foreign awards, whose display was authorized but not compulsory.
It was a very full coat, relatively old, well cared for,
standard issue, not privately tailored. Taken as a whole it told
me he was professionally vain, but not personally vain.
21
I went through the pockets. They were all empty, except for a
key to the rental car. It was attached to a key ring in the shape
of a figure 1, which was made out of clear plastic and contained
a slip of paper with Hertz printed in yellow at the top and a plate
number written by hand in black ballpoint underneath.
There was no wallet. No loose change.
I put the coat back in the closet and checked the pants.
Nothing in the pockets. I checked the shoes. Nothing in them
except the socks. I checked the hat. Nothing hidden underneath
it. I lifted the suit carrier out and opened it on the floor. It
contained a battledress uniform and an M43 field cap. A change
of socks and underwear and a pair of shined combat boots, plain
black leather. There was an empty compartment that I figured
was for the Dopp kit. Nothing else. Nothing at all. I closed it up
and put it back. Squatted down and looked under the bed. Saw
nothing.
‘Anything we should worry about?’ Stockton asked. I stood up. Shook my head.
‘No,’ I lied.
‘Then you can have him,’ he said. ‘But I get a copy of the
report.’
‘Agreed,’ I said.
‘Happy New Year,’ he said.
He walked out to his car and I headed for my Humvee. I
called in a 10-5 ambulance requested and told my sergeant to
have it accompanied by a squad of two who could list and pack
all Kramer’s personal property and bring it back to my office.
Then I sat there in the driver’s seat and waited until Stockton’s
guys were all gone. I watched them accelerate away into the fog
and then I went back inside the room and took the rental key
from Kramer’s jacket. Came back out and used it to unlock the
Ford.
There was nothing in it except the stink of upholstery cleaner
and carbonless copies of the rental agreement. Kramer had
picked the car up at one thirty-two that afternoon at Dulles
airport near Washington D.C. He had used a private American
Express card and received a discount rate. The start-of-rental
mileage was 13215. Now the odometer was showing 13513,
which according to my arithmetic meant he had driven 298
22
miles, which was about right for a straight-line trip between
there and here.
I put the paper in my pocket and relocked the car. Checked
the trunk. It was completely empty.
I put the key in my pocket with the rental paper and headed
across the street to the bar. The music got louder with every
step I took. Ten yards away I could smell beer fumes and
cigarette smoke from the ventilators. I threaded through
parked vehicles and found the door. It was a stout wooden item
and it was closed against the cold. I pulled it open and was hit in
the face by a wall of sound and a blast of thick hot air. The place
was heaving. I could see five hundred people and black-painted
walls and purple spotlights and mirrorballs. I could see a pole
dancer on a stage in back. She was on all fours and naked apart
from a white cowboy hat. She was crawling around, picking up
dollar bills.
There was a big guy in a black T-shirt behind a register
inside the door. His face was in deep shadow. The edge of a
dim spotlight beam showed me he had a chest the size of an oil
drum. The music was deafening and the crowd was packed
shoulder-to-shoulder and wall-to-wall. I backed out and let the
door swing shut. Stood still for a moment in the cold air and
then walked away and crossed the street and headed for the
motel office.
It was a dismal place. It was lit with fluorescent tubes that
gave the air a greenish cast and it was noisy from the Coke