Page 45 of The Family Cross

“What about this young woman?” Sampson showed Brundage the picture of Corey McGovern sitting on the stoop of a townhome in Georgetown.

The former detective looked intently at the picture, then nodded. “She’s here a lot,” he said. “I’ve seen her with Hawk and with Choir Boy.”

“How old you think she is?”

“Looks young, but she’s in her twenties, I think.”

“That Ohio ID is fake. We checked.”

“News to me,” Brundage said. “Why the interest?”

“She’s dead. Shot and burned like the guy here the other day.”

That shocked the former detective. “Jesus. When was that?”

“Last night. Maybe two in the morning, near a strip club called the Avid Eyeball.”

“I remember that place. She hooking?”

“Our guess.”

“Mine too.”

“Why is that?”

“A couple of weeks ago, I saw her at the Fall Flower Motel, this place about two miles from here, just across the Maryland line,” Brundage said. “It’s the closest spot that’ll take us.”

“That’s the same place that Hawk said he was staying when the Audi burned.”

“Possible. Folks living here under the bridge go there to shower and sleep for the night when they come into enough spare cash. I’d imagine almost everyone on this side of the camp has been there at one time or another.”

“So you’re saying Corey McGovern used the Fall Flower more often than most?”

The former detective shook his head. “I can’t say that, ’cause I’ve only been there twice myself. But the last time I was there, she was too, and I noticed a steady parade of guys old enough to be her father knocking at her door.”

41

EDITH SMOOT, WHO WORKED the front desk at the Fall Flower Motel, was rail-thin and tall with brown-gray hair and skin the color and texture of parchment paper. She curled her upper lip and flared her nostrils when John Sampson showed her his badge and identification.

“Whatever anyone’s done, me and the Fall Flower had nothing to do with it,” Smoot said, flicking her fingers with their bitten nails at him dismissively.

“You’re the owner?” Sampson asked.

“I should be so blessed,” Smoot said, heavy on the sarcasm. “Night manager. And we run a clean operation here. No shenanigans, as my old man used to say.”

“Uh-huh. Know her?” he said, showing the night manager the picture of Corey McGovern in jeans and sneakers on the Georgetown stoop.

Smoot sniffed and laughed. “Hardly the clientele we get here.”

“What about her?” Sampson said, showing her a still from the Avid Eyeball’s video footage of McGovern walking through the parking lot.

The night manager’s brows knit. “Maybe.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Like I said, maybe,” Smoot said, suddenly uncomfortable. “What’s she done?”

“Got murdered, unfortunately.”