Page 48 of Little Last Words

A man rounded the corner, rushing in our direction. He wore a pair of khaki slacks and a button-up shirt that looked like it had once been white but was now a dingy cream. He was on the shorter side, no taller than five feet and stout. A name was embroidered in cursive on his chest pocket: Lionel.

He reached us and bent down, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Who are you guys? And why are you harassing one of my guests?”

“I’m Georgiana Germaine, a private detective, and this is Detective Amos Whitlock. We were across the street and thought we heard a gunshot.”

“Yeah, well, I heard something too. Bit of a stretch to assume a gun was fired though. Could have been anything, a car backfiring even.”

“Dean Barlow, the guest staying in this room, has had some run-ins with the law,” I said. “We need to get inside and make sure he’s all right.”

“If he wanted to speak to you, he would have opened the door when you banged on it … if he’s even here right now,” Lionel said.

“Dean’s car is in the parking lot,” I said.

“So what? There are plenty of places around here within walking distance. Maybe he stepped out for dinner.”

I turned toward Whitlock. “We’re wasting time.”

“You have no proof that a gun went off, or if whatever sound you heard originated at this hotel,” Lionel said.

“And you have no proof it didn’t,” I said.

Whitlock placed a hand on Lionel’s shoulder. “She’s right, friend. All we’re asking is to make sure everything’s all right.”

“Yeah, well, what makes you think whatever you heard came from inside his hotel room and not one of the others?” Lionel asked.

“I was just here, about twenty minutes ago, talking to Dean,” I said.

“How do you know him?” Lionel asked.

I considered my options.

“As I stated before, I’m a private detective, and I’m doing some work on his behalf,” I said.

“What kind of work?”

I’d reached the point where I was ready to say or do anything to get the door opened. “Dean’s wife just died, under unusual circumstances.”

“Unusual, eh? She the woman I read about in the paper this week?”

“I’m guessing so,” I said.

“Do you think this Dean guy could be in danger?”

“I do.”

Lionel looked at Whitlock, and then at me. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Could have saved yourself some time by telling me the whole story right when I got here.”

I closed my eyes, forcing myself not to speak my mind, and it paid off. Lionel reached into his pocket and removed a keyring. He picked through the keys until he got to the number he was looking for and then he inserted the key into the lock.

“It’s Lionel, the hotel manager. Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Barlow, but we need to come in.”

Whitlock stood in front of Lionel. “We’renot coming in. You need to wait out here until we determined what, if anything, has happened here. And before you say another word, it’s not up for discussion. We’re doing this for your own safety.”

The door opened, and while Whitlock surveyed the room, I spotted Dean and rushed toward him. He was lying flat on the ground, his hands pressed against his bloodied shirt. Beside him was a gun.

Whitlock looked at me, and I pointed at the firearm. He nodded, and I slid it in his direction.

“Dean, what happened?” I asked. “Who shot you? Was it Angelica?”