Stateline by Dave Stanton

Yeah.”
    “Yeah, what?”
    “Yeah, he was into some kinky stuff. Like, he was really into porno movies. He wanted to film them, and he had a big collection. One time he asked Sly and me if we’d be interested in being filmed, and of course we said no way.”
    “What else?”
    “He was on some kind of voyeurism trip. Sly told me he got off on playing with himself while watching other people have sex. Is this really important?”
    “Yes, it could be very important,” I said. “Do you think he influenced Sly with his, uh, preferences?”
    Desiree’s dark skin flushed deeper, and she fumbled for another cigarette.
    “Desiree?”
    “I don’t see how Sly’s and my sex life is of any importance or any of your business,” she said, her eyes flashing. She glared at me like I was a lecherous drunk making an obscene suggestion.
    “Look,” I said quietly, “I don’t give a damn what you two did in the privacy of your own home. Movies, group sex, coke, it’s all pretty routine. So don’t think I’m gonna be shocked. But we’re talking about murder. Someone stabbed your fiancé to death, so I need you to get past your embarrassment and answer my questions.”
    Desiree looked like she was going to burst into tears, but she dragged off her cigarette until the moment passed. I’d always thought of her as the beautiful, innocent debutante, but she looked like she aged five years before my eyes. The cheerful naïveté of her youth seemed to fade into a past life that was becoming a bitter memory. Her eyes grew hard and defiant, and the smooth skin around her jawline tightened like a clenched fist.
    “Fine,” she said. “Sylvester was also into movies. And yes, we have private films of me and of each other. But that’s the extent of it, so don’t cum in your pants. Sven was never involved with us sexually. I would never allow that, not even when we were whacked out on coke. He never filmed us or watched us or anything.”
    We sat across from each other in the stillness of the room.
    “Look, my life just got flushed down the toilet,” she said. “Are you done with your questions?”
    “Just one more. Do you think Sylvester was cheating on you?”
    “Yes,” she whispered.
    • • •
    I returned my pistol to my trunk and went back into Caesar’s to call Osterlund’s room again. There was no answer after a half dozen rings, but then I looked up and saw him at the registration counter. He had his bags with him and kept glancing around like he was looking for somebody. His upper back muscles flexed against his white t-shirt, which was tucked into jeans that looked form-fitted to his legs. I waited for him to finish at the desk, then fell in beside him as he walked toward the exit.
    “Hey, man,” I said. “You need a lift?”
    “Huh? Do I know you?”
    “Dan Reno. I went to Oakbrook. You’re Sven, right?”
    When he didn’t respond, I said, “I think you were a freshman when I was a senior. I grew up next door to Brad Turner.”
    He stopped and peered at me with half-lidded eyes that seemed dead and void of emotion. He looked down on me slightly; he had me by an inch and maybe twenty pounds.
    “How’d you know I need a ride?”
    “Well, I was drinking with Brad and Whitey last night. They said your truck got ripped off.”
    “It didn’t get ripped off, it got fuckin’ towed,” he said. “I could use a ride over to the Lazy Eight. It’s the fleabag they’re staying at.”
    “Come on,” I said, leading him outside to my car. He threw his luggage into my backseat, and we drove across the street to the cheap hotel. As soon as we stopped, Osterlund grabbed his bag out of the Nissan and walked to Brad and Whitey’s room. He left my car door open. I walked around and closed it.
    He tried to open the door to their room, but it was locked. He pounded on it hard with the meat of his fist. “Open up,” he said. Brad swung the door open, and his jaw dropped.
    “Sven, buddy, what the hell, man? Dan?