You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You by Robert J. Randisi Page A

go.”
    “Where?”
    “Out to the Starshine Motor Court.”
    “Did you check—”
    “I called the Sands Hotel,” he said. “It’s only because that checked out that we’re driving out to the motel to check on the rest of it. Come on, you and me. Let’s go.”
    In the hallway I said, “I have my car.”
    “Good,” Stanze said. “I’ll follow you.”
    “Just the two of us?”
    “That’s what I said, pal,” he replied. “Just you and me.”
    Apparently, he wasn’t going to assign any other men to the job until he knew for sure what the hell was going on.
    I was hoping we’d both know that pretty damn soon.

Twenty-four
    W HEN WE ARRIVED AT the motel I pulled up in front. Stanze parked his unmarked car behind me. We went inside and found the same clerk behind the desk.
    “Hey,” I said.
    He looked at me and asked, “Can I help you?”
    “I’m Detective Stanze, LAPD,” Stanze said, showing his badge. “Do you know this gentleman?”
    The clerk looked at me and said, “Nope. Should I?”
    “You should,” I said. “I talked to you this morning about one of your guests. Danny Bardini?”
    “You talked to me?” he asked. “Come on, pal, how much did you have to drink last night?”
    Stanze looked at me.
    “What are you tryin’ to pull?” I demanded. “We talked about my buddy, Danny Bardini. He was staying in room two-one-five.”
    “Two-one-five?”
    “Would you check and see if you have anyone by that name in room two-one-five?” Stanze asked.
    “Sure thing.” The clerk checked his register, then shook his head. “That room’s empty.”
    “When was it last occupied?”
    “About two days ago.”
    “By a Danny Bardini?”
    “Nope,” the clerk said. “A woman.”
    “What the hell—” I said.
    Stanze put his hand on my arm.
    “No.”
    “What is your name?” he asked the clerk.
    “Max.”
    “Well, Max, I’d like to see room two-one-five.”
    “I’ll take you up there,” the clerk said. “Do I gotta take him, too?”
    “Just give me your key.”
    “I don’t think I can—”
    “Come on, Max,” Stanze said. “I don’t have all day.
Comprende?”
    Max shrugged and said, “Okay, okay.”
    He turned to grab his passkey, looked around, seemed lost for a minute, then found it and handed it over.
    “Somebody’s always movin’ it, the damn thing.”
    “Thanks.”
    Stanze and I left the office and walked up a flight. He unlocked the door and we went in.
    “Clean,” he said.
    “It was clean when I came in,” I said.
    “The clerk let you in here?”
    “No, one of the maids.”
    “And it was like this?”
    “Yeah,” I said, “like she had just finished, except …”
    I went into the bathroom. The counter was cleared off.
    “There was a toothbrush and a bottle of Hai Karate here.” I sniffed the air. “You can still smell it.”
    He sniffed.
    “Lots of people wear Hai Karate.”
    “Do you?”
    “No.”
    “Your partner.”
    “No.”
    “You work with anybody who does?”
    He thought a moment, then said, “Okay, I get it.”
    “The towels were dry, and so was the bottom of the tub. Danny takes a shower every day, so he wasn’t in here last night.”
    “No luggage?”
    “He might not have had any,” I said. “He was following Marilyn, so he didn’t have much time to pack. He would have picked stuff up when he landed.”
    “Like a toothbrush and cologne.”
    “Right.”
    Stanze nodded, put his hands on his hips and looked around.
    “Okay, let’s go.”
    “Wait,” I said, “that clerk is lying, Detective.”
    “I know.”
    “You … you what?”
    “I know he’s lying,” he said. “I’ve been a detective for more than five minutes, Mr. Gianelli. I saw how he didn’t know where the key was. And if he was a longtime desk clerk he would’ve come up here and let us in. He never would’ve given up the key that easily.”
    “Really? You think clerks are that efficient?”
    “This is a hot sheet motel,” he said. “The last thing they want