A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi Page B

up at me as I tried to decide whether it was worth it to crack the binding and step further into whatever was going on.
    I dropped the pillow, picked up the notebook and brought it over to the bed. Turned it over slowly in my gloved hands as I took a seat on the mattress. I knew I was pressing my luck by taking the time to do this. Knew it wasn’t smart to linger in a room I’d basically broken into while there was still the possibility that its occupant would return. The sensible thing to do was get out as quickly as possible, leaving the book behind, and let the cops handle things from here. But I couldn’t resist looking through what was sitting in my hands right now. I just wanted a few more minutes. Five at the most, I promised myself.
    The covers had nothing printed on them. Just smooth black cowhide worn shiny in a few places. I went to the front page, hoping to find a name there or inside the cover. Nothing. Same for the back. The handwriting inside looked masculine, for some reason, and the day and date headings told me that it was in fact a diary. I skimmed the material and got snatches of what he’d written, but nothing concerning the events of the last few days. Stuff about school … he was in some kind of communications degree program. What he did with his friends … the band he saw last night at a club. None of it so far told me anything concrete about who he was or where he lived, and my patience was wearing thin. I skipped to the last few entries and found one for Saturday, April 14th. Just two days ago, right before the murder.
    â€¦ it’s so dry out here, and hot! Not like the humidity I’m used to … it irritates my skin so it itches constantly …
    My eyes flew over the page, desperate to find something useful.
    â€¦ when you get out of the car to take a piss or get something to eat, it feels like stepping into a blast furnace …
    I forced myself to read faster.
    â€¦ It’s been such a long drive, I sure hope this is all worth it …
    I was beginning to wonder whether reading this cold would tell me anything at all. However, it was apparent that the author wasn’t from around here, which was at least a start. And if he was coming from the east or south, Indio would have been on the way in to Palm Springs.
    A little further down, same day: Got off the freeway for some food and found this dump after dinner. What kind of a name is the Blue Bird for a motel?
    I skipped ahead, turning the page to the last paragraph that had been written.
    Just got out of the shower and I’m already sweating. This is miserable. The air conditioner is blowing warm air around the room. Nine o’clock at night and it must be close to ninety. There’s no way I’m going to sleep tonight. Too hot, and too much on my mind. Might—.
    I looked up, thinking I’d heard a car creep past on the road outside. It was probably nothing but I checked anyway, moving the curtain aside a fraction of an inch for a narrow view of the parking lot and street.
    Which were empty.
    I craned my neck to see the far end of the lot. The same two vehicles were parked there; nothing had changed since I’d come in. If anything, it looked more peaceful than before.
    Deciding it was random traffic or just my frayed nerves, I returned to my seat at the edge of the bed and picked up the diary. I thumbed through it to find the last entry. The gloves slowed me down again, but I eventually found the right page. I tried to relax, but the scare with the passing car had given me a greater sense of urgency. I knew I was pushing the edges of my self-imposed time limit. It just wasn’t smart to sit here like this. But I couldn’t help myself.
    â€”Might as well drive over there right now, get it over with. I’d have to—
    I heard footsteps from outside, saw a shadow flick across the window. I flew to the still-open closet, got inside and crouched in a