The faint stirrings of wildlife outside my window woke me. A few rays of morning sunlight began to filter through the trees, lifting the darkness in the room. Monday.
The room was lit enough that I could survey my temporary home. It was sparsely furnished. A two-drawer dresser topped by an old chunky TV, which was bolted down. One old wooden chair in the corner. Nothing decorated the walls except peeling white paint. The mattress was saggy, and the bed was too short for me. My toes hung over the end. Yet it was vastly more comfortable than sleeping in my car. A very acceptable temporary home. A welcome change, until even this cheap luxury was no longer affordable, because my cash reserves were dwindling.
In spite of the unusual events of yesterday, I had slept surprisingly well. Now I was alert and ready to follow where this trail of the dead Hispanic guy would lead me.
I had only seen one other person of that ethnicity in my short time here. When I left the motel yesterday morning, I saw the maid preparing to clean rooms. Her nametag read Cortina Perez. She appeared to be Hispanic, and the name did too. I wondered if there was any possibility that she and my dead guy knew each other. Ordinarily, the mere fact they shared ethnicity wouldn’t be sufficient reason to believe they were acquainted. But the Sheriff implied that few Hispanics lived in the area. So it seemed to me the likelihood they knew each other was great enough to ask her.
On the way out of my room, I again saw the maid Cortina loading her cart, preparing to start her rounds. She was maybe 30, round face, smooth dark skin. She was a little over five feet tall, short compared to me at a little over six feet. I had always felt tall, at least until yesterday. Enid had made me feel short.
Cortina Perez was neatly dressed, and her hair was a bit wavy and shiny. She maintained her appearance as she did the motel rooms, clean and neat, in spite of their general shabby condition.
I smiled and said, “Good morning, Cortina.”
She smiled widely showing clean, but somewhat stained, teeth and responded in thickly accented English, “Good morning, Señor Parker.” She must have gotten my name from the guest list.
“Looks like it will be a beautiful day,” I said cheerily.
“Yes, pretty. Have nice day,” she said in broken English.
We smiled at each other as I passed. There would be an opportunity to ask her about the guy on the trail. But not yet. I needed a better way to approach her on this. If I were still a cop, no problem. I would flash my badge and just ask her. But as a civilian, I didn’t want to scare or confuse her. Right now, I had nothing to show her. The Sheriff had erased my cell phone pictures of the dead man’s face. At least I broke the ice by speaking to her. A start. When I had something solid to show her, then I could comfortably start a conversation about dead people. Today, there might even be a report in the news about the man.
As I had discovered yesterday morning, the motel’s free continental breakfast was a box of cheap donuts and a pitcher of watered-down orange juice. I looked through the office window at the pathetic pastries and decided to try the diner in town. I had spotted it while being hauled off to jail. It looked cozy and inviting, a place where I could get a great-tasting breakfast and a day’s worth of fat and calories, all probably for well under ten bucks.
Climbing into my CRV, I noted Deputy Powell sitting in his patrol car at the end of the parking lot. He watched me, making no attempt to hide his presence. Had my misadventure on the trail yesterday raised the Willow Run alert level to orange? Maybe so. I was beginning to really dislike this guy.