Grave Reservations by Cherie Priest

7.

Leda followed Grady out of the bar and through the lobby.

As they walked, Grady quietly filled in a few more details that probably weren’t in the official, public, totally-legal-to-share-with-friends version of the files.

“Christopher Gilman specifically requested a room with disability accommodations, but there was nothing physically wrong with him, as far as anyone knew. Either he was hiding some problem, or as I privately suspect, he knew that an ADA-compliant room would be located on the first floor.”

“Why would he want a first-floor room?” Leda asked.

“Proximity to the parking lot via a side door for a hasty getaway is my guess, because his car was parked right over there.” He jabbed his thumb in a direction that didn’t mean anything to Leda, since they were walking down a windowless corridor. “He’d checked into the room four days before he died, under his son’s name—but he paid cash in advance, so nobody looked too closely at the reservation.”

“That’s weird.”

“Even weirder: He left a Do Not Disturb sign on the door the whole time, and except for the employee who checked him in, none of the hotel staff could recall having ever seen him before. If he came or went, he did so quietly. Probably through the exit at the end of the hall.” Now he waved toward the light-up green Exit sign. “All the better to bypass the security cameras at the front desk.”

“Were there cameras in the elevator or stairwells, too?”

Grady turned and aimed his pointing finger right at Leda. “Yes. And that’s one more reason to ask for the ADA room.” He stopped at room number 118 and held up the key card. “I think he scoped the place out. He chose this hotel, this room, this place.”

“To get murdered in?”

Grady sighed through his nose.

“I mean, for what?”

He unlocked the door and held it open for her. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? If we knew that, maybe we’d have some idea who killed him.”

Leda stepped slowly inside.

Room 118 was virtually indistinguishable from a thousand other hotel rooms in King County alone. It smelled faintly damp and vaguely moldy—stinking also of cheap and overly scented soap, plastic wrap, bleach, and an air conditioner that needed its filter addressed. The single king-size bed was covered in a polyester bedspread that probably used to be a brighter shade of blue, and above it hung a framed ocean print that seemed to be missing its inspirational poster text. A large cabinet held a commensurately large television, an old CRT the size of a storage ottoman. A coffee maker covered in dust stood sentry over a tray of white and yellow sweetener packets, red stirring straws, and a single-use package of Folgers.

Grady came inside, letting the door swing shut with a heavy click. “So… what do you think?”

Well. What did she think?

She thought that she was shut inside a hotel room with a cop who she didn’t know very well, after he’d made it very clear that this was an excellent place to get murdered—especially if someone never wanted anybody to find out what had happened. She did not say so out loud.

“Here,” he said, as if he’d suddenly remembered something. He dropped his messenger bag on top of the bed. He removed a plastic bag and retrieved the items inside—a series of smaller items, individually sealed in their own baggies for maximum recycling bulk. “See if this stuff rattles anything loose. But do me a favor and leave it all sealed. Unless that matters? Does it matter? I have no idea how psychic procedures work.”

“That makes two of us, buddy.” Leda quit scanning the small, bland, entirely nondescript hotel room and sat down on the foot of the bed. “Let’s see what you’ve got here. Is it okay if I ask questions?”

“Ask away.”

She started with the nearest baggie. It was sealed with a red piece of tape that read EVIDENCE in big white letters. Inside, she saw a wadded-up bit of yellow fabric. “Okay, what’s this?”

“It’s a tote bag. Came from a big tech convention called E3. It’s held in LA every year. Gilman and his wife went there together, more often than not.”

“To represent their company?”

He shook his head. “Nah. E3 is a big entertainment expo. Mostly video games. It seems like just about the only thing Gilman and his wife had in common—they both liked to play. When we interviewed her, she said the tote bag might’ve been hers, or he might’ve picked it up last time they went. No idea what was inside it; it was empty when we picked it up.”

Leda held it up to see it better. “Got a little blood on it, though.”

“How do you know it’s blood?”

She squinted at it. “If it’s not, what are these brown splatters? Blood is kind of brown when it dries, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s just coffee.” He nodded toward the brewer on its tray. “He made a pot within half an hour of the shooting. Didn’t drink most of it, and one of the bullets went through him—shattering the carafe.”

“Okay, that’s less creepy, good. Let me think.”

She squeezed the plastic bag, feeling the cheap cotton canvas underneath. Massaging it, she turned it over and examined the logo for “Electronic Entertainment Expo.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath that turned into a cough. One more deep breath then.

She pretended she was at Castaways, sitting on the wood stool with a microphone. She imagined that a customer had handed her this tote and requested a song. What would she sing? What would she tell Niki and Matt to call up on the karaoke machine?

A flash.

Bright white, and the smell of something burning. Loud noise.

Her eyes shot open.

“You got something?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Give me a second.” Was it the gunshot? She closed her eyes again and saw the flash again—not as bright. More like an echo of the first one. Then motion. Yelling. Another man present, but she didn’t see him. “He was arguing with somebody. A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know, but he sounds like… an adult. Not an old guy, not a real young guy. Maybe in his thirties or forties, hard to say. He’s angry, and Gilman… I guess it’s one of the Gilmans at any rate… he’s very calm. He’s the one in charge. Or he thinks he’s the one in charge.”

“Was he meeting an employee? Some underling?”

“That feels right. This guy… he…” Her voice faded.

The fight was loud, and Gilman was telling the other guy to keep his voice down.

