A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi Page B

felt a bump. “I’ll be all right.”
    Nodding, he brushed past me, and I followed him into a sitting area in the back that was part of the living quarters. He veered toward an easy chair next to the couch and sat down heavily.
    â€œDizzy,” he said, touching the back of his head.
    â€œYou should get that looked at.” I went into the kitchen to get him a glass of water, which he drained in several long gulps.
    â€œâ€™Preciate it, bud. I was beginning to think I’d be there all night.” He got up and took the empty glass to the kitchen sink. “I gotta take a leak somethin’ terrible. Be right back.” Just before he left the room, he turned back to me and asked, “You ain’t gonna rip me off, are you?”
    â€œI would have left you tied up,” I answered, shaking my head. “We should call the police, though.”
    â€œSoon as I’m done,” he agreed, then disappeared down the hall past the kitchen.
    I went to the phone sitting on the kitchen countertop and picked it up. Dialing my number, I recalled the way it had been marked in the phone book inside room 12. It rang three times before Deirdre answered. She sounded groggy, her voice thick with sleep.
    â€œDeirdre, it’s me. Are you awake?” I glanced at my watch. After one.
    â€œTim? Where are you? When did you leave?” she asked, perking up.
    â€œI’ll explain everything when you get down here.” Or the cops will, I thought.
    â€œDown where? What are you talking about? You’re scaring me.”
    â€œEverything’s fine,” I assured her, trying to sound less worried than I felt. “I’m just going to need your help.” I paused, looking for a way to put it. “I’ll probably be in police custody within the hour.” That sounded bad.
    â€œUnder arrest? For what? Damnit, Tim!”
    â€œNothing serious,” I lied. “It won’t stick. But I’d like you to be here.”
    â€œFine. Just tell me where you are. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Her voice hardened, all business now, no stranger to late night phone callers needing her help. Deirdre was always at her best under pressure and I relaxed with that thought.
    â€œThe Blue Bird Motel down in Indio. On Indio Boulevard as it turns into Highway 86.”
    â€œDillon exit?” she verified, on the ball as usual. God, I loved her.
    â€œYou got it. Make a right at the tracks and follow Indio Boulevard north. The Blue Bird is on your left, three miles or so. Can’t miss it.” Especially with the cops that will be crawling all over the place.
    â€œGimme thirty,” she said.
    â€œDeirdre?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDon’t get a ticket.” I felt her smile at the other end.
    â€œYou either,” she countered. “See you soon. And stay out of Branson’s face if he shows up. I don’t want to get there and find you in a choke hold.”
    â€œI’ll try to be nice. I love you.”
    â€œOh, Tim,” she said. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry too.” A forgiving silence. “You better get going.”
    When I hung up the manager was standing in the hallway. “Your wife?”
    â€œYeah,” I said, pushing the phone toward him.
    He came over and picked it up, punching in the numbers. I heard him give his name—Ken Sutter—to the dispatcher as I walked back to the front office for a quick peek outside. It seemed as normal as it could be under the circumstances. I double-locked the door just in case. Went behind the front counter and took a look at the key rack on the wall. Sixteen rooms, two keys for each. Attached to big plastic tags with the room number on it but not the name of the motel. Probably for security. The credit card-type ones at the hotel chains didn’t even have the room number.
    I saw that room 2 had one key out. Both keys gone from the