A candidate for the state legislature had been murdered, and the police — under strong political pressure — sat on the case. The dead man’s widow hired McCall to get some action. One of McCall’s first contacts was Sam Holland, then a state senator and a friend of the murdered legislator. Between them they cracked the case, and in doing so developed a mutual respect and liking that soon became close friendship. So that when Holland ran for governor and won, one of his first acts was to offer McCall a job as his assistant for confidential affairs, his troubleshooting righthand man. Holland was a millionaire and he paid McCall a very large salary out of his own pocket, thus keeping him out of the clutches of the political machines and even the civil service, where interference and prying were not unknown.
They drew closer with the years. Holland had found an honest man he could trust absolutely, and McCall had found an honest man he could conscientiously serve.
He had never married. Sam Holland often chided him about it. “I’m not interested in women as a long-term proposition, governor,” McCall said. “One-night stands only.”
With auburn hair, he might have added.
Then why was he fighting off the need to think about Katie Cohan?
McCall was rather surprised at the Greenview Motel. He had expected a seedy-looking place, a hot-pillow joint in need of a coat of paint. Instead he found a modern complex of thirty units in immaculate tan brick and freshly painted red trim, with a lot of glittering glass and well-tended landscaping.
He parked his rental and walked into the motel office, resisting his feeling of disappointment. You couldn’t tell a matchbook by its cover at that.
The clerk on duty was an encouragement. He was an unhealthy-looking character with a shifty eye, bad breath, and unmistakable b.o.
“Do for you,” he said. Then he squeaked. “Single? Double?”
“No room,” McCall said. “Information.”
“I don’t know.”
“I haven’t asked you anything yet. Does the name Laura Thornton mean anything to you?”
“Never heard.”
“You didn’t give yourself a chance,” McCall said. “Think a little. Laura Thornton? Ring a bell?”
“On that one,” the clerk said, “I’m deaf.”
“Would a slice of the green stuff improve your hearing?”
A ten-dollar bill appeared in McCall’s palm.
The clerk licked his sour lips. “I wish it could,” he said. “I sure do.”
“Laura Thornton ever register here?”
“Even if she did, I can’t give out information about guests.”
“Not even for this?” McCall waggled the bill. “Let me look at your register and I’ll double it.”
“I can’t do it.”
McCall produced his open sesame. The clerk’s jaw dropped.
“You that McCall?”
“You can read, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir. The only thing is, I don’t care who you are, I can’t let you look at the register. It’s the law, Mr. McCall. I’m not going to get in trouble with the law. Not in this town.”
“All right, forget the register. Maybe you’ve forgotten the name.” McCall produced the photograph of the Thornton girl and showed it to the clerk.
“Nope.”
“You mean nope you’re not sure, or nope you don’t remember?”
“Nope period. I never laid eyes on this chick.”
“You’re absolutely positive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think about it,” McCall said stubbornly. Something told him to keep going. It was not that he didn’t believe this malodorous specimen with the fear of the ’Squanto fuzz in his heart; it was even less tangible. The place. She had been here. Why? When?
“Maybe,” the clerk said, “maybe the night man would know.”
“Oh, you’re never on nights?”
“Day man is my job. I like my nights for sleeping.”
“Who’s the night man?”
“A man named Mott.”
“I’d like his address.”
“He lives right here at the motel.”
“Go get him.”
“He’s sleeping now...” The door opened behind the counter from some rear room of the office and a stout man with a red face waddled out. He was wearing a snappy chocolate brown suit and a brown shirt with a yellow tie; the rest of him was gray, gray hair, gray mustache, unpleasant gray eyes. “Oh, Mr. Galupian. This man wants information about a guest.”
“Who are you?” the newcomer demanded.
McCall again offered his credentials. Mr. Galupian examined the shield very carefully. Then he handed it back.
“So you’re from the governor. Well, I’m the manager of this motel, and I know the law. We just can’t allow it. We got a license to protect.”
“I have a very special authority, Mr. Galupian. From the governor himself. You can’t get into any trouble.”
“That’s what you say.”
“I’m inquiring about a girl who might have taken a room here recently,” McCall said patiently. “It’s information I’ve got to have. Maybe this photo will help.” He showed the stout man the picture of Laura Thornton.
“Never saw her,” the manager said.
“You’re a liar,” McCall said. “So is your clerk here. Her photo’s been all over the Tisquanto paper for days. She’s Laura Thornton. She’s on the front page of that rack of newspapers in the corner right now — I can see her picture from here. Do you know Chief Pearson?”
“Sure I know Chief Pearson.”
“How would you like some of his men to toss this place?”
“You don’t have to get tough, mister—”
“Or should I get Pearson to burn you down for what I suspect is going on here? Make up your mind, Mr. Galupian. Questions and answers. I can do it.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t answer any questions. I just had to be — well, sure, know what I mean?”
“You’re pretty good, Mr. Galupian.”
Galupian’s smile did not touch his gray eyes.
“But not good enough,” McCall said. “How many joints like this do you run? All shiny on the outside?”
“That one of the questions?”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
The stout man sighed. “Okay. What is it?”
“I’d like to talk to your night man.”
“Ted. Get Mott.”
Ted took it on the run.
Galupian came out from behind the counter and sat down in a green leather chair. He stared out the plate glass window, frowning. McCall said nothing.
After a while the outer door opened and a skinny character in a T-shirt, chinos, and bare feet came out followed by Ted of the Bad Breath.
“Hell of a note,” the barefoot one grumbled. “You the one got this pinhead to wake me up?”
He had muscles, and he flexed them. I’ll bet he practices in front of his mirror, McCall thought.
“I’m sorry,” McCall said, “but this couldn’t wait for tonight. Did a girl by the name of—?”
“He’s the manager,” Mott said, jerking his thumb Galupian’s way. “Ask him.”
“I’ve asked him. He says he doesn’t know. Maybe you do.”
“I don’t know from nothing—”
“Cooperate,” Galupian said to the night man.
Mott blinked and shut up.
“—by the name of Laura Thornton register here recently? If Ted here is to be believed, it was probably on the night shift.”
“Laura Thornton,” Mott said. “No dice. And I got a natural memory for names, too.”
McCall showed him Laura’s photograph.