David Handler - The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“Damned straight I told him. You think I want to piss blood? He pulled in front of Bungalow Six, got out and started pounding on the door, acting like he was all crazy with jealousy or something. Can’t imagine how he could be, the way that girl sleeps around. She opened the door and they stood out there jawing at each other.”

“Could you hear anything they said?”

Danny shook his head.

“Is anyone staying in the adjacent bungalows?”

He shook his head again. “Afternoons are quiet here during Christmas season. Business will pick up again soon as New Year’s gets here.”

“What happened after that, Danny?”

“He went inside of the bungalow with her and closed the door.”

“And then?…”

“A nice, clean-cut young couple showed up. Couple of college kids home for the holiday is my guess. I got them settled into Bungalow One, good and comfy. A few minutes later I noticed Tommy and Gigi pulling out of the driveway in his Trans Am and heading off together.”

“How long ago was this?”

“An hour ago, maybe.”

“And what happened to the fifth Beatle?”

“Still there, as far as I know. Sleeping one off or whatever. The Tacoma’s still parked around back.”

Yolie headed right out the door to have a look at Casey’s pickup.

“Danny, I’m going to need the key to Bungalow Six.”

“I run a decent place here. I respect the privacy of my guests.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. But I still need that key.”

He let his breath out slowly. “Yes, ma’am.”

She strode across the plowed gravel parking lot, the shadows growing long in the weak late-day sun. It got dark early in the days leading up to Christmas. They were the shortest days of the year. The chill of night was already settling in.

Yolie met her outside of the bungalow. “There’s nobody in the Tacoma.”

And nobody was home in Bungalow Six, which was small and sparely furnished. All of the bungalows were small and sparely furnished. People didn’t come to the Yankee Doodle for the ambiance. They were strictly interested in a bed. The bed in Bungalow Six hadn’t been used. A pair of men’s scuffed Wolverine work boots were on the floor at the foot of it, where the covers were slightly rumpled. Otherwise, the quilt was smooth, the pillows plumped, sheets and blanket freshly made. Aside from the boots, no trace of Gigi, Casey or Tommy had been left behind. The ashtrays on the nightstands were clean. The wastebasket was empty. The closet was empty. The bedroom was spotless.

The same could not be said for the bathroom.

Blood was spattered all over the floor, sink and walls. More blood was smeared in the bathtub. The shower curtain was gone. So were all of the towels.

“You just relax, girl,” Yolie said to her as they backed their way carefully out of the bungalow. They didn’t want to compromise any trace evidence. “Don’t jump to any conclusions, hear?”

Des said nothing in response. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

I will die. If anything has happened to Mitch I will curl up and die.

Toni pulled into the parking lot now, hopped out and came charging toward them. “Detective Kinsler’s taken charge of the Rustic Inn crime scene, Loo,” she reported. “Techies just got there.”

“We have another crime scene in Bungalow Six, Sergeant,” Yolie informed her quietly.

Toni’s eyes widened. “Is there a body?”

“Just blood. Lots of it. In fact, here’s a couple of drops right here,” she said, noticing them in the gravel just outside of the bungalow. “There’s no trail though. Just the drops. Sergeant, this entire motel needs to be secured. And we need to find out if this blood’s a match for what’s on that snow shovel at the Rustic.”

“On it, Loo,” Toni said, reaching for her cell phone.

“Danny didn’t say nothing to us about any gunshots,” Yolie mused aloud. “Sure didn’t smell like somebody fired off any rounds in there.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“So Tommy must have gutted Casey with a knife.”

“Must have.”

“And then, let’s see, Danny said Tommy parked his Trans Am out front here, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“I’m guessing he wrapped Casey up in the shower curtain, popped his trunk and threw Casey’s body in there before he and Gigi took off. That would explain the blood drops in the gravel. Danny never saw it happen-the open trunk blocked his view from the office. Plus he told us he was busy with another couple, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“That make sense to you?”

“Perfect sense, Yolie. All except for one thing. Where’s Mitch?”

“Don’t you worry about him. I won’t let nothing happen to your boy.” Yolie reached for her cell and started thumbing away. “Okay, here’s Tommy’s address. It’s in Cardiff-Dunn’s Lane, number 10A. Know where that is?”

“I know where it is.”

“I’ll follow you.” She turned to Toni and said, “Sergeant, this is now a Major Crime Squad case. I need you to coordinate both crime scenes. I’ll be back for you just as soon as I can.”

“Sure thing, Loo.”

They started toward their cruisers, moving quickly.

Danny Rochin came out of the office, his shoulders hunched. “Everything okay?” he asked nervously.

“Afraid not, Danny,” Yolie replied. “Sergent Tedone has to search all of the other bungalows. Also your grounds and the woods surrounding the grounds. Oh, and Danny?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You’re going to need a new shower curtain.”

Des floored it up the Post Road into Cardiff with her hands gripping the wheel tight and Yolie hugging her tail. Cardiff wasn’t nearly as affluent a town as Dorset. It had no beaches or marinas. No picture-postcard Historic District. Just a shuttered GM assembly plant, an abandoned thread mill, assorted fast-food franchises and a lot of rundown houses filled with rundown people who couldn’t find work. The roads weren’t nearly as well plowed as they were in Dorset, and the countryside wasn’t nearly as bucolic. Bleak was more like it.

At Upper Pattaganset Road she made a left and sped past an apartment complex, then a neighborhood of vinyl-sided starter Capes before she passed a frozen lake. Beyond it, the houses were older and saggier. Kids were having a snowball fight out in front of an abandoned farmhouse. The zoning became jumbled after that, which is to say nonexistent. There was a plumbing supply warehouse next to a mobile home park next to an auto wrecking yard. Dunn’s Lane, which was just past that, was a cul-de-sac of tract homes for GM workers that had been built on the cheap in the 1970s before the plant closed down. Now, in what was rapidly becoming Not-the-American Century, it qualified as a Swamp Yankee slum. Junked cars sat on blocks in more than one of the driveways. Plywood boards covered broken windows. And the street was still buried under deep snow. Des doubted that the town plow had made more than one pass through here yesterday. She inched her way slowly along as she looked for street addresses. Behind her, Yolie had killed her headlights. In this sort of neighborhood the sight of two cruisers arriving together would send off silent alarm bells up and down the block.

There were no lights on at number 10. No cars parked out front. As Des eased on by she saw that 10A was around in back-an apartment over the garage at the end of the driveway. There were lights on in those windows, and a car was parked there. She drove two houses farther down the block before she edged over to the snowbank and parked, Yolie right behind her. They got out, closing their doors quietly. A dog barked at them from across the street. They stayed where they were until it fell silent, then made their way quietly up the driveway. As they got closer to the garage they could hear heavy metal music coming from the upstairs apartment. And make out that the parked car was a black Trans Am.