Hotel Mystery Novels & Stories

l “Wwhat are you talking about?” he stammers. Roman turns to him and asks. “The security footage from the hotel in Moscow. Where is it?” Holmes's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to say something. “Don’t you dare fucking lie.” Roman growls as we walk out into the crowded backstage corridor. Holmes follows us out. “There isn’t any!” he calls out to Roman. “I told you that already.” “That was your last chance. Get out.”

Parking my bike in front, I walked towards the reception. The motel was unsavory and boasted a dozen rooms – each a small space with a single bed with cum stained bed sheets, rusty shower heads, and a stench of sex. Alcohol and cigarette smells hung heavy in the air. Criminals, prostitutes, drug dealers, and spies hung here. It was a common meeting ground for contacts and informants who contributed valuable information for any mission. Bob, the motel owner, was a middle-aged man and loyal as fuck. He could sense my lack of excitement. Stress and tiredness clung to me like a second skin. All I wanted was to be alone and enjoy a drink.

she rushed, words spilling over themselves like they were racing against time. My lips parted, my voice breaking. “I’m… in a motel.” “Which one?” I swallowed, scanning the cracked ceiling, the peeling wallpaper. “Rosehill Motel. Room twelve.” Hazel cursed softly under her breath. “Scarlett, listen to me carefully. The news is everywhere. It’s all over the networks. There’s a bounty out on you.” The air punched out of my lungs. My hand tightened around the phone until it creaked. “What do you mean? A… bounty?”

He obviously loved thrillers as most of the books were made up with novels by Ian Fleming, Desmond Bagley, Hammond Innes, Ian Rankin, Michael Robotham and Alistair MacLean. My mobile sounded and I moved out on to the landing. Caller ID: Kimberley. “Hello, darling,” I said into the phone. “I need a drink,” she explained. “Bad morning?” “Ever since that break-in you investigated, Bio-Preparations insist on having an audit every month,” she said breathlessly. “Why have they got to have it on a bloody Saturday?” “You poor thing,” I said soothingly, feeling partially responsible. “So how about the Waggoner’s Rest?” She persisted. “I’ve just arrived back at the quay.”

He was the president of the Detective Club. Sarek’s eyes lit up. “Speak.” In the corner, I clutched my head, face twisted, screaming silently, ‘Please shut up. Please shut up!’ The elf adjusted his glasses, and as if possessed by the spirit of a legendary detective, he said, “Professor, look at the chat background image. The sausage receipt on the left—see the name? That motel is right below the girls’ dorms! “And the bedsheet pattern in the corner belongs exclusively to Welcome Motel’s themed rooms on the back street! It’s the only location in the entire city!”

*The message* Dr. Emma Taylor's eyes widened as she stared at the cryptic message on her phone: "They're watching me. I have to escape." The words sent a chill down her spine. It was from her sister, Sarah, who had been missing for weeks. Emma's mind racing, she replayed the events leading up to Sarah's disappearance. They had been arguing about their estranged father, and Sarah had been acting strangely in the days before she vanished. Emma had dismissed it as paranoia, but now she wondered if something more sinister was at play.

"I can't calm down! You said it yourself—the ticket was booked under her name! She booked it, didn't go, and my daughter and the other two disappeared! There's no way that's a coincidence! It has to be you! You vicious, heartless monster!" She thrashed and screamed, spewing the ugliest words imaginable. "Honey, stop!" Giselle's father finally showed a flicker of reason, pulling his wife back—but his eyes were just as cold and suspicious when they landed on me. "Mrs. Murdoch, I'll say it one more time. I didn't book those tickets." I looked her straight in the eye and said. "If I did—five hundred per ticket, three tickets, that's fifteen hundred dollars. Do you really think a student who can

I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. "Hello? Eve? What happened?" She continued speaking, but I couldn't hear anything anymore. My phone slipped from my hand and hit the ground with a sharp crack. Slowly, I turned around and looked at the small body lying there. That blue hoodie was exactly the same one my son, Leo Spencer, had. Could it really be him? Step by step, I walked over and lifted the cloth covering the child's face. It was a mangled, bloodied mess. His features were unrecognizable.

“We tracked a burner phone used to call in a fake hospital discharge report. GPS led us here. It was Sophie’s number.” Lucien nodded grimly. “Let’s move.” With weapons drawn, the officers moved in formation as they pushed through the rusted doors. The air inside was stale, metallic. A mix of mold, dust, and something darker. As they crept through the hallways, one of the officers raised a hand, signaling movement ahead. A muffled sound. A whimper. They reached a locked room at the far end of a corridor. The officer kicked it open. Lucien stepped inside—

My vows, half-written and trembling with hope, waited folded on the nightstand beside my bed. And yet all I could see was her. That woman. Lighting a cigarette under the flickering sign of the Honeywell Motel, her features bleached by surveillance static, but unmistakable. She looked through the camera like she knew I was watching. Like she was daring me to blink first. "Don't let your tea go cold," Alex said gently, from the far end of the kitchen.