The motel was temporarily closed because of the murder, and the lingering smell of unease and decay still lingered in the air.
Bruce made his way to the front desk with a twist, his fingertips ringing a bell, the crisp sound echoing through the empty lobby.
After a moment, a man came down the stairs, an old broom in his hand. “Can I help you, Mr. Officer?” His voice was low and slow.
Bruce looked at the other man's bloodless face-not that natural pallor, but a ghastly whiteness as if his blood had been drained. “What's your name?” He asked, yawning casually.
“Etienne. but my friends call me Dumé,” the shopkeeper said slowly, putting down his broom and wiping his hands on his cuffs.
“Dumé?” repeated Bruce, a little unsure where the pronunciation came from.
“It's French for 'dumbass.'
