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and could retrieve his valuable equipment in no rush after they left. He’d also get some semen samples, hair, and whatever else might be of use to his client.
    If Wallace had not been so focused watching the video feeds on his laptop, he would have noticed the unusual number of men going into room 107.
    One thing about Angela, she has a great rack, Wallace thought as he watched her peel off her top as the doctor threw her down on the bed. It was amazing . He’d done this kind of surveillance hundreds of times and everybody started on the bedspread. Some never got to the sheets at all. The sick thing was that the bedspread was never changed in these joints. So this doctor, who probably uses a mask when he drills teeth not to catch aids or some shit, is slamming his genitals all over a bedspread that’s got more spunk, junk, and crud on it than a toilet seat at the Port Authority. That alone should be reason enough for his client, the doctor’s wife, to be granted her divorce, her kids, the house and every penny this dentist fuck had.
    As Wallace focused on his LCD screens and Angela’s magnificent breasts rocking as she got pounded, he missed a man entering the room next door with a large case of cold cream.
    When the main event was over, the two lay in silence. Wallace’s equipment started picking up sounds from the next room, some kind of chanting or prayer. He turned up the gain on his microphone. Yes, it was some kind of chant or prayer… BRUMP… BRUMP… BRUMP. Suddenly the sound was interrupted by a thumping noise, which at this level of audio gain obliterated the sound with every thump. Then he heard a very distorted, “Angela! You fucking whore,” as the sound ripped into Wallace’s headphones. The three shots that followed almost punctured his eardrums before he could get the phones off. What he couldn’t get off was his eyes from his LCD screen – and one seething, snarling, angry motherfucker firing a .38 and blowing the top half of Angela’s head clear off before pumping two into the doctor. The blood spray and brain matter redecorated the sleazy room in an instant. All of it was caught in glorious digital color, in two angles, with stereophonic 48K sound.
    Alzir El Benhan uttered a curse in the middle of his interrupted prayer. The 24 other men in the room on the floor in prostate looked up to see his right shoulder bleeding and the hole in the thin sheet rock wall of room 107. They had heard the shots next door but thought it was only a loud, American TV program. The 24 jars sat in the center of the room and next to them syringes. Holding his shoulder, Alzir groaned, “Take the jars! Leave now!” Then he momentarily blacked out.
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    â€œStarlight Motel, North Conduit, shots fired, two people dead. Gunman still inside.” As he spoke with the 911 dispatcher, Wallace kept his eyes trained on the door to room 108. Then he realized he had his HD200X high def video camera in his bag. He got it out and pointed it at the door. He never saw Angela’s husband before, who the shooter almost certainly was. The two cameras in the room were trained on the bed and the gunman was not near it. Wallace figured that when the man left the room, he’d get a shot of him on the HD. The cops could use it as evidence. Then he decided to narrate the tape. “9:10 p.m. Starlight Motor Lounge, thirty seconds after shoots fired, Wallace Barnes, New York State licensed investigator, on an assignment for Mrs. … What’s this?” The zoom range of the mini HD actually afforded a close-up of both 107 and 108. Although the shooter hadn’t emerged from 108, men started piling out of 107. “Three…four…five… six…seven…eight. These guys are all coming out of the next door.”
    The first NYPD unit bottomed out hitting the bump in the motel’s driveway at high speed, creating a shower of sparks from its