“It’s in my purse,” Rina said. “It was just lying there and I didn’t want it to get lost—”

Decker said, “Can you tell me next time you take my stuff?”

Rina handed him the list and folded her arms across her chest. Decker consulted the addresses and drove at the same time, his eyes darting back and forth between the scrap of paper and the road. Rina was tempted to say something, but thought better of it and kept quiet.

Decker stuffed the list into his shirt pocket.

The strip leading into the airport was filled with high-rise office buildings, business hotels, and freight warehouses. Once the road had been littered with dozens of seedy, X-rated motels, but it looked as if time had forced the boulevard to clean up its act. Land values were too expensive to waste on “adult” motor inns, and porn films were found in most of the established hotels. Why would Joe Jr. Exec bother with something so downscale when he could get his rocks off in a clean place complete with room service?

Decker drove all the way to the airport, turned around and worked backward, figuring that to have been the route taken by Hersh and Noam.

Still some leftover fuck motels. Big marquees framed with pink and orange blinking lights, the black lettering advertising all the naughty pleasures found within. Decker turned left into a large parking lot. The place was a one-story job faced with dingy plaster and high, narrow windows. The lobby was fronted with a big picture window, next to it two vending machines—one for soda pop, the other for ice. Both machines looked like they hadn’t been used in a long time. He parked and turned to Rina.

“Maybe you’d better come in with me,” he said. “This is not a great spot for you to be left alone.”

“Sure.”

“I snapped at you before,” Decker said. “Sorry.”

Rina said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, you’re awfully patient.”

“One of us has to be.”

The clerk behind the desk held the photographs at arm’s length. His name was Clint Willy. He appeared to be in his early thirties, had thin blond hair and milky blue eyes. His skin looked tissue-thin and was pitted with acne scars. His eyes widened as he stared at the snapshots.

“I’m farsighted,” he said. “Forgot my glasses.” His voice was deep. “That’s the problem with being farsighted. You can drive without glasses, but you can’t see close up. Man, I can’t even read a newspaper with my Coke bottles. Now, if I was nearsighted, I couldn’t drive without my glasses, see? So I’d never forget them.”