What the hell was going on? He rolled out of bed, threw on a T-shirt and the pair of khakis he’d draped over the back of the desk chair. Zipping up, he walked barefoot to the office under the lone security lamp mounted high over the neon sign for the motel. Only a few cars rolled by and the night air was cool, felt good against his skin.

Inside the reception area the lights were on—dimmed, but on. Less than a cup of coffee sat like oil in the bottom of the glass pot in the coffeemaker. No one was behind the desk. Following instructions inscribed into a metal plate on the counter, he rang the small bell. After waiting half a minute, he rang it again, just as Rebecca slipped through a locked door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Devoid of makeup, her lipstick faded, her hair falling past her shoulders, she looked much younger than she had earlier. And crankier. “Can I help you?” she asked, then glanced pointedly at the clock. “Is something wrong?” She was already reaching for another key to his room, assuming that he’d locked himself out.

“I just need to know if you have a record of incoming phone calls to the rooms.”

“What?” She stifled a yawn, trying not to sound cross but failing. Obviously the staff at the So-Cal was stretched thin.

“Someone called me and didn’t identify herself. I need to know where the call came from.”

“Now?” Looking at him as if he were certifiably crazy, she opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know. It’s important.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he withdrew his wallet and showed her his badge.

“What?” She was suddenly wide awake. “You’re a cop?” Worry slid through her eyes as she slapped the cigarettes onto the counter.

“New Orleans Police Department.”

“Oh, Jesus, look, I don’t need any trouble here.”

“There won’t be any.” He second-guessed flashing the badge, but at least it was getting her attention.

“Look,” she said, licking her lips nervously as if she did have something to hide. “This…this isn’t a big operation. We’re not, like, the Hilton, you know.”

“But you have a central switchboard that calls come through, right?”

“Yeah, yeah…we do.” She was thinking hard.

“I assume there’s some sort of caller ID on it.” She was nodding. “So, I need to see origin of the calls that have come to my room.”

She pressed two fingers against one temple. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

“If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”