Again, Lou found himself speculating on how Burke might escape the hotel, and wondering if it would be wise to go after him. Again, the internal debate ended quickly. Alexander Burke was a man to stay away from unless Cap’s life or Humphrey’s depended on bringing him down.

“No worries,” Lou said to the desk clerk. “It only did it once. Just wanted you to know.”

From the corner of his eye, Lou saw some would-be rescuers making their way in from the pool, and hurried off. In spite of himself, he ignored the mismatch of a soaking wet doc versus a heavily armed killer, and skidded to a stop at the elevators. There were four of them, two on each side of the bay. All were in use, but none of them was on the sixth floor. At that moment, his common sense took over. It was doubtful Burke was anywhere near the sixth floor. He could have taken the stairs or gone out a service entrance. Either way, he had the notebook. The Neighbors would want it ASAP, and Lou would most likely be put on his to-do list.

Lou avoided the front desk and Reynaldo, and hurried out the revolving doors. The rain had largely abated, but the wind remained, along with a thick band of humid air that gave his sodden clothes the heft of a suit of armor. Ignoring the uniformed doorman, Lou climbed into a cab that was idling on the hotel’s circular driveway.

The cab lurched forward, and the driver, an African American man with a congenial smile, glanced over his shoulder.

“Going to the aquarium?” he asked.

“That was pretty funny.”

“I have my moments.”

The cabbie slowed, waiting for instructions.

Stubborn to the last, Lou was still scanning for Burke.

“Just drive,” he said.

“Your dime.”

There was reason to be hopeful, Lou was thinking. Horrible as it was, it was telling that Burke killed the home health aide, but not Humphrey. One Hundred Neighbors were frantic. According to Cap’s doctors, the germ had mutated. It could be the Neighbors had lost their leverage to negotiate with Washington, but were keeping that fact secret for as long as possible. Assuming their treatment was no longer effective, it made no sense that Humphrey was dead.

Lou removed his sodden wallet from his pants pocket and gave the driver the address to the FBI’s Atlanta field office.

“Do you have a cell phone I could borrow?” he asked.

The driver looked at Lou through his rearview mirror.

“You’re not going to call a girlfriend in Canada, are you?” His laugh was genuine.

“No, I’m going to call my brother at the FBI,” Lou said, deadpan.

The man’s expression turned serious.

“Oh, well, in that case…”