He’d gotten lucky. The couple who’d knocked on his door a few days ago had been mixed up, knocked on the door to the wrong room. He’d never been more relieved in all his life.
Tonight’s evening news provided an update on the case, giving him even more relief. The Jetta had been found in Marion Sansom Park. While the report didn’t mention that the clothing and shoes were found in a garbage bag at the bottom of Lake Worth, the newscast provided a photograph of them, asking viewers to call the police department if they recognized the articles and knew who they belonged to. Of course they’d had someone Photoshop the pics to get rid of the bloodstains on the clothes and footwear.
They’re appealing to the public. That means they don’t have any good leads.
Buying used shoes and clothing at a thrift shop had been a genius idea. He wished he could claim it as his own, but it was his partner who’d come up with it. He was tempted to dance a happy jig, but the last thing he needed was the guest in the room below calling the front desk to complain about him. He settled for pumping his fists in victory.
He woke the next morning in a foul mood. The wooden-shoe-wearing Dutch pogo-stick rider had been at it again last night, moving back and forth across the floor above, preventing the Slasher from getting a decent night’s sleep. To make matters worse, the last of the food had run out at dinner yesterday. While he could stuff toilet paper in his ears to stifle the noise from his upstairs neighbor, he’d have no choice but to venture out of his room to get some sustenance lest he die of starvation. He was tempted to walk to the grocery store down the street, but he figured it was best if he stuck as close to his room as he could for the time being.
He waited until 8:55, just five minutes before the end of breakfast service, before sneaking downstairs. He took the stairs to avoid facing anyone who might be riding down on the elevator. Unfortunately, he’d have to pass the front desk to get to the breakfast room.
He peeked out from the stairwell. The clerk on duty this morning was the same one who’d checked him into the hotel days ago. Damn. If the guy recognized him, he might realize that the Slasher had taken pains to disguise his appearance. But he’d have to take that chance.
As the Slasher walked past the check-in desk, the clerk looked up from his place behind the counter and gave the Slasher a “Good morning.” The Slasher said “’Mornin’” in return, summoning a deceptively husky voice. There’d been no flicker of recognition from the clerk. Good. Hell, he barely recognized himself when he looked in the mirror these days. Between his shaved head and the beard he’d dyed dark with the Just For Men Mustache and Beard dye, he looked like an entirely different person. As an added bonus, it was actually a versatile look. Add in the reading glasses he’d bought at the dollar store and he looked like a wise professor of English literature. Remove the glasses and add a bandana and leather jacket, and he could pass for a member of the Hells Angels.
As surreptitiously as possible, he slipped into the breakfast room, glad to see no other guests were lingering about. A full-figured attendant made her way among the tables, picking up trash other hotel guests had left behind. She wore blue latex gloves, the same kind he’d worn the night he’d put an end to Greg Olsen. She looked over at him, casting him a look of irritation. “Better hurry,” she said. “I’ll be putting everything away soon.”
He grabbed a napkin and a disposable plate and bowl before considering the remaining options. It was slim pickings. A bruised banana. Half a bagel that looked as if it had been handled and tossed back into the bin. Oatmeal with a thick skin on top. But he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. He filled the bowl with oatmeal, adding brown sugar and raisins. He bypassed the bagel and snagged a bran muffin. The early risers must have taken the more flavorful blueberry and banana nut muffins. He lifted an aluminum lid to find a single dried-up sausage patty lying in the warming pan. The patty looking about as appetizing as a hockey puck, but he took it anyway. He grabbed a couple of yogurts from the refrigerator, too.
With a smile and a duck of his head to the attendant, he scurried out of the breakfast area and returned to his room. He lay the meager meal out on the table and frowned. It was bad enough to be sleep deprived, but he’d be hangry, too, by the end of the day. Tomorrow, I’ll be the first person downstairs for breakfast.