Free Taking Liberty by Keith Houghton

straight. The kid tapped at a keyboard, said to give the card a wiggle, then tapped some more. I saw him scan the information flashing up on his computer screen.
     
    “Room two-oh-nine.”
     
    “What’s the name on the booking?”
     
    “Mr. Nathan Westbrook.”
     
    “When did he check in?”
     
    The kid peered at his screen. “Let me see . . . the weekend, for a total of a one week’s stay.”
     
    I leaned on the counter. “Was a credit card used to make the reservation?”
     
    Another glance. “No, not in advance. According to our records, Mr. Westbrook is a call-in customer who paid for his entire stay in cash, up front. Looks like his MasterCard was swiped into the system for the security deposit.”
     
    “We’ll need a copy of that.” I saw his brow wrinkle and added: “We’re the Feds, remember?”
     
    He pressed keys and a printer whirred into life. He handed us a printout.
     
    I looked it over: Westbrook’s MasterCard information with an expiration date deep into next year.
     
    The kid took a new keycard from a pack. “If you remove the old key, I’ll fire you up a new one.”
     
    I retrieved the card and slipped it in a pocket, together with the printout.
     
    The kid inserted an unblemished version into the slot and tapped keys, then handed it over. “Take a right at the landing.”
     
    We took the stairs to the gallery, turned down the first hallway and counted doors until we came to Room 209. There was a paper swingy dangling from the door handle:a cartoonish drawing of a yawning bear with the words ‘Beware! Sleeping Grizzly!’ scrolled above it.
     
    “What are we thinking here?” Rae whispered. “Is Westbrook the victim or the killer?”
     
    I got out my Glock. “Let’s take no chances either way.”
     
    I waited for Rae to ready her own firearm, then inserted the new keycard into the door lock. There was a whir, a click,  and a little green light lit up. I leaned on the handle and shouldered open the door. Followed the Glock into the guest room.
     
    Rae was tight on my heels. She peeled off, into the bathroom. I headed into the bedroom area. Swept the iron sights across a King-sized bed facing a multifunction cabinet. There was a writing desk in the corner, with a swivel chair tucked under. A blood-red sofa over by a brightly-lit window. The last hotel room I’d snuck into had presented me with a surprise dead body on the bed. Not this time. There wasn’t even any indication that the bed had ever been slept in. Smoothed down and pillows plumped. No signs of a suitcase. No loose change piled on the nightstand. No used clothes discarded on the floor. No Nathan Westbrook.
     
    I heard Rae shout: “Clear!”
     
    I holstered the Glock. “Same here.”
     
    I pulled open drawers: all empty. I examined the multifunction cabinet: a flat screen TV, a microwave oven, a small refrigerator. I opened the cooler. The miniature liquor bottles, soda cans and candy nibbles all looked present and correct. I went over to the writing desk. There was a lamp, a telephone and a hotel welcome pack on the leatherette inlay. The complimentary notepad hadn’t been written on, but the big mirror hanging above the desk had.
     
    “Rae, you better come take a look at this.”
     
    She joined me in the bedroom, eyes narrowing as she read the words written across the mirror. “Oh my gosh. What’s with that?”
     
    “I think it’s Westbrook’s last dying thought.”
     
    There were uppercase words scrawled on the glass, at chest level, each letter gone over several times to make it stand out. It looked like they were written in blood, but was probably red permanent marker:
     
     
     
    THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT
     
     
     
    The letters were slightly leftward-leaning, with a curling arrow sprouting out at the ends, pointing upward at my dumbstruck face.
     
    “I think the local cops jumped the gun,” I said. “We only went along with the homicide scenario – that there was a second person