the furnishings of transience come in all economic levels. It would have been depressing to someone without Grady’s skill in overlooking what he didn’t want to see. In the dorm he’d ignored mail, shirts, slacks that needed a trip to the laundry room, and half-empty food wappers that drove the guys next to him crazy, and finally the ants. Mere bland wouldn’t have fazed Grady Hummacher. He would be in and out too fast to care. His mind would be on skiing, rock climbing, women, and getting back to where the action was.
That’s what he knew about Grady Hummacher. He had assured Adcock that his insight into Grady would make up for being a babe-in-the-woods private eye. Well, that bit of knowledge was not going to make this no-thought apartment tell him Grady’s secrets. You check the bedroom, the bathroom, the phone pad, the computer, Kiernan had once said when he’d asked about starting a search. See if you can tell when the subject was last here.
He moved quickly into the bedroom, the thick tan carpet nearly trampolining him. It had been over ten years since he’d seen Grady for more than a quick drink when he ran into him at McCarran Airport last month, but if the guy had changed, nothing of it manifested in this room. Grady was in his mid thirties now, but the room screamed “teenager.” The bed was a whirl of sheets and blankets. It looked as if it had been made—this type of place had to have maid service—but Grady had managed to rumple and crunch the covers as much as a guy could without actually getting beneath them. Had he napped on top, stirred up the covers as he unloaded his gear, or had a lady on call as he deplaned?
Tchernak grinned. Grady was good, but he doubted he was that good. No, more likely Adcock’s fear was right. Grady had picked up some bug in Panama and he’d grabbed a catnap before heading out to—wherever.
The dresser drawers were closed. Tchernak grinned as he pulled one open and confirmed his suspicion. Nothing in them. Closet: empty.
On the floor on the far side of the bed he found a backpack/suitcase half disemboweled. He could “see” Grady hunting for something on the bottom, yanking a yellow polo shirt half out, leaving it hanging like a pineapple leaf as his hand dove in again. Tchernak nodded at the garment bag, unopened on a chair, the LAS tag for McCarran Airport still on the handle. Dated Friday, eight days ago.
Eight days, a long time to put off unpacking, even for Grady.
Tchernak moved into the bathroom. Towels were in a wad on the floor. So Grady’d come from the airport, taken a shower. His shaving kit was open, but his toothbrush wasn’t visible. If he had used it, it would still be on the sink. Tchernak smiled again, recalling a guy on Grady’s hall saying that Grady’s gear—suitcases, shaving kit—were like archeological digs. You didn’t need carbon dating for any one of Grady’s belongings, you just needed to see how far down it was. The toothbrush was not part of most recent civilization.
But if he’d tossed around on the bed, dragged himself up, and taken a shower, he’d have brushed his teeth. Even Grady. And the maid would have straightened the bed. So—Logical Conclusion Number One—-Grady was here since the maid was. Even if she came only once a week, that meant Grady had left here Monday night at the earliest.
Left with what? Did the guy have another set of suitcases standing ready for a second trip? Tchernak picked up the duffel, emptied it onto the floor, and grunted in irritation. Nothing he couldn’t have guessed. Clothes so wadded and dirty, they stank. Now he recalled the smell of Grady Hummacher’s college room. He dug around the inside of the bag, feeling for a pocket that might hold Grady’s passport. Tchernak couldn’t imagine Grady walking across the street without a passport, still.... But there were no pockets, nothing left in the duffel but a folded newspaper. A Spanish newspaper. The Ciudad de Panama Something or
That’s what he knew about Grady Hummacher. He had assