Читать книгу Deadly Games - Steve Frech - Страница 9

My phone pings with a text.

I’m not going to answer it. Not even going to look.

When you’re being led by a detective down a hall at a police station to be interviewed, it’s not the time to respond to what is probably a message from your boss, asking you to come in twenty minutes early for your shift tomorrow.

At the end of the hall, Detective Mendez motions to an open door and I step inside.

The walls are painted cinderblock. The floor is concrete.

In the middle of the room is a metal table with metal chairs on either side. There’s a file resting on the corner of the table.

“Again, I’d like to thank you for coming in and talking to me,” Detective Mendez says, following me into the room. “Please, have a seat.”

He indicates the chair on the other side of the table, away from the file.

“Of course.” The confusion in my voice is genuine as I ease myself into the chair.

He comfortably lowers himself into the chair on the other side of the table.

“I’ll try to make this as quick as I can. We’re just asking some questions, trying to get an overall picture of things.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Um, what things?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together.

“How well do you know Emily Parker?”

How well do I know Emily Parker?

I know everything about her, the same way I know everything about a lot of people. I know their name, their birthday, their kids’ names, where they live, where they work. I know when they get that big promotion. I know how they feel about that cute coworker they haven’t told their spouse about. I know when things are bad at home. Hell, I know when people are on antibiotics. I know all this stuff because they tell it to me; freely, willingly, because everyone wants to be my friend, even though they don’t know a thing about me.

They tell me all these things because I’m their bartender.

Of course, with Emily Parker, it’s a little more complicated but I sort of knew this was coming.

Katie, my coworker, was interviewed earlier this morning by Detective Mendez and as I pulled into the parking lot of the police station, she texted me the heads-up that they had asked her about Emily. She said she didn’t know why they were asking, but that she had kept me out of it; a fact I very much appreciated.

“Mr. Davis?” Detective Mendez asks from the other side of the table.

There are some things about Emily and I that I’d rather not discuss and I know she feels the same way. I need to buy a little more time so I can figure out what’s going on and talk to Emily.

Luckily, I have the training to bullshit all day, if need be.

“You can call me Clay.”

“Your ID says that your name is Franklin Davis.”

“Yeah, but everyone calls me Clay. In my business, you make a lot more in tips with a cool name. I found that out when I worked at one of those corporate chains where you have to wear a nametag and like, buttons with witty sayings, you know? Well, one day, I forgot my nametag, so I had to wear a spare one we had in the office. For one shift, my name was ‘Clay’, and you wouldn’t believe how much more in tips I made that day. So, I decided to stick with it.”

“That’s really interesting,” Detective Mendez says, dryly, while making a note on his pad.

“Thanks.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. He’s got this perfectly neutral, bulldog expression and while bulldogs look kind of dumb, you’re pretty sure they could rip your arm off if they felt so inclined.

“Do you often do that?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Lie to people.”

Is he being serious? What is happening, right now?

“It’s just a work thing.” I shrug.

He makes another note and looks up from his pad.

“So, Mr. Davis … I’m sorry, Clay,” Detective Mendez says, maybe sincerely. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m sorry. What was the question?”

“How did you know Emily Parker?”

“Well, she’s a regular at my bar. She comes in from time to time. She’s one of my best regulars, actually— Wait … Wait. What do you mean ‘how did I know Emily Parker’?”

Detective Mendez gets a slight, pained expression and his eyes inadvertently glance at the file resting on the table.

“Mr. Davis, we’re just asking some questions and we know that she was at the bar two nights ago,” he says, trying to be reassuring.

“No. What did you mean by that?” I can’t help the worry that finds its way into my tone. “Has something happened to her?”

“Mr. Davis, I’m not sure it’s the right time—”

“Please. Tell me, did something happen to her?”

Detective Mendez sighs, reaches over, flips open the file, takes out a photo, and slides it in front of me. And then another. And another.

At first, I can’t process what I’m seeing. Then, it becomes clear. The horror sets in and bile climbs up my throat.

This can’t be real. It can’t be, but it is.

Oh my god.

Cold beads of sweat pop from my forehead. My heart is slamming into my chest.

Detective Mendez leans forward further.

“Mr. Davis … Clay … How did you know Emily Parker?”

Let me back this up to that night.

“Goose martini. Filthy. One olive!” Mr. Collins calls over the din of the crowd.

“You got it.”

Good. He’s in a chipper mood. Things must be going better at home.

