Smoke, Mirrors, and Murder

they would have no chance of rescue, he wrenched the wheel and drove rapidly toward University Way, the center of the University District, where even in the wee hours of the morning, lights blazed and the streets were alive with traffic. He turned left on Forty-fifth Street and headed west. Parry felt the loaded gun nudging his ear, but he tried not to think of it. Anderson must realize, he thought, that if he shot the driver, the car would crash. He could be hurt too, and a crash would attract attention.
    Now, without asking permission, Parry turned his Volare into the parking lot of the Sherwood Inn. It was located on a busy corner next to I-5. He was relieved to see that people were walking around the parking lot and that vehicles were pulling in and out. Parry stopped and turned to Anderson. “Killing us would only cause you more problems, you know,” he said with remarkable calm.
    “What did you have in mind?” Anderson asked.
    It was a bizarre situation. Parry was the captive, yet he was keeping his wits about him. He sensed that Anderson was near hysteria—unable to formulate a plan—and he intended to take full advantage of the gunman’s panic and indecision, all the while knowing that he and Martha could be killed at any moment if he made a misstep.
    “I’ve got a credit card,” Parry offered. “I think we should get a room in the motel. You’re exhausted, and so are we. Once we’re in the room, you can tie us up. When you’re ready, you can leave. We won’t be able to get a phone—and we promise we won’t cry out. Don’t we, Martha?”
    She nodded vigorously.
    “You can have my car keys—all the money I have, my credit cards,” Parry offered. “Think about it. You’ll be home free, and you won’t have a murder charge hanging over you.”
    Anderson pondered the offer. Then he nodded. “Okay, but if you tell the clerk anything when you register, I’ll kill the lady first and then you before the police can ever get to me.”
    “That’s fair,” Parry said. “And I believe you.”
    Anderson told him to go check in, warning him not to say anything to anyone. “I’ll be here with Martha, and I’ll shoot her if I see you trying to get funny.”
    Doug Parry walked slowly into the lobby, where a single night clerk manned the desk. As he was about to subtly signal the clerk that he and Martha Carelli were in danger, he looked around and saw that Mike Anderson was standing near the door watching him. He felt they’d lost their last chance for freedom, but then their kidnapper whirled and ran back toward Parry’s station wagon.
    Martha Carelli was trying to get out of the car.
    Parry looked at the clerk and said softly—but urgently—as he bent to sign the register, “Keep smiling. Don’t give any indication that you are alarmed by what I’m about to tell you. There is a woman out in that yellow Volare who is very badly injured. She and I have been kidnapped and are being held hostage. I want you to give me the key to the room. Keep smiling! Give us time to go on up. Then call the police.”
    The clerk stared at him, a smile half frozen on his face. Parry could almost read his mind. He was wondering if Parry was crazy—maybe even a practical joker.
    “Please keep smiling,” Parry said again. “And hand me the key.”
    Despite what he had been through, Doug Parry was pretty sure that he looked like a solid citizen, but he wasn’t sure if the clerk saw him that way.
    Just then, the clerk glanced up and saw the tall black man leading a woman into the lobby. Even though her hooded jacket was pulled close around her head, he could see that her face was a mass of purpling bruises and her hair was matted with blood.
    Now he believed Parry, and he responded with controlled casualness.
    “Yes sir,” he said easily. “Here’s your key. That’s room 303. The ice machine is down the hall. Have a pleasant stay.”
    Doug Parry’s eyes met the clerk’s, and he could tell that the man behind the counter was going to help them.
    The oddly matched trio took the elevator up to the third floor, and they entered the nicely appointed room. It had two queen-size beds.
    Martha Carelli asked their captor if she could get a washcloth to wipe the blood off her face.
    “You go take a bath,” he countered. “And you [to Parry] help me count the money.”
    Martha took a quick bath and wiped her face off the best she could. When she’d dressed again in her bloodstained clothing, she felt a