The Grid Read Free Page B

thick Indian accent.
    I took off my glasses, tried to look less intimidating. “I need to see your register.”
    Irving’s mildly puzzled expression disappeared from his face, replaced by a frown.
    “That is not possible, officer.”
    “I’m the sheriff, Irving. Not an officer.”
    He nodded but didn’t speak.
    “Your guest list. I need to know who’s staying in what room.”
    “I am sorry”—he squinted at my name tag—“Sheriff Cantrell. This I cannot do.”
    I sighed.
    Stupid TV. Everybody’d seen a zillion episodes of Law & Order and thought they knew how to be tough with the po-po. Based on our limited interaction, Irving Patel seemed like an all-right guy, as assistant managers go, and I hated to bring the hammer down. But I had an armed, coked-up deputy somewhere on the premises. That trumped being nice.
    I pointed in the direction of the interstate. “You know the truck stop up the road?”
    No reply.
    “The one with the girls hustling tricks in the parking lot?”
    Irving frowned but didn’t speak.
    “Maybe you know the guy named Wally who hangs out in the coffee shop there.”
    Silence. After a moment, he licked his lips.
    “I’m sure you know Wally,” I said. “He sells Mexican crank to the truckers when he’s not pimping out the girls.”
    Irving rearranged some pens in a coffee cup. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “We do not allow Mr. Wally on the premises anymore.”
    “That’s swell, Irving. We all have to do our part to keep crime in check.” I paused. “Say . . . did you ever tell anybody at the home office about Wally?”
    Irving chewed on his lip, stared off into the distance.
    “What I hear, the franchisee rules are pretty strict,” I said. “Be a shame for the home office to yank your logo.”
    Roadside motels live and die by their brand, the goodwill associated with a particular chain as well as their vast reservation system. If a motel owner lost his logo, then the rack rate went down. If the rack rate went down, then people like Wally would be back, and pretty soon what started out as a nice, clean family hotel would end up a flophouse with HBO.
    We were both silent for a few moments. Then Irving said, “Do you know why I cannot show you the register, Sheriff Cantrell?”
    I shook my head. “Tell me, Irving.”
    “The electricity was cut off,” he said. “And the server hasn’t rebooted yet.”
    I rubbed my eyes. “You coulda mentioned that on the front side.”
    “You didn’t ask.”
    My walkie-talkie dinged, another call about the power outage.
    “Let’s try this from a different angle.” I turned down the volume. “I need to know who’s checked in here in the last day or so. Can you do that without the server?”
    “Perhaps this I can help you with.” Irving smiled again. “Who are you looking for?”
    “A man about my size,” I said. “Caucasian, a few years younger than me. Drives that Ford pickup out back.”
    “No man has checked in.” Irving shook his head.
    Silence. I waited. Irving smiled expectantly.
    I tried not to sound exasperated. “Has a woman checked in sometime during the last twenty-four hours?”
    “Oh yes.” Irving nodded. “A woman arrived last night while I was on duty.”
    “What room?”
    He consulted a slip of paper. “Number one three nine.”
    “What’d she look like?”
    “She was white. I could not tell her age. Somewhere between forty and, I do not know, sixty perhaps.”
    A heavyset guy in Dockers and a golf shirt, a traveling salesman probably, emerged from the elevator. He waddled over and asked about breakfast.
    Irving said, “I am sorry, sir. Coffee only this morning because of the power outage.”
    The man looked like he was about to argue but shook his head instead, muttering under his breath. He wandered over to the coffee bar.
    I spoke to Irving. “Was she closer to forty or sixty? Give it your best shot.”
    The ageless woman was probably nothing, a traveler stopping for the night, but since she