"You didn't like him?"

"Smiled too much. Mom thought he was charming." He rolled his eyes again. "He was the kind of guy that, you know, women think are charming." Apparently to this kid charming was an epithet.

"Could Lindstrom have come back without you seeing him?"

"Hey, this ain't the Hyatt. Just a little strip motel. I can see every car from this office. Never saw his. Never saw him. The room was dark all evening, too."

"Sounds like you keep a close eye on the guests."

"Not much on TV last night. 'Course, all I got in here is this crummy little thirteen-inch set. Can't wait to get one of those high definition jobs. Gonna get one with a big screen- maybe forty-six inches. And a really dynamite surround sound system."

"Pay must be pretty good here."

The clerk scoffed. "Yeah, in my dreams. No, I'm not spendin' my life in this dump. I'm gonna get one of those high-payin' computer jobs."

"Know a lot about computers, do you?"

"I'm hell on those games, and I surf the Net all the time."

A regular computer prodigy, Nick thought in amusement. He'd better not count on getting that expensive television anytime soon. "How long has Lindstrom taken the room for?"

"He was paid up till noon today."

"Today!" Nick repeated. "Noon? It's eleven forty-five."

"Yeah." The clerk looked at him closely, obviously noting Nick's agitation. "What's the deal?"

"The deal is that if he hasn't paid for the room, I don't need a warrant to search it."

"That so? Cool! I'll get the key."

"Not yet. I'm waiting until noon. If I find anything incriminating, I don't want it thrown out of court because I searched the room fifteen minutes too soon."

"Incriminating evidence?" the clerk asked excitedly. "Hey, what's this guy done?"

"Maybe nothing. I can't discuss it." The clerk turned sullen until Nick said, "But if this does ever come to court, I might need you to testify that I didn't enter the room until after noon. You're my witness."

"Me, a witness? Cool!"

Twenty minutes later Nick entered Room 11 of the Lakeview Motel. "Need me to stand guard?" the desk clerk asked anxiously.

"Stand guard against what?"

"I don't know. Maybe Lindstrom will come back and go ballistic. I could protect you."

Nick looked at the teenager's reed-thin body, the narrow chest covered by a KISS tee shirt. Lindstrom was a couple of inches taller and at least twenty pounds heavier than this kid. "Your mother expects you to handle the desk, but you keep an eye on the room from the office," Nick said diplomatically. "If Lindstrom shows up, you come running."

"You bet!" the kid said happily. "I won't let you down."

Another Jimmy Jenkins, Nick thought. "Do you watch Street Life?" he asked impulsively.

"Never miss it. Eddie Salvatore is cool."

"Yeah. Well, you head back to the office. Thanks for letting me in."

Nick grinned as the kid loped off. Had he ever been that young and eager? Had he ever been that goofy? Yes to both, he decided.

Jeff Lindstrom's room didn't look as if the man had been preparing to leave. Jeans, denim shirts, and tee shirts were thrown over the two chairs pulled up to a circular table in front of the window. Papers lay on the table. Newpapers and photographs, Nick realized when he looked closer. Polaroids. Oliver Peyton's colonial. The Hunts' Cape Cod. The slightly modernistic stone home of Andrew St. John. Nick lingered over this one. The photo gave a clear view of the weeping willow where they'd found the cigarette butts and Marlboro package the night after Natalie had reported a Peeping Tom. Nick felt himself getting angry again and moved on. Viveca Cosgrove's white two-story. He frowned, holding it closer to the light. A pale figure stood in a second-floor window. She had waist-length blond hair and faced fully forward, smiling. She was naked.

Nick remembered Alison's references to sex after Tamara's funeral and Natalie's claim that Alison was fixated on Warren. Along with all her other problems, was Alison a nymphomaniac? Nick wondered. He flipped to the next photo. A shot of a townhouse apartment in a complex. He knew Lily Peyton lived here. Next was a huge, crumbling old house peeking from behind a shroud of ivy and overgrown shrubbery. He should know this place, but for the moment he was blank. A day shot of The Blue Lady dance pavilion. In the sunlight it looked even shabbier than at night. Last, a shot of Natalie on the patio with the dog. A garden hose lay beside her, and her long, shining hair hung over one shoulder as she ran a towel down the dog's side. An older woman stood in the doorway watching her.

Beside the photos lay a magnifying glass, an empty Coke can, a telephone book, and an ashtray holding three Marlboro cigarette stubs. The same kind of stubs as under the St. John weeping willow tree. No doubt Lindstrom had stood staring into Natalie's bedroom. Had he also entered the house, shredded Natalie's dress, and left a skull on the bed? If so, why? Was he trying to cook up more drama for the book he claimed to be writing?

Nick wandered around the room looking for anything interesting. A few toiletries in the bathroom. A copy of Bitter Blood by the bed. Maybe the guy really was serious about writing a true-crime novel like this one. A legal pad on the dresser with most of the paper torn away. The few remaining pages were blank.

He rifled through an open suitcase. Some underwear and socks. A copy of Penthouse. Next to the suitcase lay a briefcase. Luckily it was unlocked. Inside were two manila folders filled with newspaper clippings. The thinnest collection concerned the recent murders in Port Ariel. The other bore stories about the arrest, trial, and suicide of Eugene Farley.

Under the folders rested an address book. Nick flipped through it hurriedly. Apparently the guy didn't have too many friends. Most pages were empty. Then he came to the F section and an address jumped out at him: 224 Dobbin Street, Knoxville, KY. Knoxville? And the name above the address? Aunt Constance. Constance Farley lived in Knoxville.

"I'll be damned," Nick muttered. "Eugene Farley was Jeff Lindstrom's cousin."

"The contractor who renovated the kitchen last summer swears he gave back the spare set of house keys," Andrew told her. "Unfortunately, I can't find them."

"Do you remember him giving them back?" Natalie asked.

"No. But I was extremely busy at the time. I had a heavy load at the hospital, and this place was a mess with the remodeling. I just don't recall."

"Okay. Let's go talk to Harvey before the police do. I don't trust him to tell the police the truth."

It was just past noon and Harvey Coombs opened the door with a gin and tonic in his hand. "Andrew!" he boomed. "And Natalie! My goodness, you've grown a foot since I saw you last."

"Nonsense, Harvey," Andrew said. "You saw her just last year and she's been this height for over a decade." Harvey frowned in thought. Natalie wasn't sure whether he was trying to remember when he'd seen her or how many years were in a decade. "May we come in?"

"Hell, yes! The wife is at the grocery store. Or aerobics class. Or garden club. I think she invents places to go to get away from me." They trailed behind Harvey into a sun-filled living room where Dean Martin sang on the stereo. Natalie suddenly remembered that Harvey used to constantly sing Dean Martin songs, and when she was a child, he'd taught her "That's Amore."

"Still like Dean, Natalie?" he asked her.

"Sure. Such a mellow voice."

"Another Ohio native, you know. We went to high school together."

"Harvey, Dean Martin was over twenty years older than you," Andrew returned irritably.

"Oh, I must be thinking of someone else," Harvey said vaguely, then immediately brightened. "Get you something to drink? We have some nonalcoholic beverages around here for the little one."