Mr. Collins, a retired fifty-something aerospace engineering consultant, has been coming to The Gryphon for years. A filthy Goose martini was his standard drink and I used to start making it the second I saw him walk through the door, but for the past few weeks, he’s been drinking cheap scotch, neat. He and his wife have been having problems. He’s never told me this, directly, but it’s obvious to me. He’s been down, quiet, and the times he’s come into The Gryphon recently, he goes outside whenever he gets a phone call. He doesn’t want anyone to hear him, which is what you do when it’s personal. On slow nights, I’ve watched him through the window while he was on the phone. The body language, the pleading posture, all point to problems at home. This is the kind of stuff you notice when you work behind the bar; the stuff that you as a patron don’t realize you’re doing, but your bartender sees all of it. And if Mr. Collins is back to his favorite drink, that means he’s happy, which means I’m happy, because he’ll be tipping big.

I head to the well and start working on his martini.

My partner in crime, Katie Watson, one of the main attractions at The Gryphon, is holding court at the end of the bar. She brings in tons of business and I’m the one to grind out the drinks. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a good-looking guy. I’ve got a thick, sculpted beard, sleeves of tattoos, keep a regular schedule at the gym, and I’ve got a sharp wit that has earned me my own little knot of admirers, but Katie is straight out of a 1950’s pinup calendar, and she’s wearing a black leather corset that is fighting a losing battle with her breasts.

I can’t keep up with that, not even going to try and that’s what makes us a perfect team.

“Coming right up!” Katie shouts to someone and goes for the beer taps behind me. “Clay!” she calls out as she approaches. “Can you make me a Bullet Rye Old Fashioned while you’re at the well?”

“Yep.”

“Thank you,” she says, and slaps my ass as she passes.

I do not recommend doing this at your place of employment, but this is not sexual harassment. I’m not going to call HR. This is bartending. When you bartend with someone, you’re going to experience a lot of physical contact with them; a lot of physical contact. Your bodies are going to press together and you’re gonna bump uglies as you try to get around each other. You have to get physically comfortable with your coworkers very quickly. Katie and I passed that obstacle a long time ago. We’ve been working together for years and we do it so well, people have nicknamed us “The Dream Team”. We’ve developed such a rhythm that we know when to help each other without asking, we silently agree on who should handle which customers, we know when the other is having a bad night, and out of that working relationship, we’ve grown into best friends.

The group of guys standing near the well are staring at me with what I can only describe as the equivalent of high-fives.

“You have the best job in the world,” one of them says.

“Damn right,” I reply.

It is pretty great.

The Gryphon is a block from the ocean in the town of Avalon, which is about halfway between San Francisco and Monterey. I literally found this place by throwing a dart at a map. Not kidding. I had gotten fed up with living and working in Los Angeles. All the bartenders who were waiting to be discovered by a casting agent had done my head in. I pinned a map of the US to my wall, took a couple steps back, and fired. I knew I wanted to stay in California, so I took a general aim in that direction. The nearest town to the point of the dart was Avalon. That was that. I didn’t worry about finding a job. I had the experience where I could walk in and get a job at any bar that was hiring, and people drink everywhere. They drink when times are good and when times are bad. Bartending is the only job that is bulletproof.

So, I packed up my stuff, moved to Avalon, and found my current employment: The Gryphon.

This town is a mix of everything, and from the first time I stepped through the door of The Gryphon, I knew I had found something special. Nowhere on the building does it say “The Gryphon”. It’s too hip for that. Instead, there’s this cool neon sign in the shape of a gryphon above the door as you enter. I’ve been working here for five years and it’s by far the best gig I’ve ever had. It has this cool, library vibe with some subtle hints of steampunk thrown in. It brings in everyone from locals, to surfers, to hipsters, to yuppies, to businessmen, to you name it.

Such is life on the central California coast.

The Gryphon isn’t a dive, so I don’t have to deal with the bums or the seedy crowd, and it isn’t corporate, so I don’t have to worry about ridiculous oversight, company mantras, or secret shoppers coming in to make sure I was pushing the specials. The money is really good for how easy the work is. Of course, I don’t want to bartend forever, but for now, I’m perfectly happy where I’m at.

I pop the shaker tin onto the cup containing Mr. Collins’ martini, raise it above my head, and start to shake it. The rattling ice makes a sound like maracas.

Before I get started on the Old Fashioned, I glance to the slender guy with the shock of wiry red hair, long, spindly nose, and tortoise-shell glasses sitting at the bar, writing in his little notebook.

“You doing okay, Mr. Loomis?” I ask.

He nods without looking up.

Sydney Loomis is a weird dude.

