James L. Grady gave me snide. “Yeah. He said he hired you to find his ex-wife, but he figured you were stiffing him and he wanted to find out. I picked you up in Chelam with the ex and the kid, and I’ve been following you around ever since.”

“Ever since.”

“Peter came in last night. He’s staying over at the Ritz-Carlton. He wants to see you.”

I stopped pointing the gun at him and he snatched back his wallet. A guy passing by in a red Nissan truck called me a shithead. So did James L. Grady.

Chapter Twenty-one

Twenty-one

Peter Alan Nelsen had the Presidential Suite on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton, overlooking Central Park. I followed Grady’s Chevy to the curb, where we let a couple of guys who looked like they’d just mustered out of the French army have our cars, then we went inside.

James L. used a house phone and said, “This is Grady. I’m in the lobby with Cole.”

He listened for a minute, then hung up and gestured with his chin. “Elevator’s over there.”

He stayed a half step in front as we crossed the lobby, looking very spiffy in his coat and tie, like a successful exercise-equipment importer or a high-end insurance executive. He didn’t look like a guy who could follow me for a week without my noticing. If he did, I probably would’ve noticed him.

In the elevator, he leaned against one wall with his arms crossed and I leaned against another, and neither of us looked at the other. Invisible lines. The elevator was quiet and still and somehow made closer by the faraway hum of the electric motors. It was a long way up to the top floor. I said, “How come I didn’t make you?”

He shrugged, still not looking at me. “I’m good at it. Also, I didn’t have to maintain continual contact. Once I knew where you were staying and where the woman lived and worked, it was easy.”

“You didn’t have to worry about losing me because you could always pick me up again.”

“Unh-hunh.”

I nodded. “I put the plane ticket and the Ho Jo on plastic. There were the phone calls charged to my office number in L.A.”

“You weren’t trying to hide. You didn’t expect anyone to look.”

I stared at him for about twelve floors. “Fed.”

Grady smiled. “Secret Service. Fourteen years.” He finally turned and looked at me. “I’m impressed you picked me up. I was back and I was loose. I don’t get picked up even when I’m living in the other guy’s shorts. You’re good.”

I spread my hands. Maybe Grady wasn’t so bad after all.