“Little Andrew drives a white Porsche, right?”

“I guess.” Leetch frowned. “So?”

“Not the most discreet car for tailing someone.”

Leetch’s eyes brightened with a flicker of recognition. “No, it’s not.”

Cohen looked across the street. “And if our guy is the pro I think he is, he would’ve known Andrew was behind him.”

“He might have,” Leetch said, breaking into a grin.

Cohen pointed at the Econotravel Inn across the street. “If Andrew parked on Graham, he couldn’t have seen our guy walk out the other door and cross Twenty-fifth.”

“Not from Graham,” Leetch agreed. “Let’s go talk to the clerk.”

The Econotravel Inn was a slight step up from the Oregon Lodger. It had a similar, grimy lobby with an equally unidentifiable but unpleasant smell, but the skinny, nervous clerk behind the desk responded with far more deference to Leetch’s badge. Even before Leetch had finished his description, the boy was nodding vehemently. “I remember a guy just like that,” he said, his voice cracking. “Looked like a pimp, but he didn’t talk like one.”

“What does that mean?” Leetch asked.

“He was calm and quiet. Polite, even.” The clerk nodded continuously. “But he was wearing a track suit and chains and stuff.”

Cohen’s heart sped up. He tapped his fingers on the desk. “And the name?”

“T-something …” The clerk typed at his computer keyboard. “Taylor … Tison …” He read the names aloud. “Here it is,” he squeaked. “Dennis Tyler!”

“What did he leave for a room deposit?” Cohen asked.

“He paid in cash,” the clerk said.

“But don’t you take an imprint in case of incidentals?”

“That’s right. Yeah.” The clerk studied the screen. “He left a Visa card. Here it is. Name on the card is Dennis Lyndon Tyler. His address is in Fresno, California.”

But Cohen had no interest in the address. He knew it would be bogus. Just like the name was. But it gave them a starting point for tracking the suspect. After all, how many Dennis Lyndon Tylers could there be?

Cohen looked at his partner and smiled, appreciating that they had just stumbled unexpectedly upon the fresh tracks of a man who in all likelihood rarely left a trail behind.

28 - Honey Brook, Pennsylvania

28

Honey Brook, Pennsylvania

The man who once went by Dennis Tyler, but now claimed to be Wayne Forbes, stood in the fish-and-tackle section of a small sporting goods store. Aside from the reels and flies, the store also sold a wide assortment of hunting rifles and handguns. Despite his line of work, Forbes found his country’s obsession with firearms excessive. He saw no irony in his firm belief that guns were not a God-given right but should be limited to the domain of the professional.