He’s been coming to The Gryphon since before I showed up. He walks in, sits in the same chair, orders three gins on the rocks with lemon over the span of a few hours, simply watches everyone and everything, but never says a word, only writes in his notebook, and then leaves. He’s incredibly out of place, but he’s an institution at The Gryphon. The one night a week that we’re closed, he drinks at a bar down the street. He’s not a big tipper, but he always tips, and any bartender will tell you those are the people who pay the rent. You always make sure they are happy, and since Mr. Loomis is happy, it’s time to start the show.

With my free hand, I begin to build the Old Fashioned. I glance down the bar to my left to make sure a certain someone is watching.

She is.

Emily Parker.

She’s in her forties and impossibly sexy. She’s got blond, wavy hair, and a body born of yoga and morning jogs on the beach. She’s watching me with an appreciative eye as she takes a sip from her almost spent vodka tonic.

I bring the martini down, hit the shaker against the side of the bar, which causes the tin to jump off, and strain the martini into the chilled glass. Then, I grab a cherry and toss it high in the air above the Old Fashioned. I quickly dump the shaker into the sink next to me, snatch an olive, and drop it into the martini, just as the cherry falls into the Old Fashioned with a light plop.

The crowd around me applauds and I take a bow.

Katie finishes pouring the beer and joins in the applause by adding a loud “whoop”. With her free hand, she slaps my ass, again, and reaches around my waist to grab the Old Fashioned.

“Thank you, Clay!” she says.

“Can you take this martini over to Mr. Collins?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, carefully adding the martini to the drinks she’s carrying. “By the way, can we switch ‘out-times’ tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. I want to go home early.”

“You want to leave early, but you’re not going home,” I say with mock disapproval.

“Not really your business, but you owe me for all the times I’ve traded with you so you could ‘leave early but not go home’.”

Damn.

I do owe her for multiple occasions in the past where she’s traded with me so that I could leave early.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Fine.”

“Thanks,” she says, kissing my cheek and carrying the drinks away.

Time to deliver some bad news.

Avoiding all the outstretched hands and requests for drinks, I slink down the bar to Emily.

The one person I make certain to avoid is the customer that I’ve labelled ‘The Blonde’. She’s been coming in from time to time over the past couple of months, always on her own. Unlike almost everyone else in here, I don’t know who she is or what she does. She’s never hung out at the bar or tried to strike up a conversation with me. She keeps to herself, which I would totally respect, except for the fact that she’s insistent to the point of being rude if she’s not served right away, even if the bar is busy. Also, she doesn’t tip, and carries herself with a “holier-than-thou” air. One time, she felt that I took too long getting her a Cape Cod and complained to our manager, Alex, about my service. She treats Katie the same way. So, we’ve had a not-so-pleasant relationship. I still haven’t caught her name. Kind of don’t care, but unfortunately, I’ve accidentally locked eyes with her as she uses her elbows to knife her way to the bar.

“Can I get a Stella?” she asks.

“You got it!” I reply and keep moving.

I have no intention of pouring her beer.

Katie can take care of her, but that’s only if Katie wants to, which I doubt. If she tries to get Katie’s attention, there’s enough people for Katie to pretend like she didn’t hear her. We bartenders do it all the time to customers we don’t care for.

“Doing okay over here?” I ask, pulling up across the bar from Emily.

“Just fine, Mr. Showoff.”

“Gotta give them what they want.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” she says, giving me a seductive glance and taking the last sip of her drink.

“Another one?”

She ponders the wet ice in her glass. “Nah. I’ll settle up.”

She reaches into her sleek, expensive handbag, extracts a couple of twenties, and hands them to me.

I reach for the cash. “Listen, I’m gonna be a little late, tonight. I have to close.”

She pulls the cash back. “I thought you were going to be cut first.”

“I was, but I kind of owe Katie for our last time … and the time before that.”

Emily gets a dreamy, far-away look. “I remember those times.”

“Sorry. You know that I would do anything—”

“It’s okay,” she sighs. “I may just get started without you.”

“I promise I won’t keep you waiting.”

“You’d better not.” She hands me the cash.

“I’ll be right back,” I say with a sly smile.

After closing out her tab at the register, I put the change and receipt into a faux-leather check presenter embossed with The Gryphon logo. Even though there’s nothing for her to sign, I slip a pen into the presenter and lay it on the bar in front of her.

“Have a good night.”

“I’d better,” she replies.

We hold each other’s gaze before the surrounding requests for drinks become too much.

I turn to the thirsty crowd and start knocking them down, taking three orders at a time, mentally triaging them to be the most effective with my time. I bury myself “in the weeds” and do what I do best, which is crank out drinks.

Occasionally, I’ll steal a glance back towards Emily to catch her watching me, but finally, after a blitz of pouring beers and shaking cocktails, I turn to look and she’s gone.

The countdown to last call begins …

The evening settles into a steady hum.

