Curious amount. “Thanks.”

Click.

Livingston. Horace Slaughter had been in Livingston. Myron replayed the theory that had been rumbling in his head since last night. It was looking better and better.

By the time he got back to his house, Brenda was showered and dressed. The cornrows in her hair cascaded down her shoulders in a wondrous dark wave. The café con leche skin was luminous. She gave him a smile that corkscrewed right through his heart.

He wanted very much to hold her.

“I called Aunt Mabel,” Brenda said. “People are gathering at her house.”

“I’ll drop you off.”

They said good-bye to Mom. Mom warned them sternly not to talk to the police without an attorney present. And to wear seat belts.

When they got in the car, Brenda said, “Your parents are great.”

“Yeah, I guess they are.”

“You’re lucky.”

He nodded.

Silence. Then Brenda said, “I keep waiting for one of us to say, ‘About last night.’ ”

Myron smiled. “Me too.”

“I don’t want to forget it.”

Myron swallowed. “Neither do I.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Decisiveness,” she said. “I love that in a man.”

He smiled again and turned right on Hobart Gap Road.

Brenda said, “I thought West Orange was the other way.”

“I want to make a quick stop, if you don’t mind.”

“Where?”

“The Holiday Inn. According to your father’s charge cards, he was there a week ago Thursday. It was the last time he used any of his cards. I think he met someone for a meal or drinks.”

“How do you know he didn’t stay overnight?”

“The charge was for twenty-six dollars even. That’s too low for a room yet too high for a meal for one. It’s also a straight twenty-six dollars. No cents. When people tip, they often round off. Best guess is that he met someone there for lunch.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Myron gave a half shrug. “I have the photograph of Horace from the paper. I’m going to show it around and see what happens.”

On Route 10 he made a left and pulled into the Holiday Inn lot. They were less than two miles from Myron’s house. The Holiday Inn was a typical two-level highway motel. Myron had last been here four years ago. An old high school buddy’s bachelor party. Someone had hired a black hooker aptly named Danger. Danger put on a supposed “sex show” far closer to freaky than erotic. She also handed out business cards. They read: “FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL DANGER.” Original. And now that Myron thought about it, he bet that Danger was not even her real name.

“You want to wait in the car?” he asked.

Brenda shook her head. “I’ll walk around a little.”

The lobby had prints of flowers on the wall. The carpet was pale green. The reception desk was on the right. A plastic sculpture that looked like two fish tails stuck together was on the left. Serious ugly.

Breakfast was still being served. Buffet-style. Dozens of people jockeyed about the spread, moving as though choreographed—step forward, spoon food onto plate, step back, step right, step forward again. Nobody bumped into anyone else. Hands and mouths were a blur. The whole thing looked a bit like a Discovery Channel special on the anthill.

A perky hostess stepped up to him. “How many?”

Myron put on his best cop face, adding just a hint of a smile. From his Peter Jennings line—professional yet accessible. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have you seen this man?” Just like that. No preamble.

He held up the photograph from the newspaper. The perky hostess studied it. She did not ask who he was; as he had hoped, his demeanor made her assume that he was someone official.

“I’m not the one to ask,” the hostess said. “You should speak to Caroline.”

“Caroline?” Myron Bolitar, Parrot Investigator.

“Caroline Gundeck. She was the one who had lunch with him.”

Every once in a while you just get lucky.

“Would that have been last Thursday?” he asked.

The hostess thought about it a moment. “I think so, yeah.”

“Where can I find Miss Gundeck?”

“Her office is on level B. Down at the end of the corridor.”

“Caroline Gundeck works here?” He’d been told that Caroline Gundeck has an office on level B, and just like that he’d deduced that she worked here. Sherlock reincarnated.

“Caroline’s worked here forever,” the hostess said with a friendly eye roll.

“What’s her title?”

“Food and beverage manager.”

Hmm. Her occupation was not enlightening—unless Horace had been planning to throw a party before his murder. Doubtful. Nonetheless, this was a solid clue. He took the steps down to the basement and quickly found her office. But his luck did not hold. A secretary informed him that Miss Gundeck was not in today. Was she expected? The secretary would not say. Could he get her home number? The secretary frowned. Myron did not push it. Caroline Gundeck had to live in the area. Getting her phone number and address would be no problem.

Back in the corridor Myron dialed information. He asked for Gundeck in Livingston. Nothing. He asked for Gundeck in East Hanover or the area. Bingo. There was a C Gundeck in Whippany. Myron dialed the number. After four rings a machine picked up. Myron left a message.

When he came back up to the lobby, he found Brenda standing alone in a corner. Her face looked drained, her eyes wide as though someone had just poked her hard in the solar plexus. She did not move or even glance his way as he approached.

“What is it?” he asked.

Brenda gulped some air and turned to him. “I think I’ve been here before,” she said.

“When?”

“A long time ago. I don’t remember really. It’s just a feeling … or maybe I’m just imagining. But I think I was here as a little kid. With my mother.”

Silence.

“Do you remember—”

“Nothing,” Brenda interrupted him. “I’m not even sure it was here. Maybe it was another motel. It’s not like this one is special. But I think it was here. That weird sculpture. It’s familiar.”

“What were you wearing?” he tried.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“What about your mother? What was she wearing?”