“You’re not going to die, Bruce.”

“Yes,” Comafield said very quietly, his voice nearly singsong with the morphine. “I know I am. I feel it. I wish I could see Kirsten just one more time, but I know I can’t.”

And Bruce Comafield turned his head away.

Savich went back to Sherlock’s room, ordered her to stop moving around and lie still, no arguing, and listen. Then he said to her, Coop, and Lucy, “Let me tell you about a very strange and sad couple.”

CHAPTER 47

They spoke to Mr. Ricky Levine, skinny and tall, standing at attention behind the small reception counter of Handler’s Inn. Savich thought he could still be in high school, with the acne on his chin, his belt pulled tight to keep his tan uniform pants up. He was so nervous his hands shook when they introduced themselves. He kept chewing on his lower lip, and had a hard time meeting their eyes. No, he told them, no, really, he didn’t know a Mr. Bruce Comafield. He’d remember a dude saddled with a name like that. He offered to let them see that he wasn’t registered in the computer.

Lucy sidled up to him, all friendly face and sweet smile, so he wouldn’t drop over in a dead faint with Savich and Coop standing over him, that or start babbling nonsense.

“Mr. Levine, who did you give room one-fifty-one to late Monday night?”

Mr. Levine’s nervous fingers worked the computer keyboard. “Here it is—Mr. Cane. He checked in, said his wife was joining him later. Cane—Comafield. I see, that’s pretty close. Well, he seemed like a nice guy—young, you know? Yuppie-looking, had a gold credit card, I saw it in his wallet, even though he used cash to pay for the first night. I remember I asked him how long he was going to stay, and he said two, maybe three, days.”

“How late was it Monday night when he got here?”

“Wow, it was nearly one o’clock in the morning.”

Lucy nodded. So he and Kirsten had driven directly here from New York City. And she started partying the very next night.

Coop kept his mental fingers crossed. “Does the Handler have a policy of getting the license plate number?”

“Yes, we do, but I always go check myself, since guests never know. Mr. Cane drove a light blue Chevy Cobalt. Look here, the number’s by his registration. It’s a Maryland plate, that’s white, with black lettering, CTH six-two-five. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“That’s fantastic, Mr. Levine,” Lucy said and beamed at him.

Coop asked him, “Did you ever see his wife, Mr. Levine?”

Mr. Levine nodded. “They ate breakfast together the past two mornings here in our dining room. I eat when I come on duty, that’s one of my perks, and so I saw them. That’s how I know. She ate a bowl of prunes and a load of muffins. I remember that because she was so skinny and those muffins are loaded with fat. Go figure. As for Mr. Cane, he ate cereal, I believe, and a banana. More healthy. He looked really fit, a sharp dresser. I heard several of the waitresses talking about how cute he was, with his thick hair, and especially in his aviator glasses.”

“How did she look? How was she dressed, Mr. Levine, do you remember?”

“She had long blond hair, real thick, sort of curly, hanging down her back. She was wearing blue jeans and one of those skinny knit tops. That’s how I could tell she was so skinny. I thought it was kind of chilly out for that getup. She looked, well, arty, I guess you could say. She was wearing bloodred lipstick, I remember thinking exactly that, and her face was real white. I think it was makeup.”

Lucy said, “Do you remember anything else about them, Mr. Levine? Anything they did that was out of the ordinary?”

Ricky thought about that, then slowly nodded. “It was the oddest thing. I was doing a double shift last night. I happened to be looking outside and saw him walking to his car. Like I told you, most times I saw him, he was dressed really sharp. But last night he was dressed more like my brother the nerd, you know, down to the black thick-framed glasses, pants too short, showing his white socks, and this crappy tweed jacket? And he had this dorky hat pulled down low over his head. Then she came out; her blond hair was gone, so I knew it was a wig. Now her hair was all short and black, and she was wearing a red blazer. I wondered if they were going to a costume party—” Mr. Levine swallowed, looked like he was going to throw up.

“And what, sir?”

Ricky leaned forward on the counter. “Well, before they left, they came in here to buy some gum, and she looked me right in the face. I’ll tell you, that look of hers was real hinky, and then she licked her lips, like she wanted to stick a fork in me. It scared the bejesus out of me.”