She left the bathroom to discover more non-use, everything in its proper spot, including the dresser lamp with a wiped-down base. The state of the unit lulled her into less scrutiny than normal: no notice of the few stray flecks of blood that had been missed when the tiled entryway was mopped. But most important of all to saving housekeeper time, the beds remained perfectly made, as if no one had slept in them. Because the guest, a coin-dealer-turned-diamond-courier, had never been on his bed. He was under it. The bodies of the missing maid and a man in maintenance overalls were beneath the other one.
The maid locked up the room and informed the front desk that 303 was ready for occupancy.
A two-tone Javelin sat across the street from a mechanic’s garage.
“Now what are we doing?” asked Story.
“Staking out a dishonest transmission shop.” Serge rocked enthusiastically like a child. “This is going to be the most excellent travel service ever!”
“Dammit! Take me to the hotel!”
“Please hang with us on this one,” said Serge. “This isn’t about me. It’s those poor folks from Minnesota.”
“I don’t even see their RV.”
“If it’s the scam I think, the Winnebago is behind one of those closed garage bay doors on the end, so nobody can see the expensive work not taking place.”
Story inhaled deeply for patience and looked back down at school work. “Okay, but only because I feel sorry for them, too. Just make it snappy.”
“It’ll be over before you know it.” Serge pointed. “See? Here they come now, walking back from the Intergalactic House of Pancakes.”
Fifteen minutes later, a 2005 Winnebago with blue trim eased down the driveway of the transmission shop and slowly accelerated up a service road parallel to the interstate. The Javelin fell in behind.
“Coleman, remember what I told you?”
“What?”
“Coleman!”
“Oh, that. Thought you were talking to Story.” She looked up from her reading. “You said this would be over soon.”
“Blink and you’ll miss it,” said Serge.
The RV approached the entrance ramp. The Javelin suddenly accelerated in fugitive-stop maneuver, whipping around the side of the Winnebago. Coleman waved urgently up at the driver. “Pull over! Now!”
The driver let off the gas and rolled down his window. “You guys cops?”
“No,” yelled Serge, leaning across his passenger. “But I work for the state. Just pull over-it’s very important.”
Soon, both vehicles sat quietly on the shoulder. Serge’s voice echoed from under the RV. “Just as I suspected!” He crawled out and held up a strip of duct tape.
INTERSTATE 95
The Winnebago reversed direction and sped north. A rest stop approached. A blinker went on. Serge handed Coleman the brown paper bag.
Coleman looked inside. “What are you doing with a sack of sugar?”
“Always keep a supply tucked in the trunk,” said Serge. “Part of my roadside emergency jerk kit. Now here’s what you’re going to do …”
The RV pulled into a generous parking space near the restrooms. Serge turned around in the driver’s seat and faced the huddled retired couple. “Remember to stay completely hidden. Any deviation from my plan and I can’t guarantee anything.”
“But-“
“Coleman, let’s rock!”
They jumped down from opposite sides of the RV and headed for the vending machines. Serge looked back at the vehicle. He stopped and scratched his head. He bent down.
A man from a nearby pickup truck ambled over. “Problem?”
“Think I’m dripping something.” Serge straightened and shrugged. “Probably just radiator fluid.”
“Maybe,” said the man. “But you don’t want to take chances with a leak. Not on these roads. Get stranded at night and, well, most likely nothing will happen.”
Serge placed a hand oh his heart. “Sex slaves? Heavens, what can I do?”
“I’m pretty good with vehicles. Want me to take a look?”
“You’d do something that kind for a complete stranger?”
“Bet you’ve never been to Florida before.” The man began walking toward the RV. “Extremely friendly state.”
“And I’d heard otherwise,” said Serge. “Here, come around the far side. Think you can see the leak better from there.” Serge turned and tugged his ear.
Coleman stared off with a paper sack hanging by his side.
Serge tugged his ear harder.
Coleman picked his nose.
“Coleman! I’m tugging my ear!”
“Oh! The signal! Right!”
“Signal?” said the pickup driver.
“Has the mind of a first-grader. It’s this eye-hand coordination game we play.”
The man crawled under the RV and reappeared a minute later. “Not good news.”
“Pray tell?”
The man stood and displayed a brown hand. “Transmission fluid. Real bad leak, probably won’t last another fifty miles.”
“Sounds expensive!”
The pickup driver shook his head. “Hundred bucks tops if it’s what I think. I know this garage …”
Coleman walked over to the pickup truck, glanced around and opened the gas cap.
“Gee mister,” said Serge. “Thanks a heap.”
“My pleasure.” He tipped his camo baseball cap. “Well, have to get a leg up on Atlanta.”
“Wait!” said Serge.
“What is it?”
“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Serge!” He extended a hand.
“Elliot… Take it easy now.”
“Wait!”
