Betsy, Jason, Tamara, and Powhatan. He’d have been happier not knowing their names, and happier still not knowing what they looked like. There were certain bare facts about the quarry it was useful to have, but everything else, all the personal stuff, just got in the way. It could be valuable to know that a man owned a dog-whether or not you chose to break into his home might hinge upon the knowledge-but you didn’t have to know the breed, let alone the animal’s name.

It made it personal, and it wasn’t supposed to be personal. Suppose the best way to do it was in a room in the man’s house, a home office in the basement, say. Well, somebody would find him there, and it would probably be a family member, and that was just the way it went. You couldn’t go around killing people if you were going to agonize over the potential traumatic effect on whoever discovered the body.

But it was easier if you didn’t know too much about the people. You could live easier with the prospect of a wife recoiling in horror if you didn’t know her name, or that she had close-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes and cute little chipmunk cheeks. It didn’t take too much in the way of imagination to picture that face when she walked in on the death scene.

So it was unfortunate that the man with the Archibald sign had shown him that particular photograph. But it wouldn’t keep him from doing the job at Hirschhorn’s residence any more than it would lead him to abort the mission altogether. He might not care what calibre gun he used, and he didn’t know that he took a craftsman’s pride in his work, but he was a professional. He used what came to hand, and he got the job done.

“Now I can offer you a couple of choices,” the desk clerk said. “Smoking or non, up or down, front or back.”

The motel was a Super 8. Keller went for nonsmoking, rear of the building, first floor.

“No choice on beds,” the clerk said. “All the units are the same. Two double beds.”