“I’ll drive by the motel a few times and do some reconnaissance. If there are hostiles in the parking lot, I’ll wait until they leave. If not, we can change our appearances and get the hell out of there.”

“Did you just use the words reconnaissance and hostiles?” said Erin in amusement.

Hansen laughed. “I thought you’d like that. I may not read your genre, but I don’t live in a cave. I have seen movies with military themes.”

“Those wouldn’t be the ones where Hasbro toys come to life, would they?”

“Nah. I’d never watch mindless stuff like that. If it doesn’t have subtitles and isn’t showing at an art house theater, I won’t go. It’s as simple as that. My favorites are arty French films with German subtitles.”

“Let me guess. You don’t speak a word of either language?”

“Good guess,” he replied with a chuckle.

Hansen knew they were wasting precious time on banter, but they were both under tremendous stress, and this was a way to defuse the tension a bit and continue to solidify the deep connection that was rapidly developing between them.

“Stay on the phone while you shop, so I can know exactly what you’re getting and make sure you get the right sizes. Knowing what you’ve bought will help me plot out the most efficient way for us to transform ourselves.”

“Sounds good.”

“I figure once you’re back, we should be able to get shorn, colored, tattooed, and clothed in less than ten minutes.”

“Roger that,” said Hansen with a heavy sigh.

30

RYAN BROCK WATCHED as his team left the vicinity of the Saguaro Inn to pursue other leads. He and the man he had chosen to partner with on this mission, Lieutenant Jim Blessinger, would be doing the same soon. But before doing so, he wanted to be absolutely certain he had left no stone unturned. The petite woman at the front desk, who had recognized Erin Palmer’s photo on TV, had told them that Erin had checked in, using an alias, paid in cash, and was now gone, not bothering to stop by the front desk when checkout time had rolled around just minutes earlier. A maid had been about to begin cleaning Erin’s room, but they had arrived in time to stop her, so nothing inside had been disturbed.

Erin Palmer could have left half an hour before they arrived or ten hours before. There was no way to tell.

According to the desk clerk, Erin had checked in alone. The clerk had also happened to see her return to the motel by cab, within an hour or so of when she had disappeared from their sight at the union. She had been alone this time as well.

This matched their expectations. She and Kyle Hansen would have almost had to have gone their separate ways to have any chance of slipping by them. And splitting up made by far the most sense strategically. Given her almost preternatural strategic abilities in this area, Brock was convinced they would split up and make things more difficult for them.

Brock had gained considerable respect for this girl, who continued to make seasoned veterans look like rookie assholes. He suspected she was long gone. There was always the chance the clerk had misidentified her, but given this guest’s arrival by cab, without bags, and payments in cash, he was convinced it really had been Erin Palmer.

So now he and Blessinger were in the room she had checked into, trying to find tea leaves to read: tiny balled-up pieces of paper with writing on them, a book of matches; anything.

The TV station that Erin had last watched was a local one. Brock wondered if she had seen herself on the screen. If so, she would be even harder to catch, since she would be more careful than ever. But it didn’t matter. The dragnet for her was so extensive she didn’t stand a chance. This wasn’t football, where a great defense could win the day. This was a game of cat and mouse. With five thousands cats. And a single mouse. Didn’t matter how clever a mouse, it was only a matter of time—and not much time at that.

Brock inspected the room with a fine-tooth comb but found nothing useful. It was time to go. Somehow they would catch her trail again. He took one last look around. Everything was neat and tidy, for the most part. A few towels had been used. And the sheets looked as though a war had been fought on them. But Brock didn’t doubt Erin Palmer had done a lot of tossing and turning before she had managed to fall asleep.

The outline of a small stain caught his eye on the cotton sheet, like a small bit of soda had been spilled and had left a faint, amorphous outline when it had dried. He tilted his head. It could have been a permanent feature of the sheet, but he doubted it.

Would water have left this kind of outline? Maybe. He hadn’t seen any spent soda bottles or other drinks. Had she tried to disguise herself? He knew nothing about dying hair, but perhaps she had spilled a clear ingredient in this process—maybe a base before the new color was applied. He had already turned over the sheets and the yellow-and-orange floral bedspread once to be sure nothing had been left in their folds, but he did so again, even more carefully this time. He found no other evidence that would suggest hair dye had been applied here.

He leaned over the bed and put his nose close to the faint outline on the bed. His eyes widened. What an idiot he had been. How could he be so fucking stupid?

“Jim, smell this and tell me what you think it is.”

Blessinger repeated Brock’s maneuver and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Jesus, Ryan. Really?”

“I’ll take that as a confirmation. It seems our little grad student got laid last night.”

“Yeah. No shit. But I would have taken your fucking word for it,” said Blessinger, looking toward the sink as though he wanted to scrub his nose with soap.

Brock ignored him. They had been careless. Just because the desk clerk had said Erin had checked in alone, didn’t mean she couldn’t have met up with Hansen later. Brock should have checked, just to be sure. Erin Palmer and Kyle Hansen had obviously joined up again here—in more ways than one. Very interesting.

“I’ll let the team know we think they’re traveling together,” said Blessinger. “And have become … good friends.”

“Do that,” said Brock. No matter what, they had uncovered useful information, but maybe he could get lucky. “While you’re calling the team, I’m going to talk to the desk clerk one more time. What was her name?”

“Whitney. You know, like the inventor of the cotton gin.”

“Really? That’s how you remember it?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Brock rolled his eyes. Minutes later he was sliding a tablet computer into the hands of the woman named Whitney at the front desk. “Have you ever seen this man?”

She studied the photo with a funny look on her face. “Yeah. He just checked in a little while ago.”

Brock thought he would jump out of his skin. “He checked in? Here? Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“No kidding,” he said, forcing himself to sound relaxed and barely interested. “What room did you put him in?”

She checked a computer. “Room one forty-eight.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. I think he might have walked here—I don’t know from where. Then, after he checked in, he came back and gave me a whole routine about losing his phone, and needing to check a few urgent e-mails. He practically begged me to let him use a computer for five minutes.”

“Interesting,” said Brock, trying to hide his eagerness. “I assume you let him.”

“Yes.”

“The computer he used,” said Brock. “Has anyone used it since he did?”

Whitney shook her head.

“Can I see it?” asked Brock.

Whitney led him through the desk area into a small office. Brock worked the mouse and within seconds had the recent browsing history for the computer up on the screen. He smiled as he clicked on the last page Hansen had viewed. It showed a used car for sale, a blue Chevy Malibu long past its prime. It was quite an eyesore. But to Brock it was the most beautiful sight he had seen in quite some time.