The Last Call from Room 413
June 2, 2025
Detective Marcus Hale had seen plenty of shady motels in his twenty-year career, but The Sunset Palms was in a league of its own—peeling paint, flickering neon, and a front desk clerk who looked half-asleep and half-afraid.
Room 413 was cordoned off with crime scene tape. Inside, a man in his late 30s lay face-down on the floor, blood pooled around his head. Gunshot wound. Execution-style.
“What do we know?” Hale asked, slipping on gloves.
“Forensics says he was shot around 2 a.m.,” said Officer Laramie. “No sign of forced entry. The guy checked in alone last night. Name on the ID is Victor Dane.”
Hale knelt beside the body. Victor was dressed too nicely for this dump—gray wool suit, gold cufflinks, polished shoes. On the nightstand was a burner phone, still unlocked.
One outgoing call. 1:53 a.m.
To a number labeled only: “M.”
Back at the precinct, Hale ran the number. It was unregistered, of course, but bounced off a nearby tower linked to a club downtown—The Velvet Note.
“Let’s take a ride,” Hale said.
The Velvet Note pulsed with jazz and perfume. A singer in a red dress crooned over a slow bassline. Behind the bar, Hale found a familiar face—Marla Quinn.
“Well, well,” she smiled, drying a glass. “Detective Hale. Didn’t expect to see you chasing ghosts in my lounge.”
“I’m looking into a murder. Room 413 at the Sunset Palms. The victim called you minutes before he was killed.”
Her smile faded.
“I didn’t know his name,” she said. “He came in last week. Quiet. Asked questions about old cases. About you.”
“Me?”
“He said someone in your department buried something ten years ago. Said he was getting close to blowing it open.”
“Did he say what?”
She hesitated. “No. Just that he had proof. And he didn’t know who to trust.”
Back at his desk, Hale dug into Victor Dane’s background. Turns out, he wasn’t Victor. His real name was Gavin Holt, a freelance journalist who’d covered corruption in multiple cities. He’d arrived in town two weeks ago and rented a storage unit.
The unit held files, recordings, and photos—mostly related to one case: The Pinebrook Raid, a drug bust from 2013. Five suspects killed. All officers cleared. Hale remembered it. He’d been there.
But Gavin had something new: a recording.
In the audio, distorted by static, two voices whispered in a warehouse.
“They weren’t armed.”
“We follow orders. No witnesses.”
Then a single, chilling line:
“Burn it all. If Hale talks, he burns too.”
Hale stared at the file. He hadn’t known.
He’d always believed the raid was justified—that intel showed weapons on-site. But this proved it had been a setup. The suspects had been clean. And his partner, Detective Sean Mallory, had ordered the hit.
Mallory retired last year, full pension, living quietly in a gated community outside the city.
Hale didn’t call for backup.
He just drove.
Sean Mallory opened the door slowly, drink in hand.
“Well, look who’s finally reading the footnotes.”
“You knew,” Hale said quietly. “You let me believe we were in the clear.”
“We were,” Mallory said, stepping back. “Until your little reporter friend started sniffing around.”
“You killed him.”
Mallory didn’t deny it.
“He would’ve ruined us. Everything we built. You think Internal Affairs would’ve stopped at me?”
“You used my badge. My name.”
“You were a pawn, Marcus. And now you’ve outlived your usefulness.”
Mallory reached into his jacket.
Hale already had his gun out.
One shot. Mallory dropped.
The review board took Hale’s statement. He handed over everything—Gavin’s files, the recording, the storage unit key.
He expected to be fired. Maybe worse.
Instead, the city made headlines. “Decade-Old Cover-Up Exposed,” the papers read. Mallory was blamed for the corruption. Hale was “cleared.”
But he didn’t feel clear.
Three weeks later, Hale sat alone in his kitchen when his phone rang.
A number flashed.
“M.”
He answered.
Silence.
Then Marla’s voice, low and distant: “You okay?”
“No,” he said. “But I’m still breathing.”
“You know Victor left one thing with me, right?”
“What?”
“A letter. For you. Said you’d know what to do with it.”
The envelope was waiting at The Velvet Note.
Inside, Gavin’s scrawled handwriting read:
“If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I hope it means I trusted the right cop. You’re part of the story now, Detective. Don’t stop here. There’s more. Room 413 was just the opening act.”
And beneath it, a list of names.
Most were crossed out.
One wasn’t.
“Chief Byron Kells.”
Hale folded the letter, his face unreadable in the dim lounge light. Outside, the city pulsed on.
Another call would come. Another truth. Another ghost from the past.
And Marcus Hale, for all his scars and all his regrets, would answer.
Because in a city full of secrets, someone had to take the last call.