“Sure. There’s like eight hours of video of her doing her job. There’s a video of her clocking in. And buying a Dr Pepper from a vending machine by the pool.”

“The hotel has a parking lot reserved for employees, right?”

“Yeah. On the lowest level of the hotel, same level as the loading dock.”

“Was there a security camera down there?”

Silence.

“Rae? Detective Hernandez?”

“I’m trying to remember. It’s been two years, you know. Lots of cases since then.”

“But no other cases where a young single mom is beaten and strangled and tossed in with a load of dirty sheets and towels,” Drue said.

“Okay, yeah. There was a security camera in the parking garage. We looked at all the footage. As far as I can remember, there was nothing remarkable, except for some busboys smoking what we assumed was reefer, and a male desk clerk and female housekeeper engaged in what could be called a mutually rewarding act of intimacy.”

“They were having sex? Right there in the parking garage?”

“Going at it like it was their job, in the backseat of a Subaru,” Hernandez confirmed. “So lots of comings and goings. Literally.”

“Ha-ha,” Drue said.

“Is that it now?” Hernandez asked. “The Red Wings are at bat. I gotta go.”

“Can you get me any more video from that night at the hotel?” Drue asked. “I don’t mind watching the boring stuff.”

“Don’t push your luck, kid,” Hernandez said.

Drue sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to decide on her next move. She was now only a few blocks from the Silver Sands motel, where Jazmin’s boyfriend worked. She called the motel and asked for Jorge Morales, but was told his shift didn’t start until 8:00 P.M.

“Guess I’ll go home and wait,” Drue said, starting the Bronco and backing out of the library parking lot.

37

Drue sat in the living room at Coquina Cottage, examining her temporary library card. Had she really been back on the west coast for a month now? Had it been only a month since she’d held her mother’s hand and watched as she drifted into unconsciousness?

The cottage was neat as a pin. The floors were swept clean, her refrigerator held neatly organized shelves of perishables, her bed was made and the office she’d set up in the guest bedroom held a desk she’d recently acquired from Craigslist. But the rooms seemed bare and lifeless.

This was not the colorful, joyful home of her grandparents. The cottage lacked soul.

She went into the office and pulled out a box she’d unearthed from the attic but had resisted unpacking until now.