Yesterday's Echo by Matt Coyle Page A

lied to me. After I’d taken a beating for her, shielded her from the police, and shared my bed with her, I still hadn’t earned the right to the truth.
    What else had she lied about? Could I believe her stunned surprise at hearing about the death of her ex-husband? Or had that been a lie, too?
    I tried to set aside my anger and went back to the newspaper article. It said that Windsor had just been released three weeks ago after serving an eight-year term in Nevada’s High Desert State Prison for drug distribution. He hadn’t been a guest at the Shell Beach Motel, and his body had been found in an unoccupied room. The article closed by stating that the cause of death was believed to be from a drug overdose.
    It wouldn’t be the first time an ex-con died of a drug overdose, but according to Detective Moretti, Heather appeared to be jumping the gun. He had said the cause of death was still undetermined.I didn’t know Heather that well, but she didn’t seem like the kind of reporter who would let the need for a scoop get in the way of verifying facts. Maybe information about the cause of death had changed since the newspaper’s deadline yesterday.
    Windsor not being a guest at the motel bothered me. He got into a room somehow. Melody had told me the first night we were together that her source had hit her and she fled the motel. Had Windsor been her source? And had he been staying with her?
    Ugly scenarios started speeding out in front of me. I needed some answers to reel them back in. Melody wasn’t around to give them to me. I’d have to find them on my own.
    I looked up the number for the Shell Beach Motel on my iPhone and dialed it.
    â€œIt’s a great day at the Shell Beach Motel,” a chipper, young female voice said. “How may I help you?”
    â€œI’m going to be in town for a few days and have heard great things about your motel.” Except for the dead bodies. “A friend of mine was just there and she loved her room.”
    â€œThat’s great to hear. All of our cottages have ocean views and offer cozy amenities.”
    â€œI was hoping to stay in the same bungalow she did, but I forgot to ask her what number it was. Her name is Melody Malana and she checked out yesterday.”
    Suicide or homicide, the room that Windsor checked out in wouldn’t have been released back to the motel yet. Even if it had, management would give it an intense cleaning before they allowed anyone to stay in it again.
    I heard fingers clicking a keyboard for a few seconds. “I’m afraid that bungalow is unavailable. I can reserve another one for you that is equally as nice. In fact, it has a little better view.”
    â€œWow, rented already. I thought October was the slow season in La Jolla.” I let out a little grunt like I was disappointed. “Do you know how long the new occupant is going to stay? Maybe I could stay in another room and then move over when the person leaves.”
    â€œWell, there’s . . . it’s not really . . . ah.”
    â€œOh, my word!” I tried to sound giddy and shocked at the same time. “It’s not the room where the dead body was found. Is it?”
    â€œAh, well . . . we’re not supposed to really . . .”
    Bingo.
    â€œOh, there goes my other line,” I said. “Let me call you right back.”
    So, Windsor’s body had been found in the room Melody had checked out of earlier that morning. The morning I woke up and she was gone. She must have taken a cab from my house to the La Valencia Hotel where she’d left her rental car the night before and then gone back to the motel to get her belongings before checking out. Unless she’d thrown everything into the rental when she left the motel the night before. Hard to imagine she’d had time to pack a suitcase when she was fleeing an ex-con who just punched her in the face. One thing was certain. Melody didn’t have a