I dialed the first number and a woman answered.

“I’d like to speak to Kenny,” I said.

“You must have the wrong number. There’s no Kenny here.”

“Is this the Colonial Grill?”

“No, this is a private number.”

“Sorry,” I said.

I had seven numbers to check out. The first four were exactly alike. All private residences. Probably clients. The fifth was pizza delivery. The sixth was St. Francis Hospital. The seventh was a motel in Bordentown. I thought this last one had some potential.

I gave Rex a corner of my sandwich, heaved a sigh at having to leave the warmth and comfort of my apartment, and shrugged back into my jacket. The motel was on Route 206, not far from the turnpike entrance. It was a cut-rate motel, built before the motel chains moved in. There were forty units, all ground floor, opening to a narrow porch. Lights shone from two. The neon sign at roadside advertised efficiencies available. The exterior was neat, but it was a foregone conclusion that the inside would be dated, the wallpaper faded, the chenille spread threadbare, the bathroom sink rust-stained.

I parked close to the office and hustled inside. An elderly man sat behind the desk, watching a small TV.

“Evening,” he said.

“Are you the manager?”

“Yep. The manager, the owner, the handyman.”

I took Kenny’s picture out of my pocketbook. “I’m looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

“Mind telling me why you’re looking for him?”

“He’s in violation of a bond agreement.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means he’s a felon.”

“Are you a cop?”

“I’m an apprehension agent. I work for his bonding company.”

The man looked at the picture and nodded. “He’s in unit seventeen. Been there for a couple days.” He thumbed through a ledger on the counter. “Here he is. John Sherman. Checked in on Tuesday.”

I could hardly believe it! Damned if I wasn’t good. “Is he alone?”

“So far as I know.”

“Do you have vehicle information?”

“We don’t bother with that. We got lots of parking space here.”

I thanked him and told him I’d hang around for a while. I gave him my card and asked that he didn’t give me away should he see Sherman.

I drove to a dark corner of the lot, shut the engine off, locked the windows, and hunkered down for the duration. If Kenny showed up I’d call Ranger. If I couldn’t reach Ranger, I’d go to Joe Morelli.

By nine o’clock I was thinking I might have chosen the wrong profession. My toes were frozen, and I had to pee. Kenny hadn’t materialized, and there was no activity at the motel to break the monotony of waiting. I ran the engine to warm things up and did some isometrics. I fantasized about going to bed with Batman. He was a little dark, but I liked the look of the codpiece on his rubber suit.

At eleven I begged the manager to let me use his bathroom. I mooched a cup of coffee from him and returned to Big Blue. I had to admit, while the wait was uncomfortable, it was immeasurably better than it would have been in my little Jeep. There was a feeling of encapsulation in the Buick. Sort of like being in a rolling bomb shelter with windows and overstuffed furniture. I was able to stretch my legs across the front bench seat. Behind me, the backseat had real boudoir potential.