“No problem,” said Benedict. “If anything does occur to you, get in touch. And thanks for this,” he added, putting the motel card in his pocket.

Todd closed the door behind Benedict. He sat down on the nearest chair and found that he was shaking uncontrollably.

The phone rang and Todd nearly jumped into the air. He reached out a trembling hand.

“Mr. Milstead? Behm here.”

“Oh, hi,” said Todd. He felt dizzy.

“You okay? This a bad time?”

“No, of course not. Where are you? It sounds loud.”

“I’m in a call box, outside a liquor store. There’s a lot of really drunk guys here and they’re having a party in the parking lot.”

“It sounds like fun.”

“Oh yeah, it’s a riot. Mr. Milstead, I’m in Pontiac.”

For a moment the name meant nothing to Todd. Then it clicked.

“Pontiac, Michigan?”

“Where your guy comes from.”

Todd’s heart all but leapt out of his mouth.

“Jake Turner? You found Jake Turner?”

“Not exactly,” said Behm. “Mr. Milstead, I think I need to see you.”

“Today?” said Todd. “Because I’m moving out of my house.”

“Divorce come through?”

“Not exactly,” Todd said. “Goodwill gesture.”

“You’re a lovely guy.”

“I know,” said Todd. “So when will you be coming to see me?”

“I got a few things to tie up. Give me your new address and I’ll come by in a week or so.”

“You can find me at the Sunset Motel.”

“Classy,” said Behm, and rang off.

*  *  *

A couple of hours later, just as it started raining, Todd took the Volvo out of town to the Sunset. He parked in the lot, looked around—it was getting darker as well as wetter—and put the big lock on the steering wheel. Then he removed all his stuff from the car, locked it, checked he’d locked it, and went inside. There was nobody on reception, or in the office, which smelled of all the stale tobacco in history, but there was a note on the desk.

MILSTEAD, it read. ROOM 5. KEY ON HOOK.

Todd found the hook, took down the key, and trundled his cases to the room. Room 5 was on the end of a row. The window was open and a curtain was flapping wetly in the rain. Todd unlocked the door and went in. The room was everything a junkie could want from a motel room. A thin bed with thinner bedding, an armchair that looked like someone’s uncle had died in it during the war, a closet apparently made of old popsicle sticks, and the kind of carpet that was so greasy it looked like it had been poured onto the floor from a frying pan.