Stone lifted a four-inch-thick stack of computer paper out of the box and looked at the first page. It was a computerized registration form for the Brooke Hotel in Manhattan. The fanfold paper opened to reveal what appeared to be the entire guest list for the Brooke on the previous Friday.

Liz came on deck looking fresh and new in a short linen dress. “Good morning,” she said. “What’s that?”

“I had some phone calls from a Manhattan hotel last week; fellow asked for me and wouldn’t leave a number.”

“You think it might have been Paul?”

“Maybe. It would be a big help if you would go through these registration forms and see if any of the names seems familiar to you—not just people you know, but names that Paul might have chosen for a new identity.”

“Sure, I’ll be glad to.”

“When you’ve done that, I’d like you to take a ride with me.”

“Where?”

“I met a man last night who could possibly be Paul, but I couldn’t be sure. The nose was different, as you said, and that seemed to change everything. Anyway, I haven’t seen him for some years, and I’m not sure how good I’d be at identifying him. I’d like to see if we can spot him around his hotel and let you get a look at him.”

“Okay, and I can tell you that when I saw him in Easthampton he looked very different from his old self. I spotted him as much by his walk and his body language as by his appearance.”

“What sort of hair did he have?”

“His natural dark, going gray; that hadn’t changed.”

“How long?”

“Not too long; longer than yours, though.”

“Does the name Paul Bartlett ring any bells?”

“Just the Paul. But if Paul were hiding out, I don’t think he’d use his real first name. He’s a lot smarter than that.”

“Sit down, and let’s go through this hotel list together.”

“Okay. Can I have some coffee first?”

Stone rang for Juanito and ordered the coffee, then they started through the stack of fanfold paper. They had gone through only a dozen or so names when Liz stopped. “Garland,” she said. “Donald Garland.”

“Familiar?”

“Garland was Paul’s mother’s maiden name. Donald was his father’s first name.”

“Do you know how to contact them? Maybe he’s been in touch.”

“Both dead,” Liz said.

“Mr. Garland is from San Francisco,” Stone read from the document. “Says here he’s with Golden Gate Publishing, and he lives in Pacific Heights. When it’s opening time out there, I’ll check him out.”

They continued to read through the list for a while, then Juanito appeared with the telephone. “For you, Mr. Barrington.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Dan Griggs.”

“Morning, Dan. I expect Dave Riley briefed you on last night’s events.”