Katie takes advantage of the lull and begins clearing the bar top of empty pints and highballs. She reaches for the check presenter left by Emily on the bar.

“No, no, no! I got that one. That’s for me!” I call out, quickly moving towards her.

She picks up the check presenter and turns to me.

“You two are ridiculous. You know that, right?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I reply as though I’m offended.

“Cut the crap, Clay. Yes, you do.”

Of course, I do. Others may have their suspicions, but Katie is the only one who knows for sure about Emily and I.

“Okay. Fine. You think we’re ridiculous?” I ask.

She nods, emphatically.

“Two words, Katie: Nick McDermitt.”

Her cheeks flush with anger.

Nick McDermitt is an ex-ballplayer for the Giants. He and his wife used to occasionally stop by The Gryphon until the night Mrs. McDermitt found Katie and her husband in the parking lot being a little too flirty. In fact, they were being waaaaaay too flirty. After that, we never saw the McDermitts again.

Our manager, Alex, who’s in the office right now, had a talk with Katie. He wasn’t going to fire her. She brings in too much business for that, but it was a bad look for the bar. Since then, there has been an informal “Please Don’t Bang the Spouses of Our Customers” policy.

Katie presses the check presenter into my chest.

“Just be careful, okay?”

“If by ‘careful’, you mean ‘no nookie in the parking lot’, I think I can do that.”

She groans and walks away, remembering to toss up a middle finger at me over her shoulder.

I laugh and open the check presenter.

Emily has left all the change, which comes out to about a fifty-dollar tip on a thirty-five-dollar tab. I toss the cash into the tip jar to split with Katie. The receipt is what I’m after, and I’m not disappointed.

Written on the receipt with the pen I provided is a message: “Seaside Motel. Room 37. Don’t keep me waiting. You promised.”

Tucking the slip of paper into my wallet, I glance up to see Katie shaking her head at me in disgust.

I make the sign of the cross and press my hands together, as if begging for forgiveness.

She gives me one last shake of her head and goes back to cleaning bottles.

It’s five past midnight. I’m wiping down the bar while Katie enters her credit card tips into the register. We’ve stopped serving and the few remaining customers are finishing up their drinks. The music has been turned off and the lights are turned up, which is the universal sign for everyone to get out.

Alex emerges from the office.

“Okay, who is leaving first?”

Katie raises her hand. “That would be me.”

Alex pops open Katie’s register and runs her sales report.

They disappear into the office to do her checkout. A few minutes later, she reappears, holding her check presenter and counting her credit card tips. She tips out Tommy, our barback, who is mopping the floor, and comes to sit at the bar.

“You want to hand me the tip bucket?” she asks, settling onto a barstool.

Instead of handing it to her, I extract the cash from the bucket and lay the bills on the bar in front of her.

“Keep it. It’s yours.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I still owe you.” I tip the bucket over in my hand. A mass of coins slides into my palm and I deposit it into my pocket. “I’ll keep the change.”

I really do owe her and I’ll still get my credit card tips for tonight. Besides, I love taking the change. I keep it in a jar on my dresser. Every month or so, I’ll cash it in. It’s usually a couple hundred bucks and I treat it like that ten-dollar bill you find in your jacket pocket at the beginning of autumn. I’ll go out for a steak dinner or take a day trip to Napa.

“Thanks,” she says, placing the bills in her personal check presenter, which is already stuffed with slips of paper.

“How many numbers you stack?” I ask.

We each have our own check presenter where we keep our change, credit card receipts, cash, order pad. A bartender never wants to leave their check presenter behind. It’s also where we keep the phone numbers customers give us. Katie and I have our own little rivalry. We call it “Stacking Numbers”. At the end of the night, we’ll see who got more phone numbers. It’s always Katie, to the point that I have a “ten-phone-number” handicap.

“You don’t want to know,” she replies, confidently.

“I would like to know who you’re having dirty sex time with tonight.”

She tuts her tongue at me and takes my hand. “Oh, Clay. Are you jealous?”

“Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m having my fun.”

“Yeah,” she says, sadly. “But it’s not with me, is it?”

I snatch my hand away. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She laughs and gives me a knowing wink.

“Then get out of here before I do.”

She hops off the stool and heads for the door. “Good night, Tommy!”

“Good night, Katie!” he replies, bent over the mop.

“Good night, Clay!”

“Good night, Worst Person in the World!”

She stops in the door, turns, and blows me a kiss. I grudgingly return the gesture. She “catches” it, slaps it on her backside, and heads out into the street.

“You two are a walking lawsuit.”

I spin around to see Alex standing at the end of the bar.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go,” he says, popping my drawer and running the sales report.

