Chat - Archer Mayor [44]
“We need to get past that,” he said. “And I’m definitely seizing this computer and applying for a warrant. ’Cause from what I’ve been able to see, there’s a whole lot more here than garage business.”
Matthew: I have 3 brothers and 4 sisters
SweetAngl: sorry
Matthew: but 2 borthers n 1 sister dont live here
SweetAngl: thats good
Matthew: my twin sisters are 16 and my little sis is 12
SweetAngl: thats kool u have twins sisters
Matthew: its aiight
Matthew: 1 night i was drunk I went up into my sisters room to get a peak
SweetAngl: of what
Matthew: I was curious to what color her underwear was
Matthew: its a good thing she was sleeping in a skirt
SweetAngl: oh my
Matthew: she didn’t wake up or nothing
SweetAngl: thats weird
Matthew: yeah i know
Matthew: so do you wear mini skirts alot ?
SweetAngl: sometimes
Matthew: how short do you usually have ur skirts
SweetAngl: 2 me knees
Matthew: nice
Matthew: you ever catch ur step dad checking you out ?
SweetAngl: thats sick
Matthew: i just had to ask that
SweetAngl: why
Matthew: cuz step dads do check out there step daughters
Matthew: idk why they just do
Chapter 11
“These places really do all look the same,” Lester Spinney mused, pausing on the threshold and taking in the narrow view of the motel room before him—cheap dresser with TV, the foot of a large bed, nondescript drawn curtains, and two screwed-to-the-wall paintings.
Willy shouldered him roughly from behind. “We’ll get you a postcard. Move it.”
Spinney laughed and let his colleague push by. On paper, like oil and water, they actually worked together very smoothly, the one fleshing out the characteristics less obvious in the other. In practice, while Willy’s intensity homed in on details and people like a laser beam, Lester’s disarmingly gentle, hands-off style frequently supplied the more general view, along with access under a suspect’s defenses.
He turned back toward the door, where the motel’s manager was hovering nervously, still clutching his copy of the search warrant.
“Mr. Nelson,” Spinney asked affably, “did you get a chance to check the records for the night in question?”
The manager, a short, round man with thinning hair and glasses, nodded energetically, eager to please. As well he might have been. Before coming over here, Lester had inquired into the Brattleboro police’s knowledge of the place. His reward had been an outburst of laughter. This motel, especially, was a favorite stop-off for those wanting sex, drugs, suicide, or all three. As one of the detectives on the municipal building’s ground floor had said, “They should charge a hell of a lot more for all the services they provide.”
Mr. Nelson was apparently the doorkeeper of a true den of iniquity, although Spinney couldn’t help doubting that he benefited from any of it.
During this brief musing, the manager pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and adjusted his glasses.
“Let’s see . . . The gentleman checked in at eight forty-eight p.m., pretty late. No car, paid cash . . .”
Lester could see where this was going, and interrupted, “You don’t take a credit card imprint for security?”
Nelson chewed his lip once before admitting slowly, “No, sir. We found that sometimes made people nervous.”
“I bet,” Spinney said. “What name did he use?”
“N. Rockwell.”
Lester grimaced. “Okay, that’s weird. How did he get here if it wasn’t by car?”
There again, the manager paused before admitting carefully, “I’m not sure he didn’t have a car. He just said he didn’t.”
“And, of course, you never want to invade their privacy.”
The manager allowed a small smile. “No, sir. Not sure I’d want to go there.”
“How many key cards did he ask for?”
Nelson consulted his piece of paper. “Two,” he answered.
“We heard the night clerk was Benjamin Grosbeak?”
“Benny—that’s right.”
“And the maid who cleaned up the next day?”
“Angela Lundy.”
“Any chance we could get them here to interview?”
Nelson checked his watch. “It’s midmorning. That shouldn’t be