Chapter - 283
The Harley Davidson coughed its way into the parking lot of The Crimson Sparrow Motel, the angry growl of its engine dying with a pathetic sputter, as if the bike itself were offended by the destination.
The place was a festering sore on the armpit of Portstown's industrial district. The neon sign, a gaudy red bird that might have once looked majestic, was now a flickering, sputtering mess, the "M" in "Motel" completely dark, leaving the sign to proudly advertise the services of a "OTEL."
The air, thick with the nearby stench of a rendering plant, tasted of bleach, stale beer, and the quiet desperation of last resorts.
Sharon killed the engine and sat for a moment, her entire body rigid with disgust. "Charming," she said, her voice a low growl that was barely audible. "I think I just caught hepatitis from the parking lot. You're absolutely sure this is the right place?"
"If you wanted to hide something from people who fly private and frequent five-star hotels, this is exactly where you'd put it," Rick said, his voice maddeningly calm as he swung his leg off the bike.
He was already scanning the layout, his eyes cataloging the peeling paint, the boarded-up windows on the ground floor, and the single, beat-up pickup truck that looked like it had been abandoned since the Carter administration. "It's perfect. Let's go."
The lobby was a circle of hell Dante had forgotten to include. The linoleum floors were a checkerboard of cracked yellow and brown, stained with decades of grime.
A single fluorescent light tube buzzed and flickered overhead, casting a sickly, pulsating glare on the wood-paneled walls. Behind a thick plexiglass window, so smeared with handprints and God knows what else that it was nearly opaque, sat a man.
He was a monument to sloth, a greasy, corpulent figure in a food-stained tank top, his gut spilling over the waistband of his sweatpants. His attention was completely absorbed by a tiny, staticky television where a woman was screaming at a man about cheating with her sister. A half-full spittoon sat by his feet.
Rick and Sharon approached the window. The man, who they would later learn was named Chet, didn't even look up. Rick tapped sharply on the plexiglass.
Chet let out a long, theatrical sigh, the kind a man makes when he's been asked to move a mountain. He fumbled for a remote that was caked in a mysterious, dark substance and muted the television. "Whaddaya want?" he grunted, his voice a gravelly mess. "Room's by the hour, cash up front, no refunds. And the ice machine is for paying guests only, so don't even ask."
Sharon, her patience already worn down to a single, frayed thread, stepped in front of Rick and slapped her badge against the glass. "Police. We have some questions."
Chet squinted at the badge, his expression a perfect blend of boredom and contempt. He wasn't impressed. "Oh, lookie here. A badge bunny. You the fuzz? I ain't done nothin'. You can't prove a damn thing."
"I'm not here for you," Sharon said, her voice clipped. She pulled the silver key from her pocket and held it up. "We're looking for a safe deposit box, a locker, anything connected to this key."
A wheezing, wet laugh escaped Chet's lips, revealing a row of teeth stained dark brown from chewing tobacco. "A locker? Lady, we barely have functioning toilets. Look around you. Does this look like a five-star resort with 'amenities'? Our room keys are cheap-ass plastic cards you can buy on the internet. That pirate treasure key ain't from here."
"What about a woman?" Rick pressed, his voice even. "Nadia Ahmed. Might have rented a room here a few months back. Long-term, maybe."
Chet shrugged, a greasy ripple moving through his body. "I see a hundred faces a week. Skanks, johns, tweakers. They pay cash, I forget their names before their car leaves the lot. That's the business model."
Sharon leaned closer to the glass, her eyes narrowing. "We have reason to believe she was in trouble. Think hard."
Chet held up a grimy, sausage-fingered hand. "Whoa, whoa, Detective Barbie. My memory's a little foggy, you see. Brain-power ain't free in this economy. Information… well, that costs extra 'round here." He finished with a slimy smirk, the universal expression of a petty man who thinks he has all the power.
Before Sharon could launch into a tirade about obstruction of justice that Chet clearly wouldn't give a damn about, Rick stepped forward. He pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slammed it flat against the plexiglass, right in front of Chet's face. "Un-fog your memory," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Now."
Chet's eyes lit up. He snatched the bill through the small slot with surprising speed, making it vanish into a pocket. He squinted, pretending to think hard for a few seconds. "Nope. Still nothin'," he said, the smirk returning.
"Thanks for the tip, though. You kids have a nice day." He unmuted the TV, and the sound of a woman screaming about a paternity test filled the lobby once again. They had hit a solid brick wall.
Back in the decaying parking lot, the tension between Rick and Sharon was thick enough to be a physical presence. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the polluted sky in hues of orange and grey. Time was burning.
"Well, that was a complete and utter waste of time and a hundred of your mysterious dollars," Sharon spat, pacing back and forth in front of the Harley. "'The key to the key,' huh? Great work, Sherlock. Your instincts are batting a thousand today."