I grab the drawer and follow him into the office.

Alex sits at his computer, working on the inventory while I count my drawer.

I quickly make sure that the amount in the drawer is the same as when I started, minus my sales and credit card tips.

“I’m dropping four-hundred-twelve dollars and sixty-two cents and my credit card tips are two-seventy-four-eighty,” I announce and hold the drawer out to Alex.

“Give me a sec,” he says, slowly pecking away on the keyboard.

I keep the drawer right where it is, hovering near his face, and don’t say a word.

Unable to ignore it any longer, he looks at me. “You got somewhere to be?”

“Maybe. And she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He snatches the drawer. “I don’t want to know.”

He double checks my figures and counts the money.

“Perfect, as always,” he says, signing my drop slip. “Get out of here and do whatever it is you need to do.”

I pop out of my chair and head for the door. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist getting one last dig before I go.

“I’ll tell her you said ‘hi’.”

He jams his fingers into his ears. “La-la-la-la-can’t-hear-you-la-la-la-don’t-want-to-know-la-la-la.”

“Have a good night!” I shout as I exit the office.

A couple minutes later, I’m driving past the gazebo in the town square, which is festooned with lights, as I head towards to the ocean. I’m already anticipating the sex that is mere minutes away.

Emily and I have been seeing each other for months and it hasn’t lost any of its shine. It’s fun, thrilling, and a challenge in its own way. It’s almost entirely physical. That’s not to say that I don’t care about her. I do, but we’ve laid our cards on the table and “love” was not one of them. We are fine with it.

I didn’t even know that she was married the first time it happened. She conveniently forgot to mention it. She came into the bar by herself, we flirted all night, and ended up in bed together. It was fun and I thought it was a casual, one-night stand.

Then, a few nights later, she came into The Gryphon with her husband. They were a total physical mismatch. She was stunning, sensual. He was a short, thin, balding man. He was also arrogant, demanding, and eager to show her off. To put it another way, he was that stereotypical short, incredibly insecure guy with a massive chip on his shoulder, but as a hedge fund manager, he possessed the one asset that levelled the playing field: money. For Emily’s part, she was bored.

I was speechless.

She and I kept exchanging glances while he would speak too loudly about his business deals in an attempt to impress those around him, many of whom were also millionaires and didn’t care for his grandstanding.

At one point, he theatrically announced that he was stepping outside to take a phone call about a “billion-dollar project”. After our shared glances, I took the opportunity to approach her.

“So, who exactly is that?” I asked.

“My husband,” she casually remarked.

“You didn’t tell me you were married.”

“You didn’t ask.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re not in danger of breaking up a happy family or anything. There’s no kids. We’re only married in a legal sense.”

“Isn’t that kind of the only sense that matters?”

“Do you regret the other night?”

My hesitation was all the answer she needed.

“Good,” she said with a look that intimated we were just getting started.

I liked her little game. I liked her confidence. I liked her.

Just then, her husband re-entered the bar with a swagger and a sense of self-congratulation that was almost comical. He ordered a round of shots for the bar in celebration of the deal he had just closed. I was pretty sure he was lying but he paid the exorbitant tab and insisted that Katie and I join in by taking a shot. We were more than happy to oblige. Emily and I locked eyes as we took our shot.

In that moment, I knew that what I had thought was a one-night stand was far from over.

When they closed out their tab, I thanked them, saying I hoped they would be back soon, all the while keeping my eyes on her.

A week later, she did come back, sans husband.

“No date, tonight?” I asked as she settled into the bar, surprised at how happy I was to see her.

“Nope.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Isn’t it? I’m so distraught. I’m going to be so lonely.”

“Tragic.” I nodded. “Well, I suppose I can keep you company if you don’t mind me working for a bit.”

She gave me a hungry look from head to toe. “Not at all.”

She and I continued our parries and jabs of innuendo all night.

When I got off work, we went back to her place. Her husband was in San Francisco at some conference, so we had sex on his prized pool table. I was in a little bit of a dry spell, but from our two encounters, it was obvious that she had been starved for a long time.

Ever since then, we had seized every opportunity offered to us.

I turn right onto Kensington, which runs along the beach, and will take me right to the Seaside Motel. If I had kept going straight instead of turning, I would have eventually reached the Parker house.

When we first started sleeping together, that’s exactly what I would have done, but not anymore. We’ve stopped meeting there. We had been on a mission to break in every room in the house while her husband was away. It was fantastic. We’d have sex, and afterwards I’d walk naked out of their bedroom onto the massive balcony, which was cantilevered out over the sea, and marvel at the view. Then, I’d go back inside and we’d have sex in another room. I would spend the night. We’d fall asleep around eight in the morning. I’d wake up and leave from her place to go to work in the afternoon with a flushed glow and receive looks of scorn from Katie and Alex. Alex knew I was seeing someone but he didn’t know who. Katie figured it out because she had seen us flirting at the bar multiple times.

