The Conviction by Robert Dugoni

appeal filed and heard.”
    “I didn’t mean to treat you like a client, Tom. I’m just trying—”
    “What? You’re trying to what, raise my spirits? Give me hope?” Molia exhaled. His words came with a slight tremor. “What do I tell her?” he asked. “What do I tell Maggie? That’s her baby. That’s her boy. So you tell me. What do I tell her? That we’re filing a motion? Huh? That we’re going to appeal?”
    Sloane did not have an answer and knew Molia did not seek one. They drove back to Truluck in silence.
    When they reached the Mule Deer Lodge, Molia turned off the engine but did not immediately get out of the car.
    “I’m sorry,” Sloane said, and it sounded as futile as it felt. “I never should have brought you and T.J. into this.”
    Molia cleared his throat. “I’m not buying that whole camp Fresh Start crap,” he said. “Are you?”
    Sloane shook his head.
    “Something stinks,” Molia said. “It’s why I became a cop; I can feel when things aren’t right and I can smell bullshit better than a hound.”
    “Lynch already has someone working on the motion. She’s on her way here.”
    “But it’s going to take time,” Molia said, voice soft. He glanced at Sloane. “It’s going to take time.”
    “You tell Maggie the truth,” Sloane said. “You tell her this was not T.J.’s doing, and you tell her I’m going to get him out. No bullshit, Tom. I’m going to get them both out.”
    Molia shifted his gaze. Though he did not speak, his drawn face spoke volumes.
    Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
    The man who had checked them into the lodge emerged from the back room, alerted to their presence by the bells hanging above the door. “I thought you’d skipped out on me,” he said
    Music filtered in from the back room.
    “We’ll need the room for another night, possibly longer,” Sloane said, reaching for his wallet.
    The man shook his head. “Can’t. We’re full.”
    Sloane looked past him to the mailbox slots. He counted the knobs of six keys. “What are you talking about? There are keys right behind you.”
    The man didn’t bother to turn. “Those rooms are reserved. We’re busy summers here in Truluck. It’s tourist season.”
    Sloane sensed the man was angling for more money. “How much do you want?”
    “Don’t want your money.”
    “Listen, I don’t know—”
    Molia stepped in. “Okay, partner. Just give us the keys to our rooms. We’ll grab our stuff and get out of your hair.”
    “Can’t do that either,” the man said.
    “Why not?” Molia asked.
    “Your stuff’s not here.”
    “What do you mean it’s not here; we left it in the room.” Sloane said. “Where is it?”
    The man looked at a grandfather clock hanging on the wall amid framed period photographs—the people depicted sharing the same solemn expression and coal-black eyes. “Checkout’s eleven o’clock.”
    “So?” Sloane asked.
    “So when I heard you’d been thrown in jail by Judge Earl I figured you wouldn’t be making checkout. Your stuff’s at the police impound.”
    Sloane bit his tongue. “Where might that be?”
    “Down the road. Look for the foundry. You’ll see signs. You’ll need to settle our bill first, though.”
    “We already paid for the room,” Sloane said.
    “You paid for one night. You missed checkout. I had to charge you a penalty.”
    Sloane sensed what was coming. “And how much is the penalty?”
    “Four hundred dollars. Two hundred a room.”
    “That’s more than the rental rate.”
    The man shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a penalty.”
    Sloane leaned across the counter. “I’m not paying you four hundred dollars. I’m not paying you a dollar. And if you try to charge our credit cards I’ll call and have the charges removed, tell the companythey’re fraudulent, just like you.” He turned from the counter, Molia with him.
    “I could call the police,” the man said.
    Molia spun so hard and fast the man stepped away from the counter.