"My logic was sound!" Rick shot back, leaning against the bike with a frustrating coolness. "It was a solid lead based on the information we had!"
"It was a roach motel with a lazy, greedy slob who just played you for a hundred bucks!" she retorted, her voice rising. "We are back to square one, Rick! We have nothing, and the clock is ticking down to zero!"
"Yelling about it isn't going to solve anything!"
"And what is? Staring off into space?" she gestured wildly. "Because that seems to be your only other move!"
As they argued, Rick's gaze, which had indeed been drifting, moved across the grimy street. It was a street of failures—a pawn shop with iron bars on the windows, a laundromat with boarded-up doors, and next to it, a dive bar called 'The Rusty Anchor'.
The bar's windows were blacked out, but taped to the inside of the glass of the derelict storefront next to it was a collection of faded, peeling flyers.
One, in particular, caught his eye. It was an advertisement for a local music night, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges. The picture was of a scruffy-looking man with an acoustic guitar and a pained expression that was probably supposed to look soulful.
Underneath the picture, in a cheesy, stylized font that looked like dripping blood, was the name of the main act.
Rick's argument died in his throat. He stopped listening to Sharon's tirade and simply pointed a finger across the street. "Sharon," he said, his voice suddenly calm. "Look."
Annoyed at being interrupted, she stopped, hands on her hips. "Look at what? The urban decay? I'm living it right now, thanks." Then she followed his gaze. She saw the boarded-up window, the collection of flyers, and then she saw the name.
Crimson Sparrow.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her anger, her frustration, it all just vanished, replaced by a jolt of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Her cop brain, which had been stalled in a dead end, suddenly saw a new, brightly lit avenue open up before her.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she breathed, a slow smile spreading across her face. It wasn't a place.
"It's a person," Rick finished, his own expression unreadable.
Nadia hadn't hidden the key in a place; she'd given it to a person. A person with a ridiculous stage name that sounded like a code, a person nobody would ever think to connect to a cryptic clue on a piece of paper.
The flyer was old, but it mentioned he played a regular gig at The Rusty Anchor. Every Friday night. It was late afternoon now. Their objective was no longer a seedy motel. It was a seedy bar. They had a name, and they had a location.
As the Harley's roar faded down the street, the black sedan that had been parked a block away pulled silently into the motel's empty lot.
The passenger, Sparrow One, got out. He was a man who moved with a quiet, unnerving efficiency. The driver, Sparrow Two, didn't wait. He immediately pulled the car back onto the street and began to follow the distant sound of the motorcycle.
Sparrow One entered the motel lobby. Chet looked up from his television, his face a mask of annoyance. "What is it now? Is this a damn bus station all of a sudden? Can't a guy watch his stories in peace?" He saw the new arrival—plain clothes, calm demeanor—and immediately slipped into his greedy routine. "You got questions? You know the drill. It's gonna cost ya."
Sparrow One said nothing. He walked to the plexiglass window and simply placed his right hand flat on the counter. From the sleeve of his jacket, a sleek, black pistol with a long silencer attached slid silently into his palm. He didn't point it. He didn't threaten. He just let it rest there, a promise of cold, quiet violence.
The greed drained from Chet's face, replaced by a flood of pure, primal terror. The color vanished from his cheeks, and he began to sweat profusely.
"Whoa, hey, man, take it easy," he stammered, his hands shooting up in surrender. "No need for that. Whatever you wanna know, just ask. It's on the house."
He started babbling, words tumbling out of his mouth in a panicked rush. He told Sparrow One everything—about the hot-headed lady cop and the cool-as-ice tough guy, about their questions, the silver key, the locker, the woman named Nadia. He swore on his mother's grave that he'd told them nothing because he knew nothing.
Sparrow One listened patiently, his expression completely unreadable, his gaze never wavering. When Chet's panicked confession finally sputtered to a stop, his eyes wide with fear, Sparrow One gave a single, almost polite nod.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, his voice a flat monotone.
Pfft.
The sound was no louder than a cork popping from a bottle. A small, dark hole appeared in the center of Chet's forehead. His eyes went wide with a final, uncomprehending shock, and then they went dull. He slumped forward, his head hitting the counter with a soft, wet thud, right next to Rick's hundred-dollar bill.
Sparrow One calmly retracted the pistol back into his sleeve. He took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped the spot on the counter where his hand had rested. He turned and walked out of the lobby, not even giving the body a second glance. Outside, he lifted his collar and spoke quietly into his mic.
"Raven, the motel was a dead end for the targets. The loose end has been tied. Sparrow Two has eyes on them
. They're heading for a dive bar downtown."