Emily isn’t a fan of being a trophy wife. In fact, she hates it and she’s most definitely not a fan of her husband. She’s talked about leaving him, but she loves the perks and she’s not in a hurry to part with them. Eventually, she began swinging from paranoid about being caught to “devil-may-care”. Sometimes, she would be overly worried about someone finding out and cancel plans at the last minute. Other times, she would rail about how much she didn’t care and we’d take ridiculous risks, like the time during one of my shift breaks when we had sex on the hood of a car on a side street next to The Gryphon. Then there were the times when we’d just go back to her place.

But we were sloppy and almost got caught at her house.

After that, she decided that we would only meet up at motels, and not good ones, either. In my opinion, I think it’s lame but after a world of fine Egyptian cotton sheets, marble floors, and a private wine cellar, she finds it a turn-on to meet at these “seedy” establishments. Whatever. I’m not going to say no to getting the chance to see her.

Which is why I’m already fantasizing about what I’ll find in room 37 as I pull into the Seaside Motel parking lot. It’s an L-shaped, single-story structure forever stuck in the 1960s, but it’s not without its charm. They’ve embraced the retro look and there’s a stunning view of the ocean across the road. Avalon is full of places like this.

I park in one of the numerous open spots. The air is heavy with the taste of salt, churned up by the low tide. I notice that there’s another gray Honda Civic just like mine occupying one of the spaces near the office. I don’t see her car, which is not a surprise. Like I said, since we were almost caught, she’s become much more paranoid. She always pays cash at the bar. She also bought a burner phone for us to text each other. She finds Uber and Lyft drivers that will accept cash to drive her to our hookups. There’s always a handful of them outside The Gryphon. They don’t want to split the fare with the rideshare company. They also don’t want to pay the taxes and their riders don’t want anything showing up on their credit card statements for their spouses to find. Emily also discovered that motels like the Seaside often don’t need to see your ID or make a record of your stay if you offer to pay double their nightly rate in cash. She’s become very good at making sure that her husband’s assistant won’t find something that will raise any red flags on her credit cards, which her husband pays, and that he won’t see anything in her bank accounts, which he controls.

I stroll down the row of numbered doors. Next to each is a large window. Some have the curtains drawn and are illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of a television but at this hour, most of them are dark.

I arrive at number 37.

The lights are on inside.

On the other side of this door, I’m going to find her on the bed, naked, lying on her side, head propped up in her hand. She’ll ask something like “What took you so long?”. That’ll be the extent of our conversation. I’m already anticipating her hungry touch, her skill, and reveling in the abandon that comes from two people who are comfortable with the fact that they are using each other for physical pleasure.

I push on the door, but it doesn’t budge. She normally leaves it open a fraction of an inch so that she doesn’t have to get up to let me in, but there’s a problem; the deadbolt is engaged.

What the hell?

I check the number on the door.

Yeah, this is room 37.

I lightly knock.

“Emily?”

There’s no answer.

Maybe she fell asleep.

I knock again. No response.

I take out my phone, dial her burner phone, and press my ear to the door. There’s the sound of a cellphone ringing inside. If she fell asleep, I’m hoping the call will wake her up, even though the knocking should have.

The call goes to the generic, automated voicemail.

I glance around. The Seaside Motel is quiet. There’s only the soft buzz of the lamps in the parking lot and the crashing of waves from across the road.

I’m about to knock again when my phone pings with a text message.

I don’t want to do this tonight.

Damnit.

Sorry I’m late, I text back. But it doesn’t have to ruin our evening.

I hit send.

I’m too tired, is her reply.

My thumbs fly across the screen. Okay, but can you please open the door?

There’s a long pause and then my phone pings again.

No. Leave me alone.

Great. She’s having one of those nights, but even on nights that she’s suddenly canceled plans in the past, we’d at least talk for a little bit.

It’s no good trying to get her to reconsider. She’s made up her mind.

So, that’s tonight down the drain. It’s a little weird but I’m not gonna waste any more time with this. If it’s not happening, it’s not happening.

Good night, I text.

She doesn’t answer.

Once inside my apartment, I head straight for the bathroom. I hop in the shower, scrub down, towel off, and climb into bed, not a little frustrated.

She’ll be back at the bar in a week or two, and we’ll pick up where we left off.

Still, that was odd.

She’s run hot and cold but that felt different.

Oh, well.

