Identity

“Smooth and level, thanks. It was fun. Was it fun?”

“It was. Even the new and soon-to-be-forgotten girl had fun. You could have squashed that for her. You didn’t.”

“She didn’t mean to be critical. She was surprised. It never occurred to her a grown woman—several years older than she is—would choose to live with her mother, much less her grandmother. Liam obviously didn’t fill her in.”

“It’s your business, not hers, so no, he wouldn’t.”

“I appreciate that. And I appreciate you putting up with me today. I know I was a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, you were.” He liked her quick, easy laugh. “You should make it up to me.”

“I can try. What did you have in mind?”

“What I had in mind this morning when you were too busy being a pain in my ass.”

“I see.” She rose, then straddled him on the chair. “I guess it’s the least I can do.”

“It won’t be the least when we’re finished.”

He rose with her so she linked her long legs around his waist. “We should call the dog in.”

“He has to finish his last patrol. He knows how to get in when he’s ready.”

“Can we do this again sometime?”

“Absolutely not,” he said as he carried her inside, “if I have to fold napkins.”

“You can be excused from that duty.”

“In that case, I’ll give you a chance to persuade me.”

“Miles.” She nuzzled at the side of his neck, sparked little fires in his blood. “You’re so good to me.”

He intended to be.





Chapter Twenty-six



Ten days after Gavin Rozwell left a crappy motel room to drive into the rain-soaked dark, Beck and Morrison worked in a less crappy motel room while rain pounded the night.

They’d pinned maps on the walls, marked trails they’d followed, trails local PDs and staties had followed. They’d highlighted confirmed sightings in red, possibles in yellow.

Along with the maps, they had photos and descriptions of stolen vehicles they’d traced to Rozwell, separated them into recovered and not recovered.

They had photos of the last motel room in Oregon, statements from the not-very-interested desk clerk, statements from the goggling-with-interest waitress who’d served him the fried chicken special in the rinky-dink diner squatting beside the motel.

They had the statement of the clerk at the Quick Mart—who’d smelled of pot and despair—where Rozwell had bought a six-pack of Coke Zero, a family-size bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, and half a dozen Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

They had the rattletrap Ford pickup, flat tire, no spare—with his prints all over it—abandoned on a back road outside of Fall City, Washington. And the description of a Dodge Ram reported stolen from a driveway less than half a mile from the Ford.

All leads pointed north.

“We tracked him back to the motel outside of Alpine in Oregon because of the mini-mart stop. Got him on camera there.”

Beck paced back and forth in front of their makeshift evidence board while Morrison worked on their nightly report.

Beck wore a sleeveless tee and drawstring cotton pants that served her for these late-night sessions and for sleeping.

In the past three weeks they’d had a scant forty-eight hours back in Baltimore in their home office, including two nights in their own beds.

In lieu of a desk, Morrison used a side table about the size of a manhole cover where he tapped away on his laptop. His reading glasses—picked up at a Walmart after he sat on his last pair—kept sliding down his nose.

“Why’d he go into the mini-mart?”

Morrison looked up, over the half rims. “Because he wanted sugar and carbs for the road.”

“It’s under ten miles from the motel. The motel has vending machines. But he doesn’t get his fix there, he goes into the mart, and he damn well knows they’ll have the camera on checkout.”

“Mostly luck we hit on that wit in the first place.”

“Can’t argue there, but it led us to the motel, and it gave us the truck he ditched in the parking lot in Molalla. Still Oregon but clearly heading north. Major airport in Salem, but he doesn’t ditch it there, so we find it pretty damn easy.”

Morrison rubbed his eyes, made the cheaters bounce. “Nothing about this is easy.”

“But look. North.” She began tapping the map. “Clear trail. Yeah, yeah, it winds a bit, but always north. Into Washington, and it sure as hell looks like he might be looking to slip over the border into Canada, or find a way to get to fricking Alaska.”

Morrison took the cheaters off, tapped them on the knee of his faded dad jeans as he studied the map. “We’re not digging up the bread crumbs. We’re just picking them up along the way.”

“That’s right. Has he gotten that sloppy, Quentin? Do we think he’s dropping clues like rose petals for us?”

“Could be. He’s rattled. We know he’s rattled. Staying in dumps, driving pieces of shit. Porking up, too, according to witness statements. He’s rattled and running. But…”

Now Beck nodded. “But.” She sat on the side of the bed, folding her legs under her. “I’ve had this feeling, and it’s getting stronger, he’s playing us. That truck we found yesterday? It’s like a goddamn neon sign pointing north.”

Morrison rose now, stretching his back till it cracked. Oh, how he missed his extra-firm mattress in Baltimore.

“After he missed with Morgan,” Morrison began, “he went essentially a year without a kill.”

“That we know of,” Beck qualified.

“That we know of. Going by what we do know, he hasn’t had a kill since Myrtle Beach. He’d picked up the pace there—Arizona, New Orleans, Myrtle Beach. Three kills inside six months.”

“He had to make up that lost time, that lost year.” She stepped to the big map, tapped Arizona. “He planned this one, took his time, getting back in the swing.”

“But Dressler in New Orleans. That was of the moment, impulse, a loss of control. That was release, so sloppy.”

“He had to follow up, get his rhythm back. He took some time, yes, with the victim in Myrtle Beach, bagged a solid payday. But still, Quentin, without his usual precision. Slipping up on the tracking in the Mercedes, back to sloppy. He lost that precision, what he thinks of as his elegance, with Nina Ramos.”

“And now he’s slowed down again. He lost most of his fancy tools, all the IDs he’d generated, and he’s been on the run since Missouri. So he’s rattled, out of his element, screwing up. But…”

Again, Beck nodded. “He’s also pissed off. And who’s to blame for all of it?”

“Morgan Albright—Nash,” Morrison corrected. “And us.”

“And us. He could get a little payback having us chase the wild goose.”

“Do you think he’s going after Nash?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, not when he knows we’re on his trail. He has to feel us behind him. Do you?”