He could wait and shoot it out with him. He had seen Duarte in action and didn't necessarily want to risk that confrontation. He could forget it and head back to New Orleans, but that just put one problem off until later. Then he remembered the old army surplus grenades they had taken from the fat mechanic. He knew he'd find a purpose for the old ordnance. But this would have to work out perfectly.

The door to Ike's room was still open. He looked into the small room with its messy bed and noticed a back door. He walked through and saw that the old, creaky door opened onto a dilapidated tiny patio with thousands of cigarette butts in the grass surrounding the concrete. Pelly looked down the wall and saw that each patio was in the same shape. This was how they considered the room "nonsmoking."

He hustled back to his car and popped the trunk, grabbing two of the old grenades. Inside the apartment, he shut the front door and cut the strings to the curtains. He took another look outside and saw a communal gas grill in the rear of the middle room. He checked the area and then walked quickly to the grill. The tank felt like it was about half full. With a little effort, he had the tank loose and was back in the room. He set the tank a few feet behind the door and tied the grenades to the leg of the bed right behind the tank. He straightened the pins so they would slip out easily and then tied his last length of curtain cord through the grenade rings and to the door handle. When someone opened the door, there would be one hell of a blast.

He knew he couldn't just leave with this trap set. He left through the back door and visited his friend the maid again.

She didn't look surprised when he entered the room she was cleaning.

"What 'chu want now?" asked the old black woman.

"My friend, he left. But I have another hundred dollars for you."

"What I got a do?" She kept her clouded eyes on his face.

"Do not clean room one until I check back with you. Do not go in there."

"Uh-huh. And what else?"

"If anyone asks about the truck, give them a key to room one."

"For how long I gotta wait. They expect me to do the cleaning."

"I will return, if no one shows up in one hour." He handed her the five twenties. "Not bad for an hour of work."

She snatched the money like he might change his mind.

As he backed out of the room, he said, "Remember. No one goes into room one except if they ask who was in there."

"I ain't stupid. I heard you."

He smiled, feeling the hair bunch around his eyes. He slipped back to his car and pulled across the street into a mini-mart lot. Before he had stopped the car, he noticed the old Bronco rumble into the Cajun Inn.

He smiled at his timing.

34

ALICE BRAINARD HAD DONE ENOUGH WORK FOR THREE FORENSIC scientists since she'd arrived early at 6:55. By that time she had already worked out and had breakfast, or at least a protein shake. She was hustling because she didn't want to feel like her work for Alex Duarte had cost the county anything, especially after Scott Mahovich's remark about billing the ATF for his DNA work. What a dick.

As she concentrated on one more form, she heard a deep male voice at her office doorway.

"You look busy this morning."

She looked up and smiled at the tall, blond man in the Palm Beach County firefighter's uniform. "Hey, Jeff, what're you doing down here?"

The man, who had been the January photo for the firefighter's calendar the past three years, gave her one of his copyrighted smiles that melted most women and had a definite effect on Alice. "Doing a demo on unusual instruments we use, and had to pick up some things from the lab."

"What's that one?" She pointed at the small box with what looked like a microphone in his hand.

"An old-style Geiger counter."

"We had radioactive stuff?"

He switched on the instrument. "Here, I'll…" Before he could finish his sentence, the machine started to make a whooping alarmlike sound.

"Damn," he called out over the sound. "Usually the fire alarms have radioactive material, but it's weak. Never had 'em set this off so quick." He looked up and stepped away from her office to the alarm on the ceiling in the other room. As he did, the sound faded, then stopped.

He called into her. "Wasn't the fire alarm."

Alice heard the whopping again, then saw the object of several of her fantasies, Jeff Jacobus, step back into her office door.

"Alice, what've you got in here?"

She raised her own voice. "I have no idea."

As he stepped closer, the whooping raised in pitch. Next to her desk, the noise was almost shrill. He swept her desk and stopped near an empty bottle of Gatorade.

"I drank a radioactive Gatorade?"

He lifted the bottle with his free hand and swept the area again. "Nope. It's these pink papers."

She looked at the shipping invoices that Alex Duarte had used to secure the lock for fingerprints.

He looked at her, all traces of his charming smile gone. "Alice, where'd you get those papers?"

Duarte pulled into one of the many open slots in front of the rooms of the Cajun Inn. The Ryder step van was gone.

Félix said, "He couldn't have gotten too far. Let's look for him."

Duarte shook his head. "He could go in any direction. Let's see if it was really Floyd staying here."

They slipped out of the faded, old Bronco and turned toward the office. Duarte took a second to survey the area. He noticed one room door that was wedged open with a maid's cart.

"Hang on, Félix. Might be easier talking to the maid than the manager."

"Especially after the last prick manager we had to deal with."

Duarte motioned for Félix to stay there as he crossed the small lot to the open room. He called out as he approached the cart. "Hello."

After a few seconds, a short, elderly black woman popped her head out of the room.

"Office is up der." She pointed toward the front of the lot.

Duarte smiled. "I was wondering if I could ask you a question."

The woman perked up like she expected a question. She looked down the breezeway toward the first room.

"What 'chu wanna ask?"

"Do you know who drove the Ryder rental truck that was here?" He pointed to where he had seen the truck parked.

"I seen him. White man."

"Big fella from New Orleans?"

"I guess."

"Do you know what room he had?"

"Room one."

"Did he check out?"

"Yep."

Duarte hesitated. He could go to the office, but he would like to see if anything was left in the room.

As if reading his mind, the old woman said, "You wanna see the room?" She held up an old heavy metal key.

He took it and smiled. "I'll get it right back to you."

She nodded and turned back into the room.

Duarte waved his hand for Félix to wait as he checked the room. He could see in the open windows of each room as he walked down the breezeway. He stopped in front of room one and noticed the curtains were drawn and hanging a little funny.

The key slipped into the scarred door handle easily. He turned the handle, but paused. He had an odd sensation that everything wasn't as it should be. He shrugged off the feeling and slowly pushed open the door, aware of his SIG-Sauer P229 on his hip under the loose shirt.

Lázaro Staub sulked in his room, annoyed that Lina Cirillo was just a tease and not a woman who appreciated his position and power. He was not used to being rebuffed, especially by someone without the classic shape that he required from his women. She was built like an athletic man, not a full-breasted and luscious woman.