As I drift off to sleep, I think about what was behind that door, waiting for me …

Sitting across from Detective Mendez, staring at these photos, now, I know.

Even though there is a Post-it Note covering a section of the image, I can see Emily’s face.

Mechanically and in utter shock, I reach towards the photo.

“Mr. Davis, I’m sorry but you can’t—”

I remove the Post-it.

There’s Emily, just as I had envisioned her, lying naked on the bed, but her throat has been cut by an angry slash across her windpipe. Her lifeless eyes stare up at the ceiling. The mattress is soaked in blood.

“Mr. Davis!”

The photo is snatched away but the image is seared into my brain.

“I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I stammer. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s my fault,” Detective Mendez says, replacing the photo into the folder. “I shouldn’t have shown you that.”

While he collects himself, I stare at the other photos which show the rest of the room; there’s her clothes placed neatly on a chair, her purse, keys, and cellphone on the table.

I’m able to choke down the bile in my throat, but my hands continue to shake. The beads of sweat that popped on my forehead have run down into my eyes. In all of this, there’s this strange thought in my head amidst the chaos that something was wrong about the photos; something other than the woman I was sleeping with lying naked on the bed with her throat cut. Something was missing.

“Mr. Davis? … Clay?” Detective Mendez asks.

Of course, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him everything; the affair, the sneaking around, the motels, all of it but with everything that’s happened in the past thirty seconds, I’ve forgotten how to speak.

Wait. I know what was missing in the photo: Emily’s burner phone.

I check the photos again, to be sure. There’s no sign of it.

Which means whoever killed her took it and …

I suddenly remember the text I received as I was walking down the hall into this room.

My brain on autopilot, I reach into my pocket for my phone.

“Clay?”

“I’m sorry, Detective. I just need to check something …”

Detective Mendez may as well be on the other side of the world, and it’s a good thing that my expression is already at “maximum bewildered” because this text message, sent from Emily’s burner phone, has taken what was a surreal situation and turned it into a nightmare.

Keep your mouth shut or I’ll tell them about the blood in your car, MY SWEET LITTLE CUPCAKE.

This can’t be happening.

Another realization causes my stomach to plummet into my shoes: last night, as I stood outside the door of number 37 at the Seaside Motel, it wasn’t Emily that I was texting. It was this guy. He knows who I am. He knows my number … and he knows about “my sweet little cupcake”.

That’s impossible! It was a joke!

“Clay? Are you all right?”

My mind snaps into horrible focus.

Whoever this is can easily make the cops think I killed Emily. I didn’t, but how can I explain that to Detective Mendez? Yes, we were having an affair. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel and yes, my fingerprints are on the door, but I didn’t kill her. And if I show him this text, and there is blood in my car, how do I explain that? Even if there’s not, he’s going to ask what “my sweet little cupcake” means, and if I tell him, that’s it. I’ll be locked up in a cell and whoever did this to Emily goes free.

“Mr. Davis?”

Some sort of survival instinct is triggered. The chaos happening in my head is swept away and I see my situation, clearly. If I try to tell him everything and show him the text, they’ll think I did it. I’ll be locked up. No one will ever believe me and this guy, whoever he is, walks away.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I see no other option.

I have to lie.

I blink my eyes and shake my head in an attempt to concentrate.

“I’m sorry, Detective Mendez. I just—I can’t believe it.”

“It’s all right,” Detective Mendez says, picking up the rest of the photos and putting them back in the file folder. “I know it’s a shock but I need you to tell me: how did you know Emily Parker?”

“She, um, she was a regular at the bar.”

“That’s how you met?”

“Yeah …”

All I can do is keep the panic at bay. This guy, whoever he is, knows who I am. He knows things about me and Emily that no one could possibly know.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Um … two nights ago when she came in.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yes. I served her some drinks.”

“How many drinks?”

“A couple of vodka tonics.”

“How many?”

“Like, maybe four.”

“Did she seem strange to you?”

“No.”

“Did she say if she was meeting anyone?”

“No.”

He nods and makes a note on his pad of paper. “Who texted you?”

“It was a work thing.”

He nods again, not looking up at me.

I’m keeping my trembling hands under the table so he can’t see them. I don’t know if he believes me. Is he like this all the time, or is this an act to get me to break?

“So, you two were … friendly?”

“I’m a bartender. I’m friendly with everyone. It’s my job.”

Something about his question causes my mind to click.

What can I get you?

It’s the old bartender question. I know it sounds like I’m being subservient to you when I ask, but your answer, what you ask for, your body language, your tone, tells me everything I need to know. Are you happy? Sad? Do you have money? Do you want someone to talk to or do you want to be left alone? You tell me everything about yourself and I’m going to use that to get what I want, which is the biggest tip. But now, looking at Detective Mendez, I think, “What can I get you?” What is it that you want that I can give you that will get me what I want, which is out of this room?

