, you were never interviewed by the cops, and we were wondering why.”
He looks surprised. “They talked to me. What do you mean, they didn’t interview me? I spoke to that fucking detective for a half hour. And I didn’t tell her shit.”
I exchange a look with Sara. Now that’s interesting.
“Which detective?” she asks.
“It was a woman. Some bitch—” He clears his throat. “Sorry, uh, some lady named Misty Vance.”
“Sounds fake,” I say.
“Detective Vance is very real,” Sara confirms. “You’re sure you spoke to her?”
“I’m positive. And I’ll tell you what I told her. I stay in my office and I don’t hear anything, ever. That’s it.”
“You’re very helpful, Wally,” I say and shake my head. “Who the fuck has you so spooked, huh?”
“Whoever killed five cartel members, that’s who,” Sara says. “And I’d bet a lot of money that you know something about who did it, don’t you?”
Wally flinches like she punched him in the face.
“Just leave me out of whatever you’re doing, okay?” Wally shuffles away, putting some space between me and him, but heading back toward the motel. Cars zip past on the road and he crunches through leaves with each step.
“You don’t care that an innocent kid is going to get life for this, do you?” I ask him.
“Not my fucking problem.” Wally slips past Sara, gives me one last look, and hurries away.
I let him go. Sara watches with her arms crossed over her chest. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but it’s not good.
“Detective Vance didn’t write up her interview with Wally,” she says and glances at me. “Either that, or the prosecution withheld information.”
“I assume both are pretty bad.”
