Quickly, Desmond made his decision.

Lifting the dead man sent pain through his body. His ribs radiated sharp spikes that overwhelmed him, nearly gagging him at one point. The man was tall, about Desmond’s height at nearly six feet, but lean. He was likely only 150 pounds, but he felt more like 300. Rigor mortis had set in. Gunter Thorne had been dead for hours.

As he dragged the body, Desmond wondered how he knew how long it took rigor mortis to set in. But what concerned him the most was that he had never really considered just opening the door, letting the police in, and explaining his situation. It was as if somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew he was someone who needed to avoid the police—that he had something to hide. That if all the facts came to light, it wouldn’t be good for him. He needed his freedom right now. He needed to find out what had happened to him.

He was sweaty and panting when they knocked again. He dried his face, raced to the door, and cracked it, peering out suspiciously.

“Yes?”

The security guard spoke. “May we come in, Mr. Hughes?”

Saying no would arouse suspicion, and Desmond couldn’t keep them out. Without a word, he swung the door wider.

The three men strode in, their eyes scanning the room, hands near their waists. One of the officers wandered into the bedroom, nearing the closet and the bathroom. The doors to both were closed.

“What’s this about?” Desmond asked.

“We had a call about a disturbance,” the police officer in the living room said, without making eye contact. He glanced behind the couch, then over at the entertainment center. He seemed to be in charge.

Through the opening to the bedroom, Desmond saw the other officer eyeing the closed closet doors. He reached out, opened them, then froze. His eyes moved from the floor to the ceiling. He turned to look at Desmond.

“No luggage?”

“I sent it down already,” he said quickly, trying to seem as if they were wasting his time. He needed to turn the tide, go on the offensive to get them out of the room. “What sort of disturbance? Are you sure you have the right room?”

The officer in the living room seemed to have finished his search. He turned his attention to Desmond.

“Are you in town for business or pleasure, Mr. Hughes?”

“Bit of both.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“Technology,” he said dismissively. “Listen, am I in danger here? Should I call the American embassy?” He let his voice rise with each line, sounding more frantic. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

The policeman pressed on. “How long are you in town for, Mr. Hughes?”

“A week. What does it matter?”

The police officer was unshaken. It wasn’t working.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other officer setting up just to the left of the bathroom door, one hand on his gun, the other reaching for the doorknob.