Free Blood Test by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

to do with when he’d
last seen the Swopes, what cars had come in and out, how the family had been
behaving, who had called them. If you believed him, the motel was an oasis of
innocence and he was the original see-no-evil, hear-no-evil kid.
    The patrolmen cordoned off the area around room
fifteen. The sight of their squad car in the center of the motor court must
have ruffled some feathers—I saw fingers drawing back corners of curtains in
several of the rooms. The policemen noticed, too, and joked about calling Vice.
    Two additional black and whites pulled into the lot
and parked haphazardly. Out of them stepped four more uniforms, who joined the
first two for a smoke and a huddle. They were followed by a crime scene
technical van and an unmarked bronze Matador.
    The man who got out of the Matador was in his
midthirties, big and heavily built, with a loose, ungainly walk. His face was
broad and surprisingly unlined, but bore the stigmata of severe acne. Thick
drooping brows shadowed tired eyes of a startling bright green hue. His black
hair was cut short around the back and sides but worn full on top in defiance
of any known style. A thick shock fell across his forehead like a frontal
cowlick. Similarly unchic were the sideburns that reached to the bottom of his
soft-lobed ears and his attire—a rumpled checked madras sportcoat with too much
turquoise in it, a navy shirt, gray-and-blue striped tie, and light blue slacks
that hung over the tops of suede desert boots.
    “That one’s got to be a cop,” said Beverly.
    “That’s Milo.”
    “Your friend—oh.” She was embarrassed.
    “It’s okay, that’s what he is.”
    Milo conferred with the patrolmen then took out a pad
and pencil, stepped over the tape strung across the doorway to room fifteen,
and went inside. He stayed in there awhile and came out taking notes.
    He loped over to the front office. I got up and met him
at the entrance.
    “H’lo, Alex.” His big padded hand gripped mine. “Hell
of a mess in there. Not really sure what to call it yet.”
    He saw Beverly, walked over, and introduced himself.
    “Stick with this guy,” he pointed to me, “and
inevitably you’re going to get into trouble.”
    “I can see that.”
    “Are you in a hurry?” he asked her.
    “I’m not going back to the hospital,” she said. “All I’ve
got, otherwise, is a run at three thirty.”
    “Run? Oh, like in cardiovascular stimulation? Yeah, I
tried that but the chest began to hurt and visions of mortality danced before
my eyes.”
    She smiled uneasily, not knowing what to make of him.
Milo’s great to have around—in more ways than one—when your preconceptions get
overly calcified.
    “Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here long before then.
Just wanted to know if you could wait while I interview Mr.—” he consulted the
pad, “Fahrizbadeh. Shouldn’t take long.”
    “That would be fine.”
    He escorted the desk clerk outside and over to
fifteen. Beverly and I sat in silence.
    “This is horrible,” she said, finally. “That room. The
blood.” She sat stiffly in her chair and pressed her knees together.
    “He could be okay,” I said without much conviction.
    “I hope so, Alex. I really do.”
    After a while Milo returned with the desk clerk, who
slunk behind the counter without a glance at us and disappeared into the back
room.
    “Very unobservant guy,” said Milo. “But I think he’s
on the level, more or less. Apparently his brother-in-law owns the place. He’s
studying business administration at night and works here instead of sleeping.”
He looked at Beverly. “What can you tell me about these Swope people?”
    She gave him a history similar to the one I’d received
in the Laminar Airflow Unit.
    “Interesting,” he reflected, chewing on his pencil. “So
this could be anything. The parents taking the kid out of town in a hurry,
which might not be a crime at all unless the hospital wants to make a thing out
of it. Except if that was the