His demeanor is infuriating. He’s not intense. He’s not digging too deep. He just wants some answers. He seems like kind of a loner, someone without many social skills; a Sydney Loomis-type. I need to be casual with him. Make him forget about his social awkwardness.

“Did she ever come into your bar with anyone?” he asks.

There. Right there is my “out”.

I try to relax or at least appear to relax because relaxation is not possible under the circumstances, and treat the table between us like it’s the bar. I slip into my bartending persona, which makes me feel gross, but I have to get out of this room.

“Yeah,” I say with a slight roll of the eyes. “Her husband. Have you seen that guy?”

The change in him is instant. He loosens up.

“Yes,” he says, mirroring my eyeroll. His lips tighten into something almost like a smile.

My tactic worked. Now, we’re just two guys talking.

“He’s a piece of work.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he says, making another note. “How did they seem to you?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m only asking for your opinion.”

“They were … not great.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah, but nothing like that,” I quickly add, pointing to the file. I may have overplayed this. I wanted to get on Detective Mendez’s good side to loosen him up so I can get out of here, but I don’t want to insinuate some other innocent person is guilty of Emily’s murder.

“I see,” he says, taking more notes. He’s much more at ease. “But she came in by herself two nights ago?”

“Yes.”

“And where did you go after you got off work?”

“Home.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“Bachelor for life,” I reply with a shrug and a sheepish grin.

He makes a note. “Okay. That’s all I’ve got for now.” He takes something from his pocket and slides it across the table. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please tell me.”

There are a million things I could tell him, right now, a million things I want to tell him because I want him to catch whoever did this to Emily, but if her blood is in my car, he will never believe me. No one will.

“Okay.” I deposit the card in my pocket and try not to rise too quickly from my chair. I have to get to Katie. I need to know what they asked her. Why did Detective Mendez show me those photos? There’s no way he showed them to Katie because she would have said something. So, why me?

Detective Mendez stands. “And let me know if you plan to go out of town any time soon, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” he says, extending his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean ‘Clay’.”

“No problem,” I reply, shaking his hand. He’s got a grip.

I begin walking towards the door.

“I’m sorry, Clay. One last question.”

Well, there it is.

He’s done it. He’s spotted a crack in my story. He’s been playing me. I don’t know what this question is, but I’m sure it’s going to pin me to the wall and slap handcuffs on my wrists.

“Yeah?”

“Your bar; The Gryphon. Is it any good?”

Seriously?

“… yeah.”

“What makes it good?”

“Me.”

He laughs, proving it was the perfect response.

“What’s your favorite drink to make?” he asks.

Bartenders hate this question. It’s like someone asking you what’s your favorite sales report to compile. There are drinks that we know we make well, but that’s different than what’s our favorite drink to make. I always give the smart-ass answer of “bottles of Bud Lite”, but this is the one time that I’m relieved someone is asking me this question. This guy wants a friend.

“I make a mean margarita.”

“Really? Well, I may just have to come by and see if you’re telling the truth.”

The way he says that last part about telling the truth, I’m back to not knowing if he’s messing with me, but I’ve already committed.

“The first one’s on me.”

He smiles. “Well, all right. Thanks for coming in and, remember; if you think of anything, don’t hesitate to call me. I mean that.”

“Will do, and I mean it about the margarita, too.”

He nods and I head out the door.

I’m staring at my Civic like it’s radioactive. My initial urge was to search the inside of the car right then and there, but it would look really suspicious right in the middle of the police station parking lot. I do a quick scan through the windows. I don’t see anything, but it could only be a drop or two somewhere. Or there might not be any blood at all.

I didn’t see anything when I drove over here but I wasn’t really looking for—

My phone pings again.

It’s another text from Emily’s burner phone. Up until a few minutes ago, I would have expected it to have been a flirtatious message about how she couldn’t wait until she saw me again and I would try to convince her to meet up with me as soon as possible.

I’ll never receive another message from her like that again.

Instead, this one reads:

447 Sweetgrass Road. Evergreen Terrace Apartments. #208. Inside the apartment you’ll find something that will help you. It’s blue. You’ll know it when you see it. The key to the apartment is under the doormat.

Once more, I glance to the packed park across the street and the countless cafés and restaurant patios that stretch into the distance.

He’s here. He has to be, right? He had to have been watching me as I walked into the station. That’s how he knew when to send that first message. How else—

Another text message arrives and answers my question.

You look nervous. Don’t be nervous. It’s time to play.