Mary considered it, shivering in the cold rain. Marlton was right outside Philadelphia, over the bridge to Jersey. People from South Philly shopped in Marlton and its environs all the time. They usually bought their cars in the South Philly Auto Mall, but the Auto Mall didn’t have a BMW dealership. So it wasn’t impossible that the BMW was Bobby’s. But then how did it get here, to this lot?

Mary slipped out from behind the BMW, scurried across the lot to the motel office, and yanked open the glass front door, leaving a hardware-store Open sign swinging on a plastic suction cup. But it didn’t look open. The front counter, a dingy white with a rounded edge, was cluttered with tourist brochures that flopped over in little wire racks, and there was no one behind the desk. She cleared her throat and leaned over, which was when she looked into an office behind the counter and saw a middle-aged woman sleeping in a beach chair.

“Hello?” Mary called out, and the woman stirred, fluttering her eyes.

“Oh, sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Mary said quickly, running on adrenaline. “Sorry to wake you. I just have a question or two.”

“Question?” The woman rose and stretched, soft as a teddy bear in a Bon Jovi sweatshirt and wide-legged jeans. She wore no earrings or makeup, but her long brown ponytail gave her a fresh, cute look and swung a little as she stretched and ambled over to the counter. “You don’t want a room?”

“No. I’m wondering about that black BMW in the lot.” Mary pointed, but the clerk didn’t bother looking. “I assume that it belongs to a guest?”

“Guess so.” The clerk shrugged sleepily. “I only work the night shift. I checked in a lot of people tonight, and I expect more’ll be coming if the storm keeps up. There’s flooding, I hear.”

“Is there a way we could look up whose car it is?”

“No.” The clerk shook her head, and her ponytail swung back and forth like the Open sign. “We don’t have ’em write down the plates or anything. Most people come here, stay the night, and get back on the turnpike early next morning. Or they stay an hour or so, if you get my drift.”

“Do you think I could get a look at your register, if you have anything like that?”

“Nah, we don’t, and I couldn’t let you look at it, anyway.”

Mary figured as much, and the clerk was looking at her funny, now that she was fully awake. Her small brown eyes glinted with suspicion.

“Why do you care whose car it is?” she asked.

“My old boyfriend has a BMW like that, from the same place, and I’m wondering if he’s here.” It almost wasn’t a lie.

“Gotcha, but I can’t help you there.” The clerk grinned wearily.

“Then there’s only one choice. Can I get a room in view of the parking lot?”

“It’s the only view we got, hon,” the clerk said, and they both laughed.

So Mary bought herself a $68 motel room, which included olive green patterned chairs, a matching bedcover and ratty rug, and complimentary dust mites. She turned on the forced-air heater, which smelled like burning hair, and kept an eye on the BMW while she kicked off her wet shoes and made herself a cup of coffee in the one-cup coffeemaker. After it was ready, she turned off the lights and took up permanent residence in a chair in front of the window, peeking through the curtain in the dark.

Rain pounded against the glass and sluiced down in crazy rivulets, and Mary assessed her view with satisfaction. She was on the first floor, directly across and not fifty feet from the BMW, so she’d see the moment anybody crossed to it, if she could stay awake long enough. She hoped to God this wasn’t the dumbest thing she’d ever done, but even she was beginning to think it was crazy to keep driving in the storm. She kept her phone at hand in case Brinkley called and fought the impulse to leave him another message. She gulped the dreadful coffee and kept an eye on the BMW, babysitting an inanimate object.

Two cups later, she was beginning to feel dangerously sleepy, but was too paranoid to turn on the TV. She kept slumber at bay by watching a car pull in to the lot. It pulled in slowly, and Mary played a guessing game with herself, trying to predict whether it would reverse into the space. But the car didn’t park. It idled in the middle of the lot, and she watched, her chin in her hand, her eyelids heavy. In the next instant a man got out of the car, opened up a blue-and-white golf umbrella, and ran around to the passenger side of the car. He let a woman out, which Mary thought was nice. So chivalry wasn’t dead.

Then she did a double take. Mary couldn’t see the face of the man or the woman because they were hidden under the umbrella, but she’d know that fox jacket, tight pants, and stiletto boots anywhere.

“Trish?” Mary sat bolt upright, stunned. The man and the woman crossed onto the pavement right in front of her window. The golf umbrella read Dean Witter. She ducked, and if she hadn’t, they would have looked right into her face. Then they took a right, passing her window.

“Yikes!” Mary plopped down the coffee cup, jumped out of her chair, and went to the front door. She undid her chain lock at warp speed, flung open the door, and peeked out. The man and Trish were walking close together to a door a few down the row, then they were pausing in front of the door. Their bodies came close together under the umbrella, as if they were kissing.

So Trish was alive, and this must be the guy she was cheating with! But what were they doing up here? Mary felt about a thousand feelings at once, notably, joy that Trish was still alive, followed quickly by rage that Trish had worried her to death.

She squinted through a crack in her door as Trish disappeared inside the room, and the mystery man under the Dean Witter umbrella ran back to the car, opened the driver’s-side door, and climbed in, then closed the umbrella. Mary squinted but couldn’t make out any detail of his face or even build. She tried to see the model of the car, but it was too dark and rainy. It was a black sedan, four doors, a new-model something, and she wasn’t about to let it get out of sight.

The car drove around the parked cars in the middle, heading for the exit, and Mary darted into the rain. She reached the exit a split second after the sedan pulled out, just in time to see his license plate.

“RK- 029,” Mary said aloud, so she wouldn’t forget it, but that wasn’t what struck her. Above the plate was an emblem she knew well. The car was a Cadillac.

She flashed on Trish’s diary. Cadillac thinks he’s stealing. Cadillac said that my watch must have cost an arm and a leg. Cadillac keeps having his suspicions. Her questions rushed at her, one after the other. Was Cadillac the mystery man under the umbrella? Why was Trish running around up here with another man, not one day after Bobby’s murder? What the hell was going on, anyway?

Mary turned on her heel and made a soaking-wet beeline for Trish’s door.