“I told you,” Willy said. “The kid looked to be about sixteen, seventeen. We get single guys in here all the time—ex-cons trying to wipe the slate clean by moving to another state. Sometimes they come in twos—buddies renting a cheap room. Never for a moment did I think that something hinky was going on between them.” He paused. “Was something hinky going on between them?”

Ignoring the question, Decker asked, “How did they register?”

The clerk grinned. “It wasn’t under Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

Decker waited.

Willy cleared his throat and opened the registration book. “They registered under the names of Mr. Hank Stephens and Mr. Nicholas Stephens.” He showed Decker the book. “Like I said before, the older dude said he and the younger dude was brothers. So I gave them separate beds and everything. They didn’t look like they was pulling anything.”

“What did they look like?” Decker said.

Willy cracked his knuckles. “They looked a little shopworn. And maybe they looked like they were out to hustle. Especially the older one. He had that look in his eye, the know-it-all grin. He was definitely up to no good. But hell, everyone who comes through those doors—present company excepted—looks like they’re up to no good. Who comes to a dump like this? People hiding from their past, people hiding from their wives, their husbands, from their parents. We get a lot of losers who bring their broads here ’cause they’re still living at home.”

He cracked his knuckles again. “I checked their ID and then I registered them. After that, I minded my own business.”

Decker said, “It would be very bad for business to have the police raiding this place for contributing to the delinquency of a minor—”

“Come on, Sergeant,” Willy whined. “I told you the kid’s ID said eighteen. I’m not required to ask for a birth certificate—”

“Close you down for a couple of months, not to mention all the fines—”

“I’m just trying to make a living,” the clerk said. “What do you want from me?”

“For starts, why don’t you show me their bill,” Decker said.

“I’m not required to do that,” Willy said. “But to show you how anxious I am to cooperate with the law, I’ll be happy to show you their bill.”

The clerk sifted through a file, then pulled out a computerized slip of paper. On it was a record of phone calls. Decker pulled out a pen and his notebook and started to copy down the numbers.

Willy said, “Don’t bother. I can tell you what all these calls are. These nine-seven-six numbers are porno lines. They made five calls to them. This number…it’s an outcall service. I think this one belongs to Embassy Girls. This is Joe Bittelli’s number. He owns Wong Lee Mandarin-Style Cuisine. Guess the boys ordered some Chinese takeout.”