The Adjusters II: The Greek Fiasco
The Nickel and Dime (2)
A week later, Grigory Pritznic, private investigator, was enjoying his sloppy joe while sitting in his favorite diner in what counted as downtown in North Alexandria. He had his field notes before him, the little of them there was. Six days after Daniel Malcolm had hired him to find his fiancee Jennifer Hansen, Pritznic had almost nothing to show for it.
He had interviewed all the friends and acquaintances that Malcolm had identified, and while eager to help, none of them had been able to provide any useful information as to Hansen’s whereabouts. Ditto for one Balthazar Cusker, known under his nickname “Biff”, who according to his client had seduced the Hansen girl away, and whose whereabouts were also unknown. According to Malcolm, the two were together, somewhere. Pritznic was happy to use this as a working hypothesis, but after asking around about that Cusker character, he had some difficulty figuring what Hansen was doing with him.
His client said he had irrefutable proof that they were together, and while Malcolm had been unwilling to reveal what proof that was, Pritznic tended to believe him. There was none of the hysterics that Pritznic too often saw with his cheating spouses cases. And in fact, his client seemed to have no interest in establishing that cheating was occurring. He merely wanted to locate his fiancée. Which sounded like a simple enough proposition, but Pritznic had had no success. A fact that frustrated him to no end. He fished in his coat pocket for his cigarettes before remembering that he was not allowed to smoke in the diner.
“Want a refill, hon?”
Pritznic looked up at the waitress, and nodded. “Thanks Eileen—it’s delicious, as usual.”
The pretty middle-aged waitress grinned while pouring the strong coffee in his cup. “You always say that, hon. It’s starting to sound rehearsed.”
Pritznic grinned back. “Still the truth. Say, what time do you get off tonight?”
“I should be out of here by eleven. Why? You have something in mind?”
“Maybe...” He and Eileen had an on-and-off relationship, usually flaring up when business brought him to North Alexandria. It was comfortable, neither of them looking for anything complicated.
Complicated, like his case. The police were dragging their heels, the way they often did on missing persons’ cases in the college town. According to them, most people that went missing showed up after a week’s bender, and while officers went through the motions and put out APBs and checked out the usual spots, they usually did not engage seriously until a week or two had passed.
Pritznic looked down at his notes again. His first step had been to see if Hansen had skipped town. Cusker owned a two-bit clunker car that was missing from its customary spot at the Delta Iota Kappa fraternity house, but people that were familiar with the car were adamant that it could not have been driven very far. Pritznic had asked around at every rental place, at the bus and train stations, and at the small local airport, and as near as anyone could tell no one like Hansen or Cusker had been seen. Cab companies had no records of a long out-of-town trip matching the dates Malcolm gave him. There was a remote possibility that Cusker could have driven to some nearby town and switched cars there or something, but Pritznic had contacted one of his friends who had not seen any rental or ticket purchase on Cusker’s credit card. In fact, his credit cards had shown no activity for the last ten days. Cusker may have payed cash, but Pritznic’s gut instinct told him that he was barking the wrong tree. There was an APB out from the State Police for Cusker’s vehicle. So far, nothing had been reported. Pritznic’s money was on the couple still being in town, or at least nearby. There was a multitude of isolated properties in the rural communities around town that Cusker could have found refuge in, and checking them all would be impossible.
“She’s cute. Who’s she?”
Eileen the waitress was pointing with her coffee pot to the picture of Jennifer Hansen peeking out from the field notes spread on the table.
“Yeah, she is. I’m looking for her for a client. And she’s proving to be—as they say—elusive.”
Eileen grinned widely, and laughed. “Then it’s your lucky day, hon. She just picked up some take-out. There she is, heading out now.” She was looking towards the entrance behind him, and Pritznic frowned and turned to look. His eyes widened.
He caught her just as she was turning towards the door, and he recognized her immediately. And she stuck out like a sore thumb. With a red dress that clung to every delectable curve of her body before flaring at the hip to the middle of her thighs, tall black boots with a long stiletto heel, and long dangling earrings and luxurious wavy hair cascading down her exposed back, she was dressed more for a clubbing night than for picking up a large styrofoam box from a greasy downtown diner.
Every man in the joint was staring at her as she passed. Dumbstruck, Pritznic did not react until she was outside, at which point he jumped out of his seat and ran to the door just in time to see her climb into a cab. Cursing, he ran back to his table, swept up his notes, dropped a twenty and ran back past a laughing Eileen.