“ ‘Keep it down, asshole,’ ” she said out loud. “ ‘The walls have ears, even in a dump like this.’ ”

The words had flown right out. She hadn’t expected them, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

Grady held out his hands. “No! That’s great. Keep going. What else did he say?”

She jammed her eyelids together as tightly as she could and removed her hand from her mouth. “Oh my God… that’s never happened before.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t care. Keep going.”

“Um… Gilman wanted the other guy to do something, and the other guy didn’t want to do it.”

“What? What was the thing?”

She was at Castaways. Holding a microphone. Casting her psychic net around, hoping to catch a song. Whatever that mental muscle was, she struggled to use it without an electronic beat bouncing along and a screen with all the lyrics at the back of the bar.

“I don’t know. Something bad,” she finally said. “Something he didn’t want to do.”

“Something illegal, I assume.”

Eyes still closed, she shrugged. “You said totally ordinary, above-the-board deals are made every day in dumps like this.” Then she cracked one eye. “I’m kidding, of course.” Whatever flare of information had lit up in her brain, it dimmed and died altogether.

She opened both eyes, excited. “It worked! It kind of worked! I actually got something!”

“You sure did,” he said encouragingly. “Now have another piece of evidence and tell me if you get anything else.” He foisted another bag into her hands.

This one was smaller but heavier. Inside, she saw a torn envelope with more splashes of coffee. Unless it was blood. “Is this blood?”

“That one’s blood, yes.”

She didn’t let herself cringe. She wasn’t actually bothered by it, now that she was holding it in her hand—with a sanitary piece of clear plastic between her and the dried-up bodily fluids. She tried again, fondling the paper and hearing it crinkle.

“Any chance you can tell me what used to be inside it?”

“Photographs,” she said without hesitation. “One showed a man and a car. There was an address on the back.”

He lit up. “An address!”

“Don’t get too excited, I only saw it for a second—and not very clearly, at that. The car was silver, and expensive. A Mercedes, I think. The man was in his fifties or thereabouts. Maybe his sixties, if he takes good care of himself. A real silver fox.”

“Hm…” he said, as if it made him think of something.

Leda was on a roll. A rickety, intermittent, half-assed roll. “It’s not like anyone took out a hit on the guy. I think it was something else. Insider trading?” she guessed wildly.

“Nope. Something a little bigger than that.”

Her eyes snapped open. “How do you know?”

“Because I think I know who the silver fox is. I can find out with a phone call if he drives a Mercedes, but I’d be stunned if he didn’t. I’ll find out when I get back to the precinct.”

“That’s not fair!” she complained. “I want to know what’s going on! Details help me, just like they help you. Remember?”

“Yeah, but this conversation puts my job at risk. It would even if we weren’t having it at a crime scene.”

“It’s a very old crime scene.”

“It’s not that old. Here, try something else.” He handed her a plastic-wrapped pen that was broken in the middle. “How about this?”

Leda took it, and immediately received an image. A foot, stepping on it. Tripping, almost—then recovering on the way out the door. “He slipped on it.”

“Who?”

“The killer. He was leaving, and this was on the floor. He smashed it with his shoe, stumbled, and kept going. Opened the door.” She held out her hand, like she was reaching for a phantom knob. “The other guy had barged in on them.”

“Kevin.”

“The son, yeah. I think it’s him. He’s younger and better-looking than the first guy.”

“But you’re not sure?” Grady pushed.

“Man, I’m not sure about any of this. This was your idea, and you promised you wouldn’t get mad if nothing came out of it.”

“I know, I know. I’m just… eager.”

Leda was eager, too, but she had the very distinct feeling that whatever she’d tapped into was out of juice. She didn’t feel even the slightest tingle, twitch, or flash. “I know, but I’m afraid that’s all there is for today. I’m not getting anything else.”

“Does that mean you won’t get anything else or that you aren’t getting anything else right now?”

“Holy Moses, dude. You’re trying to apply a rigorous scientific standard to something that kind of… comes and goes, and mostly sounds bugnuts insane if I talk about it out loud. I don’t know what to tell you. It comes. It goes. It comes again later, unless it doesn’t. I can’t pull clues out of my ass just because you want them really, really bad.”

“Yeah, I got it. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put all this pressure on you.”

Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped the last piece of evidence. It joined the others in her lap. “It’s not your fault. I honestly appreciate this exercise. If I’m going to have some special gift, or talent, or whatever you want to call it, I should maybe put it to some use other than karaoke.”

“Karaoke?”

“Um… I do this karaoke thing.” And while he collected all the evidence bags and stuffed them back into his messenger bag, she explained klairvoyant karaoke.

He tried not to laugh but laughed a little regardless. “That sounds amazing. I love it. When do you do it?”

“Whenever the fancy strikes me. Maybe… several times a week?”

“At Castaways? On Cap Hill?”

She nodded. “Niki’s boyfriend runs the place; I think I told you. I know it sounds dorky, but it’s been my only outlet for this psychic stuff, until this. I really feel like I flexed some new muscles today. So if you, um… if you have another case or anything, or if you get any good hits off anything I said…”

“You will absolutely be the first to hear about it,” he vowed.

He closed the flap on his bag while she climbed to her feet and brushed imaginary dust off the top of her thighs—as if the dried blood or bits of coffee had managed to escape their sealed plastic packages. Then he opened the door and held it for her, and together they walked to their cars.

Leda reached hers first. “Thanks again,” she said.

“No, thank you for your time.” He held out his hand for a goodbye shake.

She took it, shook it, and had the most blinding flash of woo-woo psychic shit in her whole entire life so far.

And then.

Thenshe passed out cold.