“Tidy lady.” Ollie’s words were edged with condescension.

“She’s doing what she can to make this a home,” I said.

“Tough job in this shithole.”

Ollie opened the medicine cabinet and started poking through the contents. The move annoyed me. “We came to find Annaliese Ruben. She’s not here. Let’s go.”

“You in a hurry?”

“Miller is not our concern. There’s no reason to invade her privacy.”

Ollie shot me an über-patient smile but closed the cabinet.

As I rejoined Ryan in the main room, I heard the sound of the shower curtain being pushed to one side.

“Now what?” I asked when Ollie reappeared.

He checked his mobile, apparently found nothing of interest. “Now we get some sleep. In the meantime, I’ll put eyes on this place and on Miller.”

“Someone should canvass out here tomorrow, talk to the owner,” Ryan said.

“Hadn’t thought of that, Detective.”

Ryan’s jaw did that clampy thing, but he said nothing.

Ollie crossed to the makeshift closet, flipped through the hanging clothes, toed the stacks, then knelt on one knee to peer under the bed.

“Check the microwave?” Ryan tossed the key not so gently onto the bureau.

Ollie ignored the sarcasm. “Let’s roll.”

We all trooped out.

* * *

At the Best Western, Ryan registered and disappeared.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” Ollie said when I had my key.

“No, thanks.”

“I insist.”

“I decline.”

“It’s a tough town.”

“I’m inside a hotel.”

Ollie raised the handle on my carry-on. I reached for it. He swiveled the thing into pulling position and gestured for me to proceed.

Seething, I set out across the acre of lobby. Ollie followed, wheels clicking on the tile. I unlocked my door in icy silence.

“Let’s shoot for eight tomorrow,” Ollie said.

“Phone if anything breaks.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ollie made no move to release my suitcase. Yanking the handle from his grasp, I took two steps backward and slammed the door.

The room was typical North American Motel. King bed, dresser, desk, upholstered chair. The drapes and bedding featured appropriately paired selections from the green quadrant of the color wheel. A framed print was bolted to each of the walls. Though the decor would never inspire coverage in Architectural Digest, the place was light-years upmarket from the Paradise Resort.

Not that it mattered. Face wash. Swipe at the teeth. I was out.

Minutes later, the Irish National Anthem blasted me awake. I shot a hand toward the nightstand. As my iPhone hit the carpet, the boys kept singing.

Groping in the dark, I found the phone and clicked on.

“Brennan.” Trying to sound alert. Pointless. It was the middle of the night.

“I hope I didn’t wake you?” The caller was female and speaking French. “It’s Simone Annoux.”

My semiconscious mind fumbled with the name. Came up blank.

“In the DNA section.”

“Of course, Simone. What’s up?”

As I switched the call to speaker, I noticed that the digits said six-twenty. Eight-twenty in Montreal. I’d been asleep almost four hours. I lay back and placed the phone on my chest.