HMmm. A concept shot. The basis of a good story. Perhaps a murder mystery?
An inexpensive key, inexpensive key tag. Perhaps a flop house.
The detective is on his way.
What or do who does he find behind the door?
Prologue:
The wind off the river had teeth, driving sleet sideways beneath the buzzing neon sign of the roadside motor lodge. Inside the cramped front office, the desk clerk didn't look up from his crossword, just slid the brass key across the laminate counter.
It was attached to a cheap, metal-rimmed cardboard tag with 125 scrawled in faded ink. The edges of the paper were soiled, rubbed soft by decades of transient thumbs and nervous pockets.
Down the exterior breezeway, past four dark sedans crusted in road salt, the door to Room 125 sat half an inch out of plumb. The cheap lock cylinder gave way with barely a flick of the wrist.
Inside, the draft smelled of wet overcoats, radiator dust, and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh copper.
On the bed, illuminated only by the rhythmic blue pulses of the ice machine outside the window, lay a heavy wool trench coat. No struggle. No blood on the counterpane. Just an unzipped leather portfolio resting open on the side table, its contents vanished, and a single half-burned matchstick left dead center on the pillowcase.
The heat hadn't kicked on. The body on the bathroom tile was already cooling to match the room.
