“Dawndue,” came the quiet birdcall. He sprayed Benadryl on the rash on his left arm.
The doorbell rang.
“Open!”
Desmond Sawicki walked inside, slight and skinny as Moll was large and thick. Another difference between them: Moll always wore a suit, while his occasional partner preferred casual. Today, a tan windbreaker like a golfer might wear on a cool spring day, dark slacks. They both had abundant hair. Moll’s was brown, Desmond’s dirty blond and longish and slicked back with lotion. Hand cream, Moll believed. The thirty-eight-year-old might have been an aging surfer, if Ferrington had not been a thousand miles from the nearest wave.
“You alone?” Desmond asked, looking around.
“I am.”
Desmond seemed to want more but Moll did not accommodate.
“Where you been?” Moll asked. A gloss of irritation. “We’re late.”
“Had to finish something.”
Probably involved a woman. Desmond had this habit.
“Any food?” He walked into the kitchen.
“No time. The job. Got to move.”
“Coffee at least?”
“To go.”
Desmond returned, sipping brew as beige as his jacket. Moll smelled cigarette. He himself had never smoked but he’d heard it was very addictive.
“What is with that?” Desmond said, eyeing the man’s red skin. “It’s still there.”
“It will get looked at.” He didn’t want to talk about the crimson flesh either.
They walked out the door to Moll’s Ford Transit, as convenient a vehicle as Detroit had ever created.
As they climbed inside he noticed Desmond was frowning, thoughtful. He was muttering, “I don’t know.”
Was he troubled about today’s job?
Desmond was fine killing a meth cooker, an Oxy dealer, a whistleblower, a witness about to turn evidence—those were all in a day’s work. But Moll wasn’t sure if he had ever killed an innocent female. Was this going to be a problem? He had to find out. Right up front.
“So. What’s with the mope?” Moll asked.
“I don’t know,” the man repeated and gave a shrug. “Afterward, fried chicken? Or Chinese? I just can’t decide.”
Moll considered. “Barbecue. That new rib place on Castle Drive.”
Desmond brightened considerably. “Oh, yeah. Good call.”
13
There.”
Colter Shaw nodded out the window of Nilsson’s burgundy Range Rover. He was indicating Coz-EE-Suites, a pleasant-enough motel on the outskirts of Ferrington.
The tracker that Lenny Caster had stuck in the wheel well of Paul LeClaire’s Toyota had led the pair here. Probably believing police were surrounding his home, the IT man was on the run.
The device had led them only to this wing of the motel, but his room number was easy to deduce. His car sat in front of room 104, the only occupied one on this wing.