Moll shook his head. “What would they leave in the car that would identify them? They would take everything into the room. I say we just go in, have a conversation with the clerk.”
“Fine by me. Where’s Merritt?”
“Not far,” Moll said.
“We don’t wait for him?”
“Not necessary. We get the girls in the van, pacify them a little and go somewhere to wait for him.”
“In the van,” Desmond repeated slowly and gave a thoughtful smile that Moll found disturbing in the extreme.
—
Ski masks and gloves.
These were uncomfortable. But they had no choice. All motels, even the unfortunate Sunny Acres, had video cameras nowadays. They’d try for the hard drive but there was that damn thing called the cloud.
They walked fast into the lobby, guns up, ready to shoot. This was the world of concealed carry. Moll always assumed everyone over fifteen was armed.
“Oh, Lord,” the chubby clerk said, his face and bald head burning red. His hands shot up. When he spoke it was a single long sentence. “Take the money but there isn’t much we’re mostly credit card you can understand I’ll give you my ATM the PIN is 8899 take it all...”
Desmond’s punch to the face was quite satisfying to Moll.
“No, no, no!” The man’s hands came away bloody. He stared. The color seemed as troubling as the pain.
“Guest. Allison Parker and her daughter. Checked in yesterday.”
“That name I don’t know it nobody here like that name, sir, really I mean it we’re a small place and my mother and I are doing the best—”
Now Moll slugged him. The jaw. He yelped.
“You know who we mean.”
“Room three oh six, sir, three oh six.”
They escorted the miserable man into the office. “I don’t know anything about you I didn’t see your faces of course you’ve got those masks on and I wasn’t looking at your clothes or height or anything and I’ve got a terrible memory anyway everybody knows that and—”
Moll made a fist and the man shut up and squinted, turning his head away.
“Security camera hard drive.”
The man nodded toward a black box, holding a 3½-inch drive. Moll ripped it from the desktop and pocketed the unit.
Desmond zip-tied him and Moll found some packing tape, which he used to wrap his mouth. They left him on the floor to spend time in the company of the misery of signing the death warrants of two of his guests.
They started down the hall that led to the rooms, past the ice, past the vending machines. The corridor ended at a wall with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. Why that? Moll could not figure. To the right were rooms 301–319. The two men walked quickly that way.
As they approached 306, the door opposite opened and an elderly couple stepped out, both in leisure suits, hers pink, and blue for him. On the man’s head was a gray herringbone Greek fisherman cap. They stopped about as quickly as you would expect.
“Oh, my,” the woman whispered.
Moll glanced to Desmond, who said, “Hey there, folks, let’s go inside for a minute.” He ushered them back in and the door closed.
He emerged only three minutes later. “He called me an a-hole. Wouldn’t even say ‘ass.’ I don’t like people like that.”
The men walked to 306. Moll bent close to the wood, listening. He could hear a TV program playing. He sniffed. “Coffee and bacon.”
Having been in the business of making bodies and hiding them for some years, Moll had learned a half-dozen ways to get through doors. He’d taught himself lock picking and he became pretty goodat the art. But then hotels started to go with electronic locks and key cards, which was as irritating as the discovery of DNA.