The Butcher's Boy by Thomas Perry

five minutes, he thought. Now the suitcase. He couldn't ditch it here. The police might not recognize the rock as the weapon and go around to all the trash cans looking for something else. Never overestimate the police, count on them figuring out the obvious. He decided to hold on to the suitcase for the moment. The worst thing the cabdriver could think was that he was skipping out on a motel bill in the middle of the night.

    He saw the cab pull up in front of the motel across the street. The driver was staring at the office window for his fare, so he didn't see the man with the suitcase until he was almost to the car. When he did he reached behind him, swung the back door open, and said, "Pirate's Cove?"

    "Yep, that's me."

    The cab was fitted with an oversized heater that blew a continuous rush of hot, impure air into the back seat. After the cold outside he figured he could tolerate it for a few minutes. He sat in the driver's blind spot.

    The driver said, "Hell of a cold night, ain't it?" as he pulled away from the curb.

    "Sure is. Glad you got here so quick."

    "Not much business this time of night. Mostly dedicated lushes who've lost their licenses. A few old folks out visiting each other. Now and then a whore or two.”

    “Must be hard to break even."

    "Not too bad, really. When it gets slow we hang around the airport for the late flights. Nobody wants to call Aunt Mary to come pick them up at two a.m. "

    "I guess not."

    They sat in silence for awhile. He could see one advantage to the late shift. Even on Colfax the traffic was light, and the cab was able to glide down the street catching each signal just at the moment when it turned green. He looked at his watch again. Just a little after midnight . He resented the way time was passing. He was going to need as much as he could get. At the Pirate's Cove he reached over the seat and gave the driver a bill. "Ten cover it?" he said, facing downward away from the light.

    "Sure," said the driver. "Thanks." He'd tipped generously but not enough to be remembered.

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    “'Night," he said and quickly got out, heading toward the glass door of the restaurant. When he heard the cab pull away he bent down to tie his shoe until the car was too far away for the driver to see him. Then he straightened up and moved off down the street toward the Constellation Hotel.

    It was seven stories, shaped like a cereal box. He went around the block to approach it from the rear. There was a parking ramp and a broad loading dock. To the left of the dock he could see that one part of the back wall was pierced with ventilators and fans with screens over them and a number of pipes—the kitchen. Just in front of it he noticed a small wooden stockade. He walked up to it, opened the gate, and looked inside. There were two large garbage dumpsters. He opened the first, and the smell of it nearly gagged him.
    He tried the other, and it seemed to be mostly cardboard boxes flattened to save space. He set the suitcase on top and closed the cover, then made his way to the back entrance of the parking ramp.

    There was an elevator, so he entered it and studied the panel of buttons, then pushed Lobby, and waited. He hoped it wasn't too empty. The way he looked he couldn't afford much company, but if he were alone it would be worse.
    When the doors opened he stepped out quickly, keeping his head down and moving across the lobby at a slight angle from the front desk toward the only doorway he could see. There were two young couples, well dressed, lounging in the oasis of furniture in the center of the room. One of the women had her shoes off and was rubbing her toes wearily. The man with her said something about a nightcap and she rolled her eyes in distaste.

    He knew exactly what he was looking for, but had no way of knowing if the hypothesis were correct. As he came abreast of the front desk he quickly stared at the mail boxes. Room 406, unquestionably, he thought. He had to try it, anyway. The