The cell phone rang, and I pried off a hand long enough to answer it. Another picture of Lance, apparently asleep. The burns on his chest had scabbed over, becoming almost black. A message accompanied the photo.
“Got another text. Stairway to heaven.” I wrinkled my nose. “What does that mean?”
“That Lance is about to die.”
The truck crept closer to seventy, which seemed a lot faster on the narrow street we were on. Each pothole we hit felt like a thunderclap.
“No…I mean-yes-that’s part of it. But I think it’s a clue. She’s telling us something about his location.”
“What does Led Zeppelin have to do with rho and zeta?”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. An earlier call to the Old Stone Inn hadn’t given us much to work with. The front desk had confirmed the motel was full, all twenty-six rooms occupied. This was one of those single-floor, park next to your room motels. I asked about a woman with scars checking in, or anything out of the ordinary, but English wasn’t the clerk’s first language, or at least he pretended it wasn’t, and I couldn’t get anything out of him.
I had also dialed 911, explaining the situation and telling them a kidnapping and murder of one of their own was being committed there. I was sure they’d send a car, but had no idea of their response time or their procedure. Even if they got there before us, it’s unlikely they’d get any more help from the clerk than I did. And no cop I ever met would kick in twenty-six doors without a warrant. Exigent circumstances and probable cause were weighty terms, but not as weighty as lawsuit and disciplinary action.
“What were the band members’ names?” I asked Phin.
He took a corner so fast the tires cried out. “Robert Plant…John Paul Jones…Jimmy Page…”
“Which one died?”
“The drummer. John Bonham. Died in his sleep. Choked on vomit.”
My heart rate jumped up even higher. “Did he die in a motel room?”
“Page’s house. Drank too much.”
Phin tapped the brakes and just missed clipping a Volvo, who laid on the horn to show his disapproval. I tried to swallow, but had no spit left.
“How about something in the lyrics?” I forced myself to focus, not the easiest thing to do when I predicted a car accident in the immediate future. “Any mention of rooms or motels?”
“It’s about a woman who thinks she can get what ever she wants.”
Phin swerved and climbed the curb, causing my body to rise up against the seat belt. I readied myself for the passenger-side air bag, but it didn’t deploy.
“We’re on the sidewalk.” I tried to sound calm, but my voice came out squeaky.
“Motel,” Phin said, eyes glancing right. I followed his gaze, saw the large Old Stone Inn sign a block ahead. A light illuminated its $49.95 a Night rates, but the i in Night was missing.
We came upon the parking lot fast-too fast-and Phin hit the brakes and still slammed into the rear of a parked SUV. Still no airbag. I wondered if the truck even had them.
I checked my watch. Five thirty.
The motel was laid out in an L shape, ground-level rooms stretching off in two perpendicular directions. Thirteen on each arm. With three minutes left, not enough time to check them all.
Phin and I ran for the lobby, at the center of the L. There was a Milwaukee police cruiser parked in front, and through the window I saw two uniforms talking to the desk clerk, who was shrugging and shaking his head.
“Four!” Phin yelled at me.
I looked at him, wondering if he had a golf club.
“‘Stairway to Heaven’ is on the album Led Zeppelin IV!”
Was it that easy? Was Lance in room four? I didn’t question it, I acted, yanking the gun out of my bouncing purse, running down the arm past rooms ten…nine…eight…seven…
Phin outpaced me, getting there first, slamming his shoulder into the door. It popped inward, Phin stumbling into the room, me coming in right after him, dropping to a knee, gun out, eyes and ears open.
The room was bright, every light on, someone in bed.
Lance.
He was naked, eyes wide, terrified. He screamed at me through his duct tape gag.
The pigstick was set up on the nightstand next to him, the shotgun shell held in place by a metal arm. I followed the wire to a timing device, realized I had no expertise at all to disarm it, and chose instead to simply point the contraption away from Lance.
Two seconds after I grabbed it, the charge went off.
The explosion was deafening, and the shock-coupled with the powerful vibration of the shot-made me drop the pigstick. I cast fearful eyes at the bed, expecting to see blood and guts and carnage.
The mattress had an ugly, ragged hole in it. Lance did not.
Phin said something that sounded like “Jesus,” but my ears were ringing, so I couldn’t be sure. I spun around, gun sweeping the room, then did a quick search, tugging open the closet and bathroom doors. No Alex.
“Please…”
Phin had removed the duct tape from Lance’s mouth, and stared down at him, frowning. I glanced between Lance’s legs and had to look away.
“Freeze! Police! Drop your weapons!”
The two Milwaukee cops were at the door, their guns drawn, their faces bright with urgency. I moved slow, deliberate, not wanting to spook them.
“We’re putting down our guns,” I said. “I’m the cop who called earlier. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Chicago PD. My ID is in my purse. This man on the bed is David Strang. One of yours.”
I crouched, setting my gun on the floor, putting my hands up. Phin did the same. The cops moved in, putting Phin against the wall, frisking him, taking his gun. As I watched, I noticed something taped to the motel wall. A cell phone.
Alex was watching.
“This man needs an ambulance,” I said.
Neither cop said anything, but the taller one took his handcuffs out of his case.
“There’s no need to restrain him. He’s with me.”
“There’s a federal warrant out for his arrest,” the tall one said. “There’s one on you as well, Miss Daniels.”
A sound from Phin, either a soft snort or a loud sigh. “We just saved your man’s life.”
“I’m sure you’ll get all of this straightened out. Orders are orders. You understand.”
Phin tried to spin around, got a rabbit punch in the kidney by the shorter one. He dropped to his knees. So did I, picking up my Beretta. Just as Shorty pulled back for a second punch I fired into the ceiling.
“Hit him again,” I said through my teeth. “See what I do to you.”
Shorty opened up his fist and backed away from Phin.
“Guns. Drop them.”
The cops looked at each other, then complied.
“Now get on the goddamn radio and call a goddamn ambulance for your man.”
The taller one used his lapel mike. Phin stuck their guns in his waistband, retrieved his own, and jammed it into the neck of the cop who socked him.
I almost warned Phin not to do anything stupid, then remembered that I trusted him.
“I got a question,” Phin said. “Is it just you, or do all short guys hit like sissies?”
Shorty didn’t answer, which was probably wise.
I kept them covered and made my way to the cell phone, feeling for it on the wall and tugging it off. Held it to my ear.
“Alex?”
No answer. I powered it off and stuck it in my purse, then motioned for Phin to come over to the door.
“Your guns will be in one of the Dumpsters outside,” I told the cops, “which is more professional courtesy than you’ve shown me.”
“You sure you want to do this, lady?” Shorty said.
I frowned. Then in one fluid motion I tugged their guns out of Phin’s belt, stuck my fingers in the trigger guards, and whipped them around butt-first while smoothly pressing both ejector buttons. The full clips sailed out the bottom ports and bounced off each cop’s chest as they flinched.
“It’s not miss, and it’s not lady,” I said. “It’s Lieutenant.”