The place was as stripped as a motel room past checkout time. The living room held a scarred coffee table scored with deep gouges, and two mismatched end tables also pocked with knife wounds. Both were void of any newspapers or magazines. The sofa was lumpy, the carpet spotted with grease. The shades were yellowed, pulled down, swallowing the incoming light. Only a beam sneaked through where one shade had been neatly slashed down the center.

The kitchenette, done in high-gloss ivory enamel paint, was more of a closet than a room. It was right off the front door and hadn’t been cleaned for a while. The linoleum floor was missing a few tiles and dotted with dozens of dead roaches. The burned Formica counter top was filthy, a trail of ants swarming around a large fishhead, marching in and out of the eye sockets and gaping mouth. The drawers and cupboards had been opened and left naked. Inside the sink was a paper garbage bag stuffed with used paper plates.

The place stank of fish. But Decker was happy with what his nose told him. No decay. He told the others to wait by the doorway, he was going to investigate. Something about his tone of voice was commanding. Jerz didn’t put up a squawk.

Decker took a closer look at the trash—paper plates, dried pieces of fried fish—homemade, not your typical takeout stuff. Its odor was mixed with the acrid vinegar smell of leftover coleslaw and tartar sauce—both items prepackaged. Used plastic cutlery. He pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand and poked the plates out of the way, trying to avoid scampering roaches. He found a half dozen crumpled bits of paper and unfolded the first.

Times, dates—an airline schedule. Or maybe a bus schedule.

He unfolded the second one.

More time schedules. The word UNITED printed in bold black letters.

Airline schedule.

Times of departure—8:10, 9:20, 10:30…

To where?

He read the next wrinkled note, penned in the same crude, bold print.

HANK STEWART.

DR. HANK STEWART

HANK STEWART, ESQ.

HANK STEWART, NUCLEAR PHYSICIST.

Decker skimmed down the list. A psycho with delusions of grandeur. The last two entries scared him.

GOD STEWART.

Then just plain GOD.

He pocketed the note, unfolded another one.

More times, dates—yesterday’s date circled in red.

Decker cursed to himself.

Missed the fucker by one day.

He heard Rina call his name.

“I’m still here,” he said.

“What do you have?”

“Some paper.” He walked back over to her and Jerz. “Was this apartment rented furnished?”

“Don’t know,” Jerz said. “You have to call corporation with letters. You think Stremmer left without paying?”

“I think Stremmer has just changed his name to Hank Stewart.” He showed Rina the letter.

“Any sign that Noam has been here?” she asked.

“Not so far.” He unraveled another note—more flight times—then took a look at the last note.