Chapter 18 Giovanni
GIOVANNI
“I didn’t see nothing.”
The motel owner is a middle-aged guy with a bushy graying moustache that seems to have roots inside his nostrils.
He wears a ragged once-blue polo shirt with a frayed collar, and a tired expression that hints at too many years spent sitting behind the same counter staring at the same worn foyer. His name badge reads: Bill Hodges.
“Do you have a record of the guests who checked into the room?” It’s a genuine question. I can be patient. For now.
“Who wants to know?”
Bruno steps forward and flashes a fake LAPD badge.
Bill eyes it up, his moustache twitching while he debates his options: play the game or be difficult. “Sure.” He doesn’t ask for my ID.
His eyes barely graze our faces on their way to the computer screen in front of him. Perhaps it’s his way of detaching himself from the people who come and go every day. He could never be a detective.
“Megan Walsh, and her kid.” He scratches his chin, his long nail scratching across silver-tipped stubble.
“When was the last time you saw them?” Another genuine question.
He sucks his top teeth. “A couple days ago.” He’s lying. Boredom might’ve set in years ago, but it’s suddenly preferable to being an unwilling witness in whatever crime we’re investigating.
“When precisely?”
“I don’t log the guests’ movements. I’d have a stalking charge slapped against me quick as I can blink.”
My patience is close to being empty. “Do you get many British guests?”
He shrugs. “A few.”
“How many would you say?” At his vacant stare, I add, “A rough guess will do. One a week. One a month. Or am I way off track?”
“I don’t know. Not frequently. I don’t pay much attention to their accents.”
“But you remember this accent.”
I don’t even have to ask the question; he knew exactly who we were looking for when we first walked in and mentioned the room number.
He twists his nose from side to side as if scratching it with his moustache to reach an itch. “I remember the kid. Don’t get a whole lot of those in here.”
“Ah.” Now we’re getting somewhere. “Is this the kid you’re talking about?”
I unlock my phone and show him a picture of Amber watching the penguins being fed at the zoo. It was taken from behind—I respected Meggie’s wishes to keep her sister’s face out of any images or videos we might take—but the hair is unmistakable.
“Could be.” He appears to be more interested in the penguins than Amber, trying to figure out where the picture was taken and how it might affect him.
I have no qualms about enlightening him. “This was taken at Central Park Zoo in New York. Five days ago.”
I give him time to process this clue to his guests’ continued absence.
“Like I said.” Another shrug. “I don’t keep tabs on my guests’ movements. If they pay the check, they’re free to come and go as they please.”
I spread my palms wide in agreement. “Would it be fair to say though, that you’d notice a man entering a room he didn’t pay for?”
His eyes flicker back and forth between me and Bruno. “I guess.”
I lean closer. There’s a glass partition separating us, but I’m close to smashing it with my fist and squeezing the guy’s neck until his lips turn blue. “The time for guessing is done. So, let’s try again. Would you notice a man entering a room he didn’t pay for?”
Pause. “Yes?” It’s the question mark at the end of the word that tips me over the edge.
One glance at Bruno is all it takes.
He’s through the locked door to the front desk and behind the glass partition before I can stand up straight and smooth my jacket. The guy’s right arm is twisted behind his back, and the faint crack that reaches my ears before he howls like a dog is the sound of the first finger being broken.
Sweat beads on his forehead as he turns dark eyes my way. He can’t even remember the question with the pain shooting up his arm and down his spine.
“Did you see a man entering Ms. Walsh’s room?” My voice is cold.
“I saw her come back to the room with someone. A man.”
My fists clench. The Fish—if he was the one who broke into Meggie’s room—had an accomplice. My gut is already running a marathon around LA trying to figure out who she might be.
“What about the little girl?”
He shakes his head and winces as Bruno applies more pressure to his twisted arm. “No kid. I didn’t see the kid with them.”
“You didn’t think that was strange?”
His mouth opens and closes, the panic behind his eyes real. The longer he takes to answer, the greater the likelihood of getting another finger broken. “Yes,” he blurts out. “But I don’t get involved in domestics. No point. They always end up—”
“Domestics?” I cut him off. “They were fighting?”
“Looked that way. She didn’t want to go inside with him.”
I hold his gaze. What kind of person sits back, watches a man fighting with a woman, and concludes that there’s no point getting involved in domestics? A fucking coward. That’s the kind of person.
“And you did nothing.” I glance at Bruno.
Snap.
Bill yelps, dribble collecting at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you have CCTV footage of the rooms? And before you try to wriggle out of helping me and my friend, the answer you’re looking for is yes.”
“Y-yes.”
Bruno releases his grip on the guy’s arm, and he leads us through to the back office where there’s a dusty computer screen and a haphazard pile of video tapes in an open cardboard box, several still scattered across the desk.
He finds the tape we’re looking for, slots it into the machine underneath the desk, and powers up the monitor. It doesn’t take him long to locate what we’re looking for, and I wonder how many times he has played it back, justifying his silence to himself.
As we watch the grainy footage, a car pulls up outside Meggie’s room.
It’s late at night. Dark. A man climbs out of the driver’s seat wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled up over a baseball cap conveniently shielding his face from the camera.
I can just about make out the shadow of someone in the front passenger seat.
He walks around the car, opens the passenger door, speaks to the person inside and then slams his fist on the roof. I can’t hear it, but I can feel the anger.
He peers away from the camera then reaches in and grabs the passenger’s arm, dragging her out of the car and shoving her towards the door.
The woman lands on her side on the ground.
She keeps her head down as she stands up and rubs her elbow.
From this angle, she has Meggie’s hair and she’s roughly the same height and build, but whoever this is, she’s reluctant to go through with whatever is expected of her.
She faces the guy in the hoodie. They exchange a few words.
Then, he closes the gap between them and kisses her, gripping her hair so tightly that her head is tilted backwards at an unnatural angle.
It’s still impossible to see her face, but I’m mesmerized by the way she responds to the kiss.
She’s submissive, hands by her sides. She doesn’t try to pull away from him.
When he finally releases her, it’s obvious that she wanted the kiss to continue, as if it was her lifebelt while all around her was sinking.
The man opens the door to Meggie’s room with a key. One arm around the woman’s shoulders, he ushers her inside ahead of him and closes the door behind him.
I’ve seen enough.
“How did he get a key?” I can feel the sweat oozing from Bill’s pores.
“She must’ve given it to him.”
“She?” My hand is around his throat before he can suck in a breath and hold it in his lungs. “The woman on the screen is not Megan Walsh.” I speak slowly, making sure that he understands every word. “So, I’ll ask you again: how did he get a key?”
His eyes are bulging. His throat clicks. I relax my grip enough for him to choke out a response. “She must’ve got careless.”
“Do you have a spare?”
He nods and raises his left arm to point at the front desk.
I let him go and he staggers backwards, his spine colliding with the far wall of the small office. We won’t get any more information from him.
There’s a line of hooks in an unlocked cabinet behind the check-in desk. The hook for Meggie’s room is empty.
I lock down the studio as I enter, ignoring the security guard’s spluttered, “But, Mr. Sabatelli…”
No one is leaving or entering until I’ve found out who broke into Meggie’s room and left behind their unpleasant warning.
I start with the director.
He’s on his feet the instant he notices me crossing the film set, Bruno at a discreet distance behind me. The guy clearly hasn’t forgotten our last interaction.
“The video came straight down just like you asked.”
I smile. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“It isn’t?” He straightens his spine a little, relieved that he isn’t being accused of doing something else that has caused my displeasure.
Owen, like so many other great unrecognized directors, was still waiting for his big break when I offered him this movie.
He jumped at the chance. It’s a new production company, so he understood the risks, but he was the only director I interviewed who showed compassion for the subject matter of the movie. I believed that he was my man.
I still do. I just wish that he would grow a backbone.
“I only want to have a little chat.”
I gesture for him to lead the way to his trailer.
He doesn’t glance behind him until we’re inside the trailer with his name on the door, OWEN HALL. When he discovers that we’re not alone—we have Bruno for company—his eyes instinctively dart to the door, in front of which the bodyguard is strategically placed.
“What’s this about, Mr. Sabatelli? You’re not pulling the plug on the movie?”
“Not at all. I’m happy with what you’re doing.” I need him on my side.
“Y-you are?” He allows himself a small smile.
“Of course. You’re doing exactly what I’m paying you to do—you’re bringing the story to life.” There’s nothing like a little sucking up to get what you want… In the right circumstances.