Child, Lee – The Enemy

years old. He had no wife and no children. No ex-wives, either.

He was wedded to the military, I guessed. He was listed at

six-four and two hundred twenty pounds. The army needed

to know that to keep their quartermaster percentiles up to

speed. He was listed as right-handed. The army needed to

know that because bolt-action sniper rifles are made for right

handers. Left-handed soldiers don’t usually get assigned as

snipers. Pigeon-holing starts on day one, in the military.

I turned the page.

Marshall had been born in Sperryville, Virginia, and had gone

all the way through kindergarten and grade school and high

school there.

I smiled. Summer looked at me, questions in her eyes. I

separated the pages and slid them across to her and stretched

over and used my finger to point out the relevant lines. Then

I slid her the memo paper with the Jefferson Hotel number on it.

‘Go find a phone,’ I said.

She found one just inside the door, on the wall, near the

register. I saw her put two quarters in, and dial, and talk, and

wait. I saw her give her name and rank and unit. I saw her

listen. I saw her talk some more. I saw her wait some more. And

listen some more. She put more quarters in. It was a long call. I

guessed she was getting transferred all over the place. Then

I saw her say thank you. I saw her hang up. I saw her come

back to me, looking grim and satisfied.

‘He had a room,’ she said. ‘In fact he made the booking

336

himself, the day before. Three rooms, for him, and Vassell, and

Coomer. And there was a valet parking charge.’

‘Did you speak to the valet station?’

She nodded. ‘It was a black Mercury. In just after lunch, out

again at twenty to one in the morning, back in again at twenty

past three in the morning, out again finally after breakfast on

New Year’s Day.’

I riffed through the pile of paper and found the fax from

Detective Clark in Green Valley. The results of his house-to

house canvass. There was a fair amount of vehicle activity

listed. It had been New Year’s Eve and lots of people were

heading to and from parties. There had been what someone

thought was a taxi on Mrs Kramer’s road, just before two

o’clock in the morning.

‘A staff car could be mistaken for a taxi,’ I said. ‘You know, a

plain black sedan, clean condition but a little tired, a lot of miles

on it, the same shape as a Crown Victoria.’

‘Plausible,’ Summer said.

‘Likely,’ I said.

We paid the check and left a dollar tip and counted what was

left of my sergeant’s loan. Decided we were going to have to

keep on eating cheap, because we were going to need gas

money. And phone money. And some other expenses.

‘Where to now?’ Summer asked me.

‘Across the street,’ I said. ‘To the motel. We’re going to hole

up all day. A little more work, and then we sleep.’

We left the Chevy hidden behind the lounge bar and crossed

the street on foot. Woke the skinny guy in the motel office and

asked him for a room.

‘One room?’ he said.

I nodded. Summer didn’t object. She knew we couldn’t afford

two rooms. And we weren’t new to sharing. Paris had worked

out OK for us, as far as night-time arrangements were concerned.

‘Fifteen bucks,’ the skinny guy said.

I gave him the money and he smiled and gave me the key to

the room Kramer had died in. I figured it was an attempt at

humour. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t mind. I figured a room a

337

guy had died in was better than the rooms that rented by the

hour.

We walked together down the row and unlocked the door

and stepped inside. The room was still dank and brown and

miserable. The corpse had been hauled away, but other than

that it was exactly the same as when I had first seen it.

‘It ain’t the George V,’ Summer said.

‘That’s for damn sure,’ I said.

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