Free Scar Tissue by William G. Tapply Page B

in the seventies (when I guessed it was built), King’s Motel probably had been considered elegant. Now it looked like it had stopped trying.
    I went directly to Unit Ten. A dim yellow bulb glowed beside the door, and the DO NOT DISTURB sign still hung on the doorknob.
    I knocked on the door. When there was no answer from inside, I knocked louder and called, “Hey, Jake. It’s Brady. Open up.”
    He did not open up.
    I tried the knob, but it was locked.
    I spotted the neon-red OFFICE sign in a window down at the other end. I walked down there, opened the door, and went in.
    A middle-aged woman with honey-colored skin and high cheekbones was talking on the phone behind a chest-high counter. She glanced at me, turned her back and whispered something into the phone, then hung up.

    She put her elbows on the counter and smiled. “Want a room?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I talked to you a couple hours ago. I want you to let me into Unit Ten.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “I told you—”
    â€œYou said you were worried about getting fired,” I said. “I appreciate that, and I don’t mean to threaten you. But if you don’t let me into that room, you will regret it, I promise.”
    She rolled her eyes. “And that’s not a threat?”
    I shrugged. “Okay, it’s a threat.”
    â€œDid you say you were a cop?”
    â€œNo. I said it was police business. I’m a lawyer.”
    â€œCan I ask you why you’ve got to get into that room?”
    â€œBecause I’m worried that your guest—my friend and client—might’ve killed himself in there.”
    She laughed quickly. Then she narrowed her eyes. “You’re serious.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “I am.”
    She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
    She took a key off a hook, slipped on a jacket, and I followed her back to Unit Ten.
    She hesitated at the door, then knocked softly. “Sir?” she called.
    When there was no answer, she shrugged and used her key to unlock the door. She pushed it open for me. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m not going in there.”
    I stood in the open doorway and looked inside. A muted television flickered at the foot of the bed. All the lights were turned off. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness.
    Then I saw the silhouette of a human figure slumped in the upholstered chair against the wall on the other side of the bed. I stepped inside the doorway, and that’s when I caught the foul, sweet smell of death.
    â€œJesus,” I mumbled.
    I backed out and pulled the door closed.

    The woman touched my arm. “What … ?”
    â€œYou wait here,” I told her. “Be sure nobody goes in there. I’m going to use your phone.”
    I went back to the motel office and called state police headquarters, which happened to be located just a few miles down Route Nine from King’s Motel.
    When the dispatcher, or receptionist, or whoever it was answered, I told him I had to speak to Lieutenant Horowitz.
    â€œLieutenant Horowitz is homicide,” he said.
    â€œI know that,” I said. “That’s why I want him. Tell him it’s Brady Coyne.”
    A minute later Horowitz came on the line. “This better be good, Coyne,” he said. “I was just about to go home.”
    â€œIt’s not good,” I said. “We’ve got a dead body down the street here in King’s Motel.”
    â€œWell, fuck,” he said. “Okay. We’re on our way. Don’t touch anything.”
    I started to say, “I know that.” But he’d already hung up.

EIGHT

    R oger Horowitz is the best cop I’ve ever known. He’s honest, smart, tough, and relentless.
    He’s also the grouchiest, most cynical, rudest son of a bitch in captivity.
    Horowitz has the disconcerting habit of grinning when a normal person would frown. His grin is