“He went to South Carolina?” Weston said. “Well, he never said anything about that to me. Are you sure?”

“Did he have any friends or acquaintances there?” I repeated patiently. I doubted Wayne Weston had been sharing many things with his father, but apparently the idea came as a surprise to the old man.

“Well, sure,” John Weston said. “Randy Hartwick. I told you about him already.”

“You did?”

“It’s all in the damned notebook,” he snapped. “That’s why I spent all that time writing everything down, so you’d have the information in front of you and you wouldn’t have to waste time calling me with every damn question that came up.”

I grabbed the notebook and flipped through it quickly. There was Randy Hartwick, listed under the “Friends” category. He was Wayne Weston’s old Marine Corps buddy, but in the notebook it said he lived in Florida.

“I see his name here,” I said, “but it says he lives in Florida.”

“It’s Myrtle Beach,” Weston said irritably, probably more upset with his own mistake than with my comment. “All those damn beach-town tourist-trap shitholes are the same to me.”

“Understandable. Have you heard anything from Mr. Hartwick recently?”

“No. I called and left a message with him about the funeral, because… well, because it just didn’t seem right to put Wayne in the ground without Randy there. I never heard back from him, though.” He said it carefully, like he was trying to keep any trace of bitterness from his voice, but he didn’t completely succeed.

“I see. Did Mr. Hartwick and your son remain close after their Marine days?”

“Very close. Wayne went on fishing trips with him every year. Wayne told me that-outside of family, of course-the only man alive he trusted completely was Randy Hartwick. He said he’d trust his life to that son of a bitch in a heartbeat, no hesitation, no regrets. That’s how it has to be in combat, you know. You have to have that loyalty.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, not anxious to hear another of John Weston’s loyalty speeches. He should have stayed in the military. He’d have made a hell of a general. “In the notebook, you wrote that Mr. Hartwick worked for a resort hotel. Do you know what he did there?”

“He had the security contract for one of those big hotels. You know, he installed alarms and cameras, provided guards, all that crap. It was one of those fancy resorts.”

“Do you remember the name?”

“Shit.” He grunted, and the line was silent for a while as he thought about it. “Golden Palms, maybe? No, that’s not it. Not the Palms. Dammit. What the hell was the name of it? Golden Beaches, Golden Palms. Something like that.”

“I’ll check it out and see if I can find anything close,” I said.

“Good.”

“Well, that’s all I had to ask you, sir. I’m going to try to track Mr. Hartwick down now. We’ll be in touch soon.”

“I hope so,” he said, the words barely audible, the typical gruffness and command absent from his voice. “I hope so.”

I hung up and looked at Joe. “I’ve got our Myrtle Beach connection.”

“Who is it?”

“Randy Hartwick,” I said. “He served in Wayne Weston’s Force Recon battalion. Apparently, they were together from boot camp at Twenty-nine Palms all the way through Recon training and then went into the same unit. That’s what it says in the notebook, at least. On the phone, John Weston told me Hartwick was the only man his son truly trusted. Said Wayne would have put his life in the man’s hands without hesitation.”

Joe listened with interest. “And Weston visited Hartwick just before he died,” he said.

“Possibly. We don’t know that for sure, but it’s likely. John Weston said Hartwick was the head of security for a resort in Myrtle Beach. He hasn’t heard anything from Hartwick, even though he called to tell him what had happened and to ask him to attend the funeral.”

“You think the guy in the Oldsmobile was Hartwick?”

“Could be.”

“So what’s he doing up here pretending to be a cop?”

“According to John Weston, there was some pretty fierce loyalty between his son and Randy Hartwick. Maybe Hartwick came up here to find out who killed his buddy, or maybe to find out what happened to the wife and daughter.”

“He comes up here to investigate that, but he doesn’t bother to contact John Weston while he’s in town? He doesn’t even show up for the funeral?”

I closed the notebook and tossed it onto the desk. “That bothered me, too.”

“Look for the hotel,” Joe said. “I want to move on this guy fast. If he’s the man who has been talking to the neighbors and watching the Russians, he might have a whole lot of answers.”

I returned my attention to the computer and did a few simple keyword searches for “Myrtle Beach,” “hotel,” and “Golden.” It didn’t take me more than five minutes to find a match. The Golden Breakers Resort in Myrtle Beach boasted a five-star rating, luxurious suites, a rooftop restaurant, hot tubs, pools, an exercise room, a sauna, and even a 422-foot “Lazy River” for children to float down. I located the phone number for the resort and called it.

“Hi,” I said when a friendly clerk answered, “I was just about to fax something to you, but I lost the number. Could you give it to me?”

She happily obliged, and as she read the number off I compared it to the one Sortigan had been given. A match. I thanked the clerk, hung up, and looked at Joe.

“The Golden Breakers,” I said. “Sortigan faxed the information to Weston at that number. I’m fairly certain we’ll find the resort is also Randy Hartwick’s employer.”

“Call back and ask for Hartwick,” Joe instructed.

I did so.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hartwick is out of town,” the clerk informed me after putting me on hold briefly.

“Out of town?” I repeated, and Joe looked over and gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Do you know where he went, or when he’ll be back?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Damn,” I said, feigning heavy disappointment. “I really need to speak with him today. I’m afraid a very close friend of Randy’s passed away, and I know he’ll want to be notified as soon as possible. Is there any way you could help me get in touch with him?”

“Oh, that’s awful,” she said with sympathy that sounded so genuine I felt bad. “Mr. Hartwick has a cell phone. I don’t know the number, but if you give me ten minutes I could probably find out.”

“That would be great.” I gave her the office number, and she promised to call back.

I had hung up and turned to Joe, ready to explain the phone call, when someone knocked on the door. We both looked at it, then nodded at each other, expecting to see Swanders and Kraus, or possibly Cody.

“Come in,” Joe said.

The man who entered wasn’t Swanders, Kraus, or Cody, but Joe seemed to recognize him. I’d never seen him before.

“What brings you here, Mr. Kinkaid?” Joe said, getting to his feet and offering his hand. “This is my partner, Lincoln Perry. Lincoln, this is Aaron Kinkaid. He used to work with Wayne Weston.”

I shook hands with the visitor. Kinkaid was a tall guy, at least six-four, with a slender build and dark red hair. A few freckles spotted the bridge of his nose, drawing attention to the stark contrast of his red hair and green eyes. He had enormous hands, hands that could palm a basketball the way most people could hold a softball. His tall, rangy build, red hair, and freckles made me think of a farm boy, but he had to be nearing forty.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. His voice had a slight drawl to it, a languid delivery that enhanced the farm-boy image. He sat down and clasped his big hands together, then frowned and stared at his shoes.

“I’m afraid I have something to say that you’re probably not going to like, Mr. Pritchard,” he said. Joe raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. “You see,” Kinkaid continued, “I wasn’t completely honest with you when you came over to Sandusky to talk with me. But I’d like to make it up to both of you. What I mean is, well, if you’d be willing, I’d like to work with you.”