Killer Swell

6

Marilyn had told me that Kate had stayed at the San Diego Marriott Hotel and Marina during her visit to the city. Marilyn explained that Kate always stayed at a hotel when she came home, saying she didn’t want to be a bother to her parents, despite their objections. I wondered how Marilyn explained that one to her socialite friends as I made the drive to the hotel to see if there were any giant clues to trip over.

The Marriott sits at the southern edge of the downtown area, sandwiched between the revitalized Gaslamp Quarter and the finger of San Diego Bay that separates the mainland from Coronado Island. The two towers of the hotel jut into the horizon like glass spears, and the lights from the Coronado Bridge reflected off the mirrored exteriors in the bluish-black evening sky.

The girl at the front desk of the Marriott was less wary than the guy at the La Valencia, and, after a quick look at my license, she gave me what little info on Kate she had.

“The reservation was from the second through the eighth, but she checked out two days early,” she said, staring at the computer screen. “Bill paid in full.”

“Room been rented since?”

She nodded quickly. “Several times. We’re running close to full.” She frowned, obviously not appreciating San Diego’s push toward tourism. “It’s like that in the summer.”

“Anything else on the bill?”

She studied the screen, then shook her head. “Nope. Room and tax. That’s it.”

I thanked her for her help and wandered around the lobby. I glanced in the windows of the gift shops that lined the walkway to the outdoor courtyard. I saw expensive things. I poked my head into the bar and observed the noise and commotion. Nothing pointed me in the right direction.

I walked outside to my car and was heading toward the exit on Harbor when a solitary car at the end of the lot caught my eye. The red Mercedes was parked diagonally, taking up two spaces, shining brightly beneath a towering streetlamp. There were small dents on top of the trunk, as if someone had pounded a fist into it.

I made a U-turn and parked next to the car. I stared at the car for a moment before getting out.

I have always been baffled by my actions. I don’t know why I stuck a straw up the cat’s nose when I was six. I don’t know why I took my first drink at fifteen. I don’t know why I sometimes stop talking to friends for no reason. For as long as I can remember, I have done things simply because I felt compelled. No justification, no reason. I just do things.

That Mercedes was screaming for me to look at it.

I stepped out of my car and the smell hit me almost immediately. I swallowed hard against whatever was rotting in the area and walked up to the driver’s side window. A white leather purse was tossed casually into the backseat. The keys were in the ignition.

I tried the doors, but they were locked. The stench was smothering me, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that it was coming from the trunk. I pulled the tire iron from the rear of my Jeep and wedged it into the space between the trunk door and the body of the car. I jimmied the iron up and down for a minute before I heard the lock snap. I pushed up on it. The lid creaked slightly as it rose.

The odor emerged like a nuclear cloud, and I took a step back, the muscles in my throat convulsing. I held my forearm in front of my nose and mouth and looked reluctantly into the trunk.

Kate Crier’s face stared back at me, the life in it long gone.