He fed the parking meter, ran across the street, and went to thenominal check-in desk. He identified himself and showed the uninterested youngman behind the counter the best image Jamil had been able to capture of the oldman. It showed him seated at the wheel of his car.
“Yeah, I know that guy,” the kid said, yawning.
“You do?” Trembley asked, stunned.
“I recognize the scar on his forehead. It’s pretty gnarly.”
“Where is he?” Trembley pressed, trying his best to hide the bubble ofexcitement in his stomach.
“I think he’s gone now,” the guy said. “He was here for the last coupleof nights but I saw him walk out earlier today with a bag.”
“He checked out?”
“I don’t know. It’s not always that formal here. A lot of people justgo. They’re supposed to sign the exit form but if they’re paid up, we don’treally sweat it.”
“How did he pay? Do you have his name? Which room was he in?”
The kid looked at him like he’d lost it and Trembley realized that his voicehad gotten loud. His enthusiasm was getting the better of him. He tried torecover.
“Sorry. Let’s go through those one at a time. How did he—?”
“He paid in cash,” the kid interrupted. “He was in room 203. It hasthree sets of bunk beds. He was a real pain about getting a bottom bunk. Imean, I get it, you’re old. I would have given you the bottom without youasking.”
“And the name?” Trembley asked, making sure to use his indoor voice.
“Give me a second,” the kid said, rifling through the log book. “Oh,here it is. His name is Garland Moses.”
Trembley felt a rippling cold go up his spine. If there had been anyquestion about it before, there was none now: it was the Night Hunter. Hewas back and he wanted people to know it. He seemed to be committing thesecrimes to intentionally get the attention of law enforcement, or maybe just oneparticular member of it.
It was time to let Ryan know what he’d found. He was just pulling outhis phone when the kid added one more offhand comment.
“If this guy did something illegal and you’re trying to ID him by hisfingerprints or something, you might want to check out his room now.”
“Why is that?”
“The cleaning crew just went up to the second floor to prep the roomsfor new arrivals,” the kid said. “They do a good job of wiping down all thesurfaces, which is great for guests but maybe not so much for cops who arelooking for evidence and stuff.”
“Thanks,” Trembley said, already running for the stairs. “Room 203,right?”
He didn’t wait for an answer as he bounded up the stairs and lookedaround. A woman with a cleaning cart was at the far end of the hall, near whatlooked to be a service elevator. He hurried past the bathroom and jogged overto her.
“Have you already cleaned the rooms on this floor?” he asked.
The woman looked confused and said something in Spanish that Trembleydidn’t get. He was about to try again when a girl in her late teens poked herhead out of the closest room.
“She doesn’t speak English,” she said. “You need a translator?”
“Yes, please,” Trembley said excitedly and waited for the two women tocomplete their exchange. When they were done, the young woman turned to him.
“She says she just started with the room across from me. She works herway down from the elevator to the stairs.”
“Thank you,” he said, before turning to the housekeeper and adding, “Gracias.”
The older woman smiled at him and began talking to the younger one inSpanish. Trembley let them be and walked down to room 203. As a precaution, heunfastened his gun holster but, because he didn’t want to freak out the womenat the end of the hall, waited until he was in the room to remove the weaponcompletely. The room was empty.
Just as the kid downstairs had said, there were three sets of bunkbeds. Several metal lockers rested against the far wall. There were no personaleffects to be seen, which wasn’t a huge surprise. This wasn’t the kind of placeto leave things lying around.
He walked over to the first bunk bed and lifted the sheets of thebottom one with a pen, hoping that maybe the occupant had left somethingbehind. He didn’t expect to find an ID, but a scrap of paper or even a usedtissue might be of use. There was nothing. He followed the same routine withthe other two bottom beds and came up equally empty.
He wasn’t really surprised. The Night Hunter hadn’t evaded capture forthis long by being sloppy. There was a chance he had left something in one ofthe metal lockers along the wall, but accessing those would require authorizationand he wasn’t sure if Hernandez wanted to alert anyone outside their circleabout the magnitude of this case. After all, Ryan was reluctant to even tellCaptain Decker about it.
He walked over to the window, which looked west toward the ocean. Itwas now too dark to see the water, but the bright lights from Pacific Park, thesmall amusement park on the Santa Monica Pier, were visible just beyond thehotels that faced the Pacific.
He stood on his tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the iconicsolar-powered Ferris wheel. As he did, he caught a flicker of movement behindhim in the window’s reflection. He was just starting to turn around when he sawthe flash of metal coming toward him. His brain had just identified it as anX-Acto knife when he felt it plunge into his neck.
He saw blood splatter against the wall and knew that it had hit hiscarotid artery even before he felt the pain. He started to lift his gun whenthe knife was pulled out and slammed back in a second time. This time the oldman with the scar on his forehead left it there.
Trembley felt his body slumping to the ground and tried to tell hisfinger to pull the trigger of his gun, anything to alert others. But the oldman’s hands were suddenly on his, disentangling his fingers from his weapon. Hedrooped against the wall, feeling
