The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

away with a majority of planned
misdirection and only a little actual falsehood. In fact, so far I
hadn’t lied so much as tested the elasticity of a not quite current
truth. I was, in fact, a consultant to the MCS, just not lately.
Splitting hairs, I know, but I was trying to work within a scheme
that would keep my anxiety at bay, otherwise I knew I would never
be able to pull this off.
    “I’d love to help you, hun, but cop or no, I
still don’t have a vacancy.”
    “Actually, ma’am, I’m here on official
business,” I continued. “There was a homicide here last week,
correct?”
    “Yes, and I’ve been paying for it ever
since,” she grumbled. “Fortunately, it hasn’t kept the Feds from
renting the rooms.”
    “So I see,” I acknowledged, pointing toward
the neon sign. “Well, the reason I’m here is to look over the
scene.”
    She cocked her head then asked, “But I
thought you said you were from Missouri, hun?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I replied with a nod. “I can’t
really get into any details other than to say we have a couple of
cases in Saint Louis that appear to be related to this one.”
    “Like maybe a serial killer, you mean?” she
pressed.
    “I really couldn’t speculate about that,” I
replied, shrugging as I shook my head. “I’m just here to look at
the crime scene.”
    She reached up with her free hand and rubbed
her eyes, then shot a quick glance at her watch. Looking back to my
face, she asked, “This couldn’t wait until morning?”
    “I know.” I shook my head apologetically.
“But the lieutenant sent me down here for a quick look. I just got
in a little while ago and drove straight here. My flight back home
leaves at ten so I only have a few hours.”
    “They don’t give you much time to work, do
they?”
    “That’s just how it happens sometimes.”
    “All right then, hun,” she said. “Let me get
my shoes, and I’ll take you on down to the room.”
    “You know,” I offered. “I’ve really disturbed
you way too much already. If you just want to give me the key, I’ll
go have a look and then drop it back through the mail slot when I’m
done. That way you can get back to bed.”
    “Okay,” she said, giving me a quick nod. It
sounded almost as if there was a note of relief in her voice. “Let
me get it for you.”
    She turned and headed back around the
check-in desk, rummaged beneath it for a moment, then returned to
the door with a key that was attached to a bright red,
diamond-shaped piece of plastic, which was emblazoned with a large
number 7.
    Handing it to me, she pushed the door open a
little farther and pointed down the length of the building. She
stifled a yawn then said, “Room seven. All the way down in the
corner, hun. Can’t miss it with that damn tape up.”
    My face must have betrayed the sudden
flutter in my stomach as I took the key. Room 7 had been the
ongoing theme with Miranda. It was the number on the doors where
both Hobbes and Wentworth were killed in Saint Louis. And, it had
even been the room at the no-tell palace where Felicity had taken a
potential victim when under the Lwa’s control.
    “Something wrong, hun?” the woman asked.
    “N…no,” I half stammered, catching myself and
quickly trying to come up with a plausible excuse for my sudden
reticence. “I was just thinking that seven wasn’t such a lucky
number for the victim.”
    “That’s a fact,” she replied with a shallow
nod. “Odd enough he specifically asked for it too.”
    I wasn’t surprised by the comment. The desk
clerk where Wentworth was murdered had said the same thing. He had
explicitly requested room 7.
    “Yeah,” I agreed. “Odd that it was even
available. When I called down here it took forever to find some
place with a vacancy.”
    The words were out of my mouth before I even
realized what I was saying. I had just managed to contradict my
entire fabrication with a single slip of the tongue. A fresh spasm
hit my stomach, but I tried to ignore it