Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (i can read book club .txt) 📗

He flexed his key card into the gap, level with the latch, and slowly jiggled it while he rattled the door. Three seconds later he was inside and closed the door behind him. There was nobody dead inside. That was the only good news.

The location crew of Titanic Productions traveled light because they knew how basic the accommodations would be. They didn’t bring lots of clothes or personal belongings because chances are they weren’t going to stay long, and even if they did, the rooms wouldn’t have enough space to store them. The few possessions Randy Severino had brought with him were spread across the floor and ripped to shreds. What little storage space the motel room offered had been stripped, smashed and searched with a fine-tooth comb. Or a hammer. McNulty was betting on the hammer.

A soft canvas travel bag had been turned inside out and slashed from end to end. A selection of jeans and T-shirts had been similarly destroyed. A Bible that the motel provided had been torn in half and the spine disembowelled. The bedding had been stripped and the pillows slashed to spill their fluffy innards. The queen-size mattress had been tipped off the bed and leaned against the wall, rusty springs curling out of the vicious razor cuts that had opened it up like a gutted cow. The mirror opposite the bed had been smashed, it appeared. out of frustration. Because this level of destruction told McNulty the searcher hadn’t found what he was looking for. And what he was looking for was small enough to fit inside the spine of a Bible. Otherwise why slit it open?

The room was a standard motel single. Single in as much as it only had one bed. Double in that the bed could have slept two fat people and still left room to spare. Bedside cabinets were built into the headboard. The drawers had been emptied and dumped on the floor. The flat-screen TV had been yanked off the wall but there was no space for hiding stuff in the slim plastic casing. The mirrored closet was open and the coat hangers had been strewn across the bed. It didn’t look as if Severino had had any hanging clothes.

A bathroom cubicle jutting out of the far corner spoiled the simple lines of the room. McNulty looked inside. The shower curtain over the bath was torn at one end. There was no bathroom cabinet, just a narrow shelf above the washbasin. What few toiletries Severino possessed had been squeezed, emptied and slashed in the lavatory. The faucet was running. The hot one, steam misting the wall-mounted mirror, which was intact. McNulty turned the faucet off and went back into the room.

The destruction told McNulty two things: First. Severino was involved in something, even if it wasn’t the shooting itself. Second. The person who had trashed the motel room wasn’t looking for the Arriflex. McNulty added a third. Not the negative from the Arriflex, either. Processed or unprocessed, the film canister was bigger than the places that had been searched here. He added a fourth. The first assistant cameraman had vanished before the heavy mob tossed his room. But where had he gone?

McNulty tipped the mattress over so it fell back onto the bed. He didn’t bother tidying anything else. There was no sign of blood or trauma, but he had to consider the possibility that Severino might have gone the way of the other victims. Because whoever had searched his room was serious, and serious people don’t take no for an answer. That would make this a crime scene. You don’t go tidying a crime scene.

He stood in the only patch of clear floor space in front of the bathroom and scanned the cubicle. The room was gloomy with the draperies drawn. Light from the bathroom spilled out. He was about to flick the switch beside the door when something rolled across the tiled floor. The lid off Severino’s aftershave rattled against the door and spun itself down to a stop.

The silence was deafening. Then the shower curtain was ripped down and something slammed McNulty across the head.

ELEVEN

Blows to the head only knock people out in the movies. To do that in real life you’d have to use so much force there’d be a fractured skull and brain damage. McNulty didn’t suffer brain damage. He did see stars and tumble across the bed though. That was as much time as the intruder needed. McNulty hit the floor on the other side of the bed just as the front door was yanked open. By the time McNulty shook his head clear and reached the door, the pounding footsteps already had a ten-yard start.

McNulty went through the door and turned right. The intruder was halfway to the middle stairwell. McNulty set off at a flat run, his footsteps pounding a faster beat than the running man. The man heard him and picked up the pace, arms pumping for extra speed. McNulty put his head down and leaned into the run. Doors flashed by on his right. The pleasure boat began its long, slow turn beneath the bridge. The man glanced over his shoulder. McNulty tried to get a glimpse of his face.

Then a uniformed cop came out of the middle stairwell.

Everything changed in an instant. The cop was old and ready for retirement. The running man was nearer the stairwell than the burgled motel room. McNulty was racing after him, the room door open in the background. The cop had been sent to investigate the room involved in the reported break-in. Take a few details and record a crime. Happened all the time at budget motels. But this wasn’t investigating. This was two men pounding the concrete toward him. He fumbled his gun out of its holster and yelled a superfluous warning. “Stop. Police.”

The running man ignored him. McNulty yelled over the noise of pounding footsteps. “Stop. Him.”

The cop didn’t want to shoot anyone. He