“Look, I don’t know where the fuck he came from or why he’s suddenly doing business in my neighborhood,” Nagle said defensively. “Besides, in any market it’s important to keep tabs on the competition.”

“‘In any market.’ You’re priceless.” Leetch rolled his eyes. “So how did you ‘keep tabs’ on your competition?”

“I followed him for a while.”

“Followed him where?” Cohen asked.

“He loaded into this black SUV,” Nagle said. “I tailed him back to his hotel.”

Cohen felt a rush. “Which hotel?” he asked quietly.

“A little dump off Twenty-fifth and Graham,” Nagle said. “The Lodger or something.”

Cohen stared hard at Nagle. “Andrew, are you sure that’s where he went?”

“I saw him pull up to a spot right in front. Then he walked through the front door.”

Leetch cocked his head. “And you did what?”

“I hung around outside for a while,” Nagle said. “I was thinking of having a talk with him, but then I saw a cop car pull up to the Denny’s beside the hotel. So I fucked off.”

Cohen glanced at Leetch, and they shared a slight nod. “Okay, Andrew, we’re going check out this hotel, but if you’re lying …” Leetch let the threat hang unfinished.

“I’m not,” Nagle snapped.

Without another word to him, Cohen and Leetch got up and walked out of the condo. They headed out to Leetch’s car and drove over to Twenty-fifth and Graham. On the northeast corner stood The Oregon Lodger, a dumpy-looking three-story brick building that Cohen assumed from the outside alone wouldn’t have earned a single star from AAA. They pulled up in front of the main entrance on Graham Street.

Cohen followed Leetch into the lobby. The place smelled of cheap deodorizer. The linoleum floors were stained and curling up at the edges. Behind the desk, a fat bored-looking man in a polyester blazer and tie flipped through a newspaper. “You boys looking for a room?” he asked without looking up from his paper.

“Us boys are looking for someone,” Leetch said, flashing his detective’s badge to the unimpressed clerk. “We think he would have stayed a couple days, but he might’ve checked out two or three days ago.” Leetch went on to describe the dark man with the frosted hair.

When he finished, the fat man shook his head. “Nope.”

“You want to think about it,” Leetch said, irritated.

“Don’t need to,” the man grunted. “I got thirty-two rooms in this place. I’m here six days a week. I know the guests. And I never saw the guy you just described. Believe me, he didn’t stay here.”

Deflated, Cohen glanced around the lobby. He saw a smaller door leading out to Twenty-fifth Avenue. Without a word, he walked out and stood on the street in the warm sunshine.

A moment later, Leetch joined him. “What’s up, KC?” Leetch asked.