23. The Motel
The Motel
The liquid oozed from the old ice machine in the building's corner. It was rusted, and every once in a while, when the ice filled its storage, it would shake on uneven pegs; it drove Belle nuts. She had been staring at it for a while from a covered parking space across the street; the water would pool and flow toward the front of the building. The motel was a dull yellow color. Like jaundiced eyes. And the exterior was filthy. There was a woman standing, not too far from the entrance, hailing a cab and yet dressed in a way that exposed her assets to anyone driving by. That was the one thing Belle didn’t lack; she had sharp eyes.
And due to her tenacity, she found a match from the fingerprints of one thief, who had brilliantly listed the motel as a home address on a prior arrest.
“There. Park in front of room number seven,” Belle said, as they entered the motel parking lot.
“Are you sure? There might be someone,” replied James.
“It’s fine. We’re dressed like civilians. Act like one.”
The two exited the unmarked car and headed to the front office near the street entrance.
A hot and fetid breeze wafted out when they entered; it smelled like carpet mold that’s been roasting in the sun too long.
Belle stopped dead in her tracks and covered her nose.
Her partner did the same. The smell was so strong, Belle gagged.
“Welcome to Paradise Motel. How may I be of service?” The man said from behind the counter. He was of South Asian descent, but his accent was British. He had a nasal tone when he spoke condescendingly. Belle didn’t like him from the get-go.
“I need the keys to room seven,” Belle said, flashing her ID badge.
“I want no trouble here, miss. I just completed renovations!” replied the man.
“Renovations, huh?” James said. He covered his nose with a handkerchief. The stench grew in intensity the farther you went in.
“Do you have a warrant!?” yelled the man in indignation. He shook his head and wagged his finger at them. “I know my rights!”
“You either give me the keys or you’ll have to show me your papers,” Belle said. She pulled out her phone and showed it to him. “I can have someone from immigration down here in ten minutes to sort this all out.”
“No! No, miss. Please, that won’t be necessary. Here,” the man said, placing a card with the number seven on the counter. “Bad customer. Hasn’t paid last month’s dues!”
“Thank you,” replied Belle as she swiped the card.
It was sticky. Like old gum that had dried out but still had a grip.
The two headed back to the car parked in front of room seven.
As they approached, an odd couple outside room six were exchanging cash and whispering sweet tidings to one another.
The lovebirds were chatting up a storm. Belle and James passed them quickly and stopped short of room seven’s door.
She drew her weapon. And he did the same.
“Should we call for backup?” asked James.
“We can’t afford to wait,” Belle said as she tapped the card to the lock. The light switched to green, and a soft click emanated from the lock. She turned the handle gently and aimed straight ahead. Then, suddenly, put all her weight against the door and pushed it open with significant force.
“FBI!” Belle shouted into an empty room. A light remained on in the bed's corner, but not much else. The room was clean, albeit as clean as a cheap motel can be. Nothing seemed out of place. There were no bags, no belongings, and no waste in the trash bin.
“Did room service pass by?” James said.
“Room service? Here?” Belle said obnoxiously. She went further in and secured the room. The bathroom was empty, too. She looked under the bed and opened the cabinets. Nothing.
“Call for backup and crime scene,” Belle said. “We need to check for fingerprints and tear this room apart.”
James nodded and pulled out his phone.
“This is Special Agent Brown. I need a team at Paradise Motel,” James said, his voice trailing off as he spoke into his phone.
He holstered his weapon and went back to the door entrance to keep watch in case anyone arrived.
Belle continued her search. She tore the linen off the beds.
Moved chairs and opened the curtains. There was nothing there.
Nothing that would give her a clue who was responsible for the killings; or the man responsible for the robbery in the first place.
Frustrated, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked up.
That’s when she saw it. A misaligned air vent on the wall, just above the bed.
It had only one screw on, and part of it was sticking out.
The other end dangled a bit. A moment later, a door slammed next door.
The vibrations in the wall shook it, further displacing the vent, leaving a small opening just near its top.
Belle, intrigued by it, dragged an old and dusty chair to the vent.
She climbed it, stepped onto the nightstand, and stretched as far as she could to reach the vent.
But she could barely reach the vent properly.
So, she hopped and smacked her hand against it.
The vent swung down and almost came off completely.
Then, she stuck the tips of her fingers in and felt around.
It was cold. And full of dust mites. Not to mention the smell that permeated out of it.
Then, standing on her tiptoes, she felt a soft, leathery texture.
She pinched it. And carefully pulled it towards her.
James had come back in when he saw what his partner was doing and rushed to her side; which was fortunate because as she pulled back, she lost her balance, and down she went into her partner’s arms.
“What the hell are you doing?” James said.
“This!” replied Belle, holding onto a small black bag. James let Belle down gently by the bed. She turned with great excitement and placed the bag on the mattress. “I think we found the hard drive.”