She locked up the office with the keys on her wrist, and took out a plastic master. Led us down the sidewalk.

The motel was made of cinder blocks that looked like they’d been painted by a lazy drunk. All along the windows, the caulking was thick with paint. I could make out the clerk’s perfume as she moved, some mix of a woodsy scent, laced with citrus.

“How many guests have stayed in that room since my colleagues left, Miss . . . ?”

“Lady,” she said. “Just Lady. And the answer is one.”

She walked toward the room then. Or maybe “strutted” is a better word. Her clothes fit tighter than a pregnant bride’s.

The numbers on the doors we passed were all odd: 3, 5, 7.

At number 9, I saw a dent in the shape of a foot in the lower half of the door. Someone had drawn a rectangular shape around the hole in Sharpie, and I guessed that a kick-plate was being installed. Hide the hole, rather than replace the door.

We got to Room 11, and Lady used her plastic master key to unlock the door.

I stood on the concrete strip outside the room for a moment. Examining the place for the first time.

“The room ain’t gonna search itself, handsome,” Lady said.

I smiled at her and moved inside. The room was simple. A queen bed, covered in a white quilted comforter with a gold throw blanket draped long-ways across the base of the bed. It matched a single gold pillow that was placed in between two bulging white pillows at the head of the bed.

“You looking for something in particular?” the manager asked.

“I am,” I said.

Beyond the mattress stood two dressers, both made of a fake wood laminate, done in a red oak. Atop one of them was a black Mr. Coffee machine. Single cup hotel style. It was set on a plastic tray that contained a paper cup with a stirrer, a packet of sugar, and a single plastic container of creamer.

I walked over and lifted the machine up, examining it. The air in the room smelled stale, and I was guessing that the window-unit AC had mold in the water circulating inside it.

“This work okay?” I asked about the coffee machine.

“Damn well better,” Lady said. “It’s brand-new.”

“What do you mean, ‘brand-new’?” Remy asked.

I don’t think my partner appreciated Lady’s comment about the fire department, because these were the first words that Remy had uttered since we arrived.

“The one guy who stayed here complained that nothing was working. So that’s a new one. Grabbed it from our stockroom this morning.”

“Café,” I said, and Remy made a noise with her nose.

“Shit,” Remy said. “Carilla was saying ‘coffee’ in Spanish.”

“Where’s the old unit?” Remy asked.

“Dumpster.” Lady pointed to the parking lot.

Remy turned and headed out the door.

My partner’s hand whipped to the back pocket of her slacks, where she always carried at least two pairs of gloves. The second set was usually for me.