“Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem. Now, the car. You shouldn’t have any trouble with it. You got a full tank of gas and she’s got eighteen hundred miles before she’s due for an oil change.”

“That’s comforting.”

There was more about the car — how to adjust the seats, the tendency of one of the trouble lights to go on for no good reason — but Keller hadn’t paid much attention. The fellow took the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Keller, and Keller asked him how he was planning to get home.

“I go home,” he said, “and I got my wife to deal with. I’d rather go someplace else, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I meant—”

“Hell, I know what you meant. See that beat-up Monte Carlo over there? That’s my ride, just waiting for me. Now you could go to the front desk if you wanted, but there’s no need. Room 204’s on the second level, and you can just take those outside stairs right over there.”

Suitcase in hand, gun in pocket, Keller mounted the stairs and found his room. He stuck the key in the lock and turned for a look at the Monte Carlo, which hadn’t moved. He opened the door and went inside.

It was a pretty nice room, with a good-size television set and a king-size bed. The framed prints on the wall were easy enough to ignore. The air conditioner was set a little on the chilly side, but he left it alone. He sat on a chair for five minutes, and when he drew the drapery aside and looked out the window, the Monte Carlo was gone.

Half an hour later he was across the street in a booth at Denny’s, with his suitcase on the seat opposite him. He had a patty melt on rye with a side of well-done french fries, and he had to admit it was pretty good. The coffee was not going to put Starbucks out of business, but it was decent enough for him to take the waitress up on her offer of a second cup.