“And tell them what? That I was looking for police files you shouldn’t have anyway? Go for it. But I don’t think you or your cop pal in Evidence Archives will come out of it looking too good.”

Jessica bent down and picked up the flashlight and cell phone from the floor, both of which still seemed to be in working order. Crime scene photos were scattered around her feet like grotesque confetti. She picked one up. It showed Eleanor Lavelle lying on a thick plush carpet, head turned to the side, one arm down by her hip, the other outstretched toward an empty wineglass. Were it not for the five-inch gash across her throat and the blood and bruising marring her beautiful face, she could have been sleeping or passed out after a heavy night partying. She was surrounded by dark stains. It was impossible to tell from the photo if they were red wine or blood.

Holliday crouched down next to her and began collecting the sheets of paper together. He got up and tucked them back in the file, then swept the rest of the paperwork on the desk into a drawer. The edge of a photo caught Jessica’s eye—something black and shiny—but he slammed the drawer shut before she could get a proper look.

They stood facing each other. Jessica handed Holliday the crime scene photo of Eleanor Lavelle she still held in her hand. “What happens now?”

“That’s up to you,” Holliday said. “Despite the fact you just broke into my room, and you generally speak to me like I’m shit, my offer still stands. Tell me who your client is, and I let you see the files. We agree to help each other, and we might actually get somewhere.”

Jessica thought about it for a moment. “Okay. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I give you the name of my client, and that’s it. No follow-up questions. No where, how, or why.”

“Deal.”

Holliday disappeared into the bathroom and returned a few seconds later with two small, chunky tumblers in his hands, the type used to hold toothbrushes and toothpaste in motel rooms like this one. He walked over to the nightstand and held up the bottle of Wild Turkey. “Drink?”

“Sure, why not?”

The next couple of hours were spent drinking bourbon and looking through the murder book. There were crime scene photos, autopsy reports, forensic reports, witness statements, detective notes scribbled in margins. By the time Jessica got to the end, the room was blurry and soft at the edges, thanks to the booze, but she had a clearer idea of what had happened the night Eleanor Lavelle was murdered.