ERICA STANDS UP, PUSHING LESLIE and Greg out of her mind. She has work to do. She turns on the local news as she changes out of her travel clothes, getting ready for her meeting this afternoon with Joan Marcus’s daughter, the woman she saw sobbing in the lobby of the Staybridge. A somber male newscaster is on:
“In our top story, there have been no leads in Thursday’s gangland-style execution of drifter George Lundy. Lundy was shot in the back of the head as he slept in his room at the Expressway Motel in east Bismarck. Police have no explanation as for why Lundy, whose last known address was a boardinghouse in Winnipeg, Manitoba, was in Bismarck. They are looking for any possible link between his murder and last Saturday’s brutal murder of Jamestown resident Joan Marcus in the ladies’ room at the Staybridge Hotel. The two crimes have turned Bismarck into a town on edge.”
An old mug shot of Lundy appears on-screen—he looks skinny and angry and scared. “Local resident Janice Marks, who lives across the street from the Expressway Motel, spoke with WKRX earlier today.”
An obese young woman in a housedress appears on-screen. “We’re all just terrified. This is Bismarck, for heaven’s sakes. We don’t even lock our doors. Well, we do now. What’s going on around here? That poor woman with her throat cut open? I don’t let my kids leave the block when they’re out playing.”
Erica mutes the set and calls Detective Peter Hoaglund.
“Hello, Ms. Sparks,” he answers in his laid-back way, which is starting to get on Erica’s nerves. In her experience it takes energy and engagement to solve a murder.
“Please, call me Erica. Why didn’t you tell me about George Lundy’s murder?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“A phone call takes thirty seconds. Have you found any new evidence?”
“Not a thing.” Peter Hoaglund is not a man with much imagination or curiosity. Or if he is, he’s willfully not exercising them. Which is a troubling thought. “And no one has claimed Lundy’s body.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Erica says.
“I’m not shedding any tears. George Lundy has a rap sheet a mile long, including aggravated assault and attempted murder.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
“A black 1998 Honda Civic.”
“Four door?”
“Yep.”
“That could definitely have been the car I saw racing out of the Staybridge parking lot. Keep me posted.”
Erica hangs up, puts on her jacket, and unmutes the TV in time to hear another Bismarck resident say, “I think there’s a psychopath on the loose. Anyone could be his next victim. My little girl woke up screaming last night.”
Erica clicks off the set and heads out the door, thinking, There may be a lot more screaming before this story is over.