Carra snorts at Murphy. “Like father, like son,” she murmurs, following them into the motel after shifting into the more Asian appearing girl. She takes the keys from the innkeeper and leads them to the back to a kind of hidden paradise in the back. Their private flat leads into an open courtyard with exotic plants and a bubbling fountain. “Mi casa es su casa,” she grins faintly, setting her duffel down on an ornate bench. She goes into a large penthouse style flat and grabs a bottle of Mexican cola. She tosses it to Murphy. “Try that.”