Pritznic reached his car while the cab was still visible, and he managed to keep it in sight as he drove out. Soon, he was cruising comfortably behind them, and could focus on bringing his racing heart under control. He was getting too old for this shit, he thought.
North Alexandria did not see a lot of traffic, so he could afford to stay a fair bit behind. He called Malcolm, got voicemail, and left a message stating that he had found Jennifer and that he was tailing her. One thing’s clear, he thought, watching the downtown area recede behind them, we’re leaving town. Assuming the cab driver was not taking the girl for a ride, this lent credence to Pritznic’s hypothesis that she and Biff were hiding out in the countryside. He fumbled for a cigarette. At least one’s car is still a place where one can bloody smoke, he thought. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the sensation of a case that had just broken open.
Pritznic settled in his seat, dragging on the cigarette. His mind wandered, now relaxing since he had found the girl. Whether she was going to see Cusker or not was immaterial. Malcolm was paying him to find her, and he had just done so. And he did not even need to pick her up or anything. Just call Malcolm who wanted to come and talk to her. So piece of cake, as long as he did not lose sight of her. Which he had no intention of doing. That she was a tall glass of water on a scorching day would definitely make the task of keeping an eye on her tolerable. The picture Malcolm had given him had not paid her justice. That girl had legs that did not quit. He caught himself imagining what she would feel like writhing underneath him, wrapping those long legs of hers around his waist, hanging on to him, moaning in his ear. Okay, he told himself, taking a deep breath, make that an ice cold beer on a scorching day. He was disappointed that he was not on cheating detail on this case, otherwise he would have had a chance to watch her in action and snap a few pictures, for those long cold winter nights—the current heat spell notwithstanding.
The cab was slowing down ahead, and Pritznic followed suit. The cab turned right onto a small secondary road, and Pritznic, who knew the area well, made a guess at where they were headed. They were a bit out of town, headed for the Interstate, and there were quite a few cheap motels around. One, in particular, was popular for its rather lax attitude towards by-the-hour room rentals and its acceptably clean rooms. The fact that it was isolated and half-sheltered by the surrounding woods did not hurt either. Hell, Pritznic himself had taken advantage of the place a few times. He smiled at the good memories, and the smile only grew when he noted that the cab was indeed entering the driveway of the Nickel and Dime Motel. Terrible name, thought Pritznic, not for the first time.
He stopped his car by the curb before the entrance, mostly hidden by the trees that lined the property. He pulled out a camera with a telephoto lens from the back of his car, and aimed it at the cab which was stopped in the parking of the motel. He snatched a few good pictures of Jenn as she got out, admiring once more her long legs stretched out in front of her, skirt ridden up on her thighs, long hair draped down her face.
He took a few more pictures of Jenn standing alone in the motel driveway, after the cab had gone, looking around, searching for something. Then, to Pritznic considerable astonishment, she dropped her purse, reached back to unzip her dress, and shrugged it off her body with a delicious wiggle.
Even in the arguably poor lighting of the parking lot, illuminated by the neon name of the motel—as low as $30/night, vacancies—and by a single lamppost incongruously planted right in the middle of the parking lot on the far end of the long row of rooms, Pritznic could attest to Jenn’s incredible body. Through the telephoto lens, taking pictures that would not all make their way to his client, he admired her long legs sheathed in tall black boots, leading up to a small black G-string, and then up a flat stomach to a pair of perfectly formed breasts, a bit small for Pritznic tastes but he would not have thrown her out of bed for all that, up to a face showed no expression. She did not try to cover herself up, did not try to hide her exposed chest, instead standing straight, arms to the side, one leg in front of another, posing as though she was on a fashion runway.
After a few minutes, the door to one of the motel rooms opened—room 109, Pritznic noted—and a large man appeared in the frame. Swinging his camera around, Pritznic snapped a few shots, easily recognizing Biff. The latter made a motion to Jenn, who snatched up her purse and walked to the door, slowly, leaving her dress behind, a red heap in the middle of the drive. Pritznic had the camera pointed at her the whole time, snapping pictures as he watched her head to the door, breasts bouncing enticingly the whole way, ass flexing as she put one high-heeled foot in front of the other, and Pritznic could not help notice, despite his avowed preference for ample bosoms, that Jenn’s ass cheeks were just fine in her small G-string that did nothing to hide them. For good measure, he turned his camera to Biff, zooming in slightly to make sure there would be no problems identifying him, and very nearly dropped the camera in surprise when he saw that Biff, still standing in the doorway, was staring straight at him. There were no mistakes: Biff knew Pritznic was there. And if the smile that broke on Biff’s face was anything to judge things by, he did not seem fazed by that one bit. The big guy in fact seemed proud.
Once Jenn had entered the room and Biff had closed the door, Pritznic grabbed his cell phone and called Malcolm again, and hitting voicemail again. He left a message saying that Jennifer Hansen and Biff Cusker were at the Nickel and Dime Motel just out of town, and that he would remain with them until they left.
Pritznic sat in his car, waiting. He could not get the image of Jennifer Hansen naked but for boots and a G-string out of his head. And the thought that she was in that motel room, with that guy, probably fucking his brains out, just wreaked havoc inside his head. Had he not seen her body so exposed, he might have been able to resist the temptation, but after that parking lot scene, the outcome was almost preordained. He was a private investigator after all, so he would investigate. And if in the course of his investigation he happened to take a few more picture of videos, then, that was only good investigative practice, wasn’t it?
Pritznic stepped out of the car, taking with him his pocket camcorder, and headed up the entryway towards the motel. He stopped by Jenn’s discarded red dress lying like a bloodstain in the middle of the lot. He picked it up. It felt insubstantial in his hand, the material was so thin. His mind played with imagining how it would feel to run his hands over the body of the girl, tight and hard, through the almost silky material. Lucky fucker, Pritzic muttered under his breath, thinking of Cusker in room 109.
Dress in his left hand, he noted that the curtains of the window next to the door to 109 were drawn. He headed for a dark passage further down the current block of rooms that lead to the back of the motel. Remembering the standard room layout from past visits, Pritznic knew that every room had a large window in the back that offered an unfettered view of the back woods. He made his way through, and, trying to find room 109 from the back, absently noted that several rooms were occupied, and that not all occupants were particularly careful with their privacy.
He spotted at least one prostitute slowly riding her john, partly because of the look on her face—a mixture of boredom and coldness—partly because she was pretty and he was not, partly because she was dressed like a whore and he looked the part of a businessman on a company trip, but mostly because of that sixth sense that cops and private investigators seemed to develop. Another couple, two windows down, he pegged as an affair. They were both good looking, too good looking for the dive if they were looking for a simple fun night out, and their sexual activity seemed more intense. Pritznic looked at the couple for a few minutes, the girl on her hands and knees on the cheap motel bed, clutching a pillow against her chest, eyes closed, blonde hair swinging as she rocked to and fro from the pile-driving thrust of her mate, who was towering over her, hands in a tight grip on her hips, driving her back with violence. His eyes were not closed, but steadfast on her ass and back, clearing enjoying the show.
Room 109, if his count was correct, was the fifth window over. But the curtains were drawn tightly, and even light was not filtering out, if there was any light inside in any case. Fuck, thought Pritznic, what now?
There was a rumor, totally unconfirmed, that the Nickel And Dime Motel had a rather elaborate system of cameras installed, allegedly to ensure that no illegal shenanigans—drugs, mostly—were taking place, as there had been a few problems of that order a few years earlier. No one had ever been able to pin anything down, though, and the police was keeping mum, uncharacteristically. Stories were that the police chief had had a hand in keeping things quiet. Again, rumors, totally unconfirmed. Time to confirm at least one of them, Pritznic decided.
Making his way to the front of the building, he headed to what was humorously called the reception. It was small, dark, and anything but welcoming. It was a stereotype of every reception in every seedy motel in every film noir that ever was. So much so that Pritznic did not put it past the owners to have designed the place knowingly. He pushed the entry door with its Welcome sign slightly askew. A bell rung. Nothing had changed since the last time he was here: three chairs along the right wall facing a low coffee table strewn with old magazines—Maxim, cars, the works—a short low counter on the left, behind which sat the lone concierge, attention captivated by an old movie on the screen in front of him. Pritznic smiled when he noted that the screen was a state-of-the-art high-definition computer monitor. Yes, he thought, definitely staged. He approached the counter.
“Hey there.”
No acknowledgment.
“Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time?”
The concierge, a man of nondescript age, with longish hair, unshaved, dressed casually in jeans and a tee shirt, did not let his stare stray from the screen while he answered. “Room’s thirty dollars a night. Continental breakfast’s here from seven to nine. Checkout’s at eleven. We also have hourly rates, but cash only. And no breakfast.”
“I’m not here for a room.”
It took a long time for the man to turn his head towards Pritznic. He looked at him square in the eye, something that took Pritznic by surprise.
“You a cop?”
“No. Close enough. I’m a PI.” Pritznic flashed his identification. “I’m investigating one of your patrons. I was hoping you could help me.”
The man raised an eyebrow, and turned his attention back to the screen, where a young Jack Nicholson was trading quips with a beautiful Faye Dunaway. Of course, mused Pritznic. What would ol’ Jake do?
He sighed loudly, and sagged onto the counter. “Look, let me level with you. My client’s girl’s cheating on him, and I’ve been busting my nuts trying to catch the little bitch at it. But she and her new beau have been very careful. I’ve finally tracked them here tonight, and I’d like to just get my evidence and be done with it so I can go back to catching real crooks, know what I mean? Now, the thing is, of course, that they got their curtains pulled in their room, you know, so I can’t just catch them in the act. And this is where I come to ask for your help.”
No motion from the man behind the counter, except for his regular blinking, looking at the screen. Nicholson was telling Dunaway about his time as a beat cop.
Pritznic continued, doing his best to appear contrite, though all he really wanted to do is grab the man and shake him up real good. “Look. I’ve heard that you guys keep a record of what’s going on in the rooms, cameras, the works. For security reasons. Hey, that’s cool with me. Whatever keeps us safe, you know? I could use some of those myself sometimes. What I’m asking, and that’s between you and I, is for a snapshot of the feed from room 109, where they’re at. You’d really be doing me a big one, and, it goes without saying, I can make it worth your while.”
The man, at that, slowly turned his head back towards Pritznic. His movie facade fading for a second, he guffawed quietly.
“Save your breath,” he said, after recovering his phlegmatic persona. “I’m not saying that there are cameras, or that there aren’t any. But it doesn’t matter, because if there were, then I wouldn’t give you anything anyways. Let’s just say that the owners are real sticklers for privacy. There isn’t a thing you could possibly offer me that would make me go against their wishes. Just not worth it. Now go away, let the little slut get her rocks off, invent a little story for the cuck, or join in the fun for all I care. Just go.” He turned back to the screen, engrossed once again with Nicholson now tailing Dunaway.
Pritznic stood there for a couple of beats, before recognizing that he would get nothing out of this. “Thanks anyway, pal.”
Back in his car, Pritznic lit a cigarette, and assessed his next move. He had tried to catch the couple at it, and had failed. In the grand scheme of things, it was probably for the best. His arousal had diminished enough by then for him to realize that the trouble he could have gotten into would not have been worth it. Now, there was nothing to be done but wait for Malcolm to show up. Pritznic called him again, but again ended up on voicemail. Pritznic had come through with his side of the bargain. If Malcolm was not there to pitch in, then he was the worst off. Pritznic pulled out a battered paperback horror novel, and settled down in the driver’s seat.
It was sixty pages and forty minutes later before anything interesting happened. Pritznic kept an eye out on the motel while reading, and one for Malcolm. There was very little activity at the motel that night. The paperback was decent, and the story had just entered its last straight with the heroine struggling mightily against impossible and quite supernatural odds, when the door to 109 finally opened. Pritznic instantly went on alert, swapping the paperback for the camera.
Jenn stepped out of the room. Her discarded dress was lying in a heap on the passenger seat of the Pritznic’s car, and she was wrapped up in a bed sheet as if it were a toga. She stepped out of the room, one hand holding the bed sheet over her shoulder, striding off unhurriedly towards the office, white sheet trailing behind her like a bridal train, her high-heeled boots imparting a sensuous sway to her stride. Without knocking, she entered the reception. Pritznic wondered whether he should go into the reception himself, and confront the girl, but his gut told him to keep still in the car, and he waited to see where things were going. No rushing into things was one of his mottos.
Ten minutes passed, slowly, with no hint of movement from either the reception, or from room 109. Pritznic, paperback novel discarded on the passenger seat next to his camera and his camcorder, was getting restless. His patience was rewarded when the reception door opened and Jenn came out, still wrapped in her white sheet, a goddess drifting out of the door. She paused once again, deliberately, before looking at Pritznic and, smiling, slowly strode toward his car. Pritznic, almost hypnotized, extended a hand towards his camera, but seemed to lose his will to grip it. He stared at the lovely vision making her way towards him, slowly, heels clicking on the asphalt of the parking lot, sheet around her like an aura. The same sheet split in the front, letting an impossibly long and tanned leg peek through on every step.
Twenty feet from the car, without breaking stride, Jenn discarded the sheet with a flourish, revealing her glorious body, almost naked but for a near nonexistent G-string that hid her bush but little else, and of course her boots. Pritznic’s eyes roved up her long legs to the curves of her hips up her toned belly only to fix on her breasts, swaying slightly in the swing imparted by her walk. He could see her nipples standing hard in the brisk night air.
Jenn slid up to the driver’s side of the car, and knocked on the window. Pritznic noted absentmindedly that her nails were painted bright red. He hesitated a second before opening the window. Jenn leaned over, and Pritznic was mesmerized by the sight of her breasts hanging there no more than two feet from him.
“Hello, Mister Private Investigator.”
“Huh... hi.”
“Biff feels bad that you had to spend the whole evening here, all alone, probably bored out of your mind.” She nodded towards the paperback. “Any good?”
“It’s okay, I guess. Look, miss...”
“Jenn.”
“Excuse me?”
“My name’s Jenn. And believe me, I’m no miss.” She smiled, a smile that spoke of dirty things.
“Jenn, I don’t know what you...”
“I know why you’re here, Mister Private Investigator. And I’m sorry we kept the blinds drawn. But maybe I can make it up to you.” She pulled a DVD from seemingly nowhere. “The clerk out there was sweet enough to give me a copy of a suitable portion of the recording they made of the room. Here, it’s yours. I trust you will find it... suitably entertaining. I do get quite loud and graphic at times, I hope you won’t mind.”
Pritznic, hesitantly reached out for the disk in its protective sleeve, and examined it. It was a DVD all right, and the discoloration on its burned face suggested there was a couple of hours of material on it. “How... how did you...?”
Jenn smiled another of her suggestive smiles. “How did I get the clerk to give this to me? I was nice and friendly. That’s what my mother taught me: you’re nice and friendly to people, and they’re nice and friendly back. Although I have to say, I had to be extra nice with that particular fellow. He was most reluctant at first. But he got around to my way of thinking, eventually.”
Pritznic could just imagine what Jenn had done to get the prickly clerk at the desk, who seemed well practiced at fending off nosy customers, to give up his big secret. Did she spread her long legs for him, let him fuck her, there, perhaps on the front desk counter, or did she join him beyond that counter and gave him head until he came all over her face? She did have those perfect blow job lips.
As if she had read his mind, Jenn smiled, and reached up to her cheek. She picked up a drop of clear liquid with a long finger. “Oops... I missed a spot earlier. I’m such a messy eater, you wouldn’t believe.” She sucked the finger into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing out, her dazzling grey eyes never leaving Pritznic’s. He broke eye contact first, dropping his eyes down to her chest and her round breasts with their hard nipples.
He must have been staring for a long time, because Jenn giggled and straightened up from her position at the window. “You like my titties, Mister Private Investigator?” She grabbed her breasts and pressed them together and up. “That clerk there also liked them—couldn’t get his hands off of them, in fact. And he slobbered all over them, too. It was nasty. But at least it made them nice and wet for when he put his cock there and fucked them. But I don’t wanna bore you with what that clerk did to me. Biff told me to get you the DVD and give you something else for your trouble, you know, for being out here the whole night, alone, while Biff was banging me.” She took two steps away from the car. “Please open the door, Mister Private Investigator.”
As in a dream, Pritznic slowly opened the car door, before his conscious mind could really grasp what he was doing. But he was not thinking. He was merely reacting, eyes glued on Jenn’s lovely body, fully exposed but for a thin strip of material between her legs. Pritznic swung his legs out of the car, but remained seated.
“Pull your pants down, Mister Private Investigator.” She pointed, and while Pritznic scrambled to unbuckle his belt and unzip and pull down his trousers, Jenn grabbed the discarded bed sheet and bundled it to make a soft pile at Pritznic’s feet on which she knelt gracefully. She sat back on her heels, waiting patiently for Pritznic to finish. When he did, she smiled, and without moving her hands from her lap bent at the waist and with a wide open mouth caught his cock, hard and projecting straight out towards her. Her mouth closed softly on the tip, and she sucked hard once, twice. Pritznic gasped, and grabbed the door frame for support and to give his hands something to squeeze.
“Funny,” she said, after letting his cock pop out of her mouth and straightening up, “the clerk reacted pretty much the same way when I took him in my mouth.” She looked into Pritznic’s eyes. She then bent back down to take him in her mouth again and this time did not back up.
Pritznic was getting the blow job of his life. Jenn seemed to be pouring her all into it, enthusiastically pumping his cock with one hand while bobbing her head up and down, lips sealed tight, tongue swirling, gagging every now and then when Pritznic’s cock would hit the back of her throat. Pritznic was mesmerized by the swing of her breasts, bouncing in rhythm with Jenn’s sucking motions. Once in a while he would reach down to cup one of them, feeling their firmness, their fullness. Jenn would moan whenever he did that, encouraging him by thrusting her chest forward against him, never breaking her sucking stride.
Good things never last, and Pritznic was feeling himself get closer and closer to spewing with every stroke of Jenn’s hand and every bob of her head. Her hair was flailing about, rich brown waves half hiding her face. Her eyes were closed, she was concentrating on her task. Pritznic’s hips were starting to jerk wildly, and Jenn felt the telltale signs of an imminent ejaculation. Giving two last hard sucks on the cock in her mouth, sending the cock head deeper in her throat than she had before, she released it, and raised her head. She looked at Pritznic, wide eyes unblinking.
“I want you to glaze my tits, Mister Private Investigator.” She aimed the cock at her chest, rubbing the cock head against the slightly damp skin there, then more forcefully rubbing the whole cock against a breast, then the other. Jacking him off forcefully, drooling on his cock at regular intervals, putting the hard member between her breasts and squeezing them together to provide a smooth flesh tunnel, Jenn did not have to wait long before Pritznic let out a long guttural moan, jerked his hips forward in counterpoint to Jenn’s fist, and spewed in long liquid jets that hit and dribbled down Jenn’s chest, dripping all the way to her thighs. Jenn simply squeezed and rubbed his cock, softly, mewing encouraging words under her breath. Pritznic collapsed into his seat, completely spent.
Jenn stood up. She lifted a finger to her chest, brought it up to stare at it a second before gently sucking off the semen she had collected.
“Mmmm.... thank you, Mister Private Investigator, that was perfect.” She looked at him, amusement showing in her eyes. “I trust this made your evening less frustrating than it might otherwise have been?”
She turned around. Pritznic, still drained, followed the sway of her ass when it came into view. It was just perfect. “Well then, bye now,” said Jenn, heading back towards room 109.
She paused before she had gone very far, and came back to the car. “Silly me, I had almost forgotten. I have a few more things for you.” She pulled a ring off the finger of her left hand, and handed it to Pritznic. “Here,” she said, “this is for Daniel. Tell him that I do not want to see him ever again. We’re through.”
“And this,” she continued, “is for you, Mister Private Investigator.” She slowly pulled down her G-string down her long legs, lifted one foot to step out of them, and bent her other leg up so she could pick up the flimsy garment without bending down. She then stood, fully naked but for her boots, in the middle of the parking lot of the Nickel and Dime. Pritznic held his breath, his eyes drawn to the immaculately shaved pussy proudly on display between Jenn’s parted legs. Jenn made no motion to hide herself from his gaze.
Slowly, she ran the discarded string through her pussy lips, and Pritznic saw that the material was getting soaked. She then casually tossed him the underwear. It landed on his lap with a wet plop, next to his now flaccid cock. “Think of me when you jerk off.” She then grabbed the bed sheet from the ground, wrapped herself in it once more, and left silently, heels clacking on the pavement. A car screeched to a stop right before her, and she got in next to Biff. They quickly drove away.
Pritznic was numb. He had lost them. He slowly got dressed, and debated what to do. He decided to wait, in case Malcolm showed up, and tried to come up with a reasonable excuse for having lost his quarry. He experienced a momentary twinge of guilt as he took the sodden G-string and hid it in the glove box, along with the DVD.
A few minutes later, a taxi cab stopped right behind his car, and Malcolm emerged. As Pritznic explained what had happened until he got to the motel and tried to come up with a story that did not involve Jennifer Hansen giving him head before disappearing with her lover, but that still had her giving him her ring to give Malcolm, he paid no attention to the nondescript black car that had arrived at the motel a minute after Malcolm’s cab and was quietly idling at one end of the parking lot, a raven-haired woman sitting in the driver’s seat.