Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“Mirabile dictu,” Mary said, a little Latin for the road, and honked to get his attention. She wasn’t too proud to ask for directions, but the Jeep driver must have misunderstood her, because he sped up. She honked again, more lightly this time, and the driver stuck his hand out the window and flashed her the bird.

Mary kept heading toward the light, growing brighter in the sky. On the left, down the road, was a blinking sign for a cheesy motel that read EZ-Stop, which she took as a good sign that she was going the right way. Another car pulled out from a side road in front of the Jeep, and she began to relax as they slowed to a stop to permit the car to turn onto another dirt road.

Mary glanced idly at the motel, left over from the sixties but trying to be modern. Its sign read AIR COND, C BLE TV, in front of the space-age building, and its rooms overlooked the parking lot. The all-glass office was barely lit, though the lot was almost full, probably with travelers too wise to drive on such an awful night. Mary squinted through the rain, and her eye caught one of the cars parked near the front. Its distinctive European grille stuck out in a lot crowded with older American SUVs and trucks. It was a new black BMW.

Mary wiped the steam off her window and double-checked. The shiny grille winked at her from the parking lot. She had been right, but she didn’t know if it mattered. There were lots of black BMWS in the world, and if not in this part of the world, then easily off the turnpike.

But when the Jeep took off, Mary turned left into the motel lot.

M ary entered the lot and pulled into a parking space beside the BMW, then cut the ignition, eyeing the car. It glistened darkly, its inky hood slick with rain, and it had been parked by reversing into the space with its grille facing front. She looked at the other cars. All of them had been parked the normal way, with their back bumpers facing front. She herself never reversed into a space because she was the world’s worst reverser. Why would somebody park that way? To hide the BMW’s license plate.

She peered through the porthole she’d made in her window. She couldn’t see inside the BMW because of the darkness and rain. She checked the lot behind her, which was quiet, and there were only a few lights on in the rooms. The place was silent and still, with mostly everyone asleep. She grabbed her trusty flashlight, switched it on, and shined it on the front seat of the BMW, then the backseat. The circle of light wandered over plush black leather upholstery and gleaming chrome appointments on the console, and ended in a crowded ashtray, slid partway open.

Hmm. Other than the cigarettes, there was nothing to link the car to Bobby, and lots of people smoked. She got out her purse hat, her nice Coach bag practically ruined, checked behind her car again to see if anybody was watching, then climbed out with her flashlight. She let her car door close softly, slipped between the two cars, and sneaked to the back of the BMW, where she checked the license plate: FG-938. It was a Pennsylvania plate, which made sense, and the number meant nothing to her, since the Mean Girls hadn’t known Bobby’s plate number. The car could have come from anywhere. Pennsylvania was a big state. She directed the light to the back of the car and the shimmer of the chrome plaque surrounding the license plate. De Simone BMW. Marlton, NJ.

Mary considered it, shivering in the cold rain. Marlton was right outside Philadelphia, over the bridge to Jersey. People from South Philly shopped in Marlton and its environs all the time. They usually bought their cars in the South Philly Auto Mall, but the Auto Mall didn’t have a BMW dealership. So it wasn’t impossible that the BMW was Bobby’s. But then how did it get here, to this lot?

Mary slipped out from behind the BMW, scurried across the lot to the motel office, and yanked open the glass front door, leaving a hardware-store Open sign swinging on a plastic suction cup. But it didn’t look open. The front counter, a dingy white with a rounded edge, was cluttered with tourist brochures that flopped over in little wire racks, and there was no one behind the desk. She cleared her throat and leaned over, which was when she looked into an office behind the counter and saw a middle-aged woman sleeping in a beach chair.

“Hello?” Mary called out, and the woman stirred, fluttering her eyes.

“Oh, sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Mary said quickly, running on adrenaline. “Sorry to wake you. I just have a question or two.”

“Question?” The woman rose and stretched, soft as a teddy bear in a Bon Jovi sweatshirt and wide-legged jeans. She wore no earrings or makeup, but her long brown ponytail gave her a fresh, cute look and swung a little as she stretched and ambled over to the counter. “You don’t want a room?”

“No. I’m wondering about that black BMW in the lot.” Mary pointed, but the clerk didn’t bother looking. “I assume that it belongs to a guest?”

“Guess so.” The clerk shrugged sleepily. “I only work the night shift. I checked in a lot of people tonight, and I expect more’ll be coming if the storm keeps up. There’s flooding, I hear.”

“Is there a way we could look up whose car it is?”

“No.” The clerk shook her head, and her ponytail swung back and forth like the Open sign. “We don’t have ’em write down the plates or anything. Most people come here, stay the night, and get back on the turnpike early next morning. Or they stay an hour or so, if you get my drift.”

“Do you think I could get a look at your register, if you have anything like that?”

“Nah, we don’t, and I couldn’t let you look at it, anyway.”

Mary figured as much, and the clerk was looking at her funny, now that she was fully awake. Her small brown eyes glinted with suspicion.

“Why do you care whose car it is?” she asked.

“My old boyfriend has a BMW like that, from the same place, and I’m wondering if he’s here.” It almost wasn’t a lie.

“Gotcha, but I can’t help you there.” The clerk grinned wearily.

“Then there’s only one choice. Can I get a room in view of the parking lot?”

“It’s the only view we got, hon,” the clerk said, and they both laughed.

So Mary bought herself a $68 motel room, which included olive green patterned chairs, a matching bedcover and ratty rug, and complimentary dust mites. She turned on the forced-air heater, which smelled like burning hair, and kept an eye on the BMW while she kicked off her wet shoes and made herself a cup of coffee in the one-cup coffeemaker. After it was ready, she turned off the lights and took up permanent residence in a chair in front of the window, peeking through the curtain in the dark.

Rain pounded against the glass and sluiced down in crazy rivulets, and Mary assessed her view with satisfaction. She was on the first floor, directly across and not fifty feet from the BMW, so she’d see the moment anybody crossed to it, if she could stay awake long enough. She hoped to God this wasn’t the dumbest thing she’d ever done, but even she was beginning to think it was crazy to keep driving in the storm. She kept her phone at hand in case Brinkley called and fought the impulse to leave him another message. She gulped the dreadful coffee and kept an eye on the BMW, babysitting an inanimate object.

Two cups later, she was beginning to feel dangerously sleepy, but was too paranoid to turn on the TV. She kept slumber at bay by watching a car pull in to the lot. It pulled in slowly, and Mary played a guessing game with herself, trying to predict whether it would reverse into the space. But the car didn’t park. It idled in the middle of the lot, and she watched, her chin in her hand, her eyelids heavy. In the next instant a man got out of the car, opened up a blue-and-white golf umbrella, and ran around to the passenger side of the car. He let a woman out, which Mary thought was nice. So chivalry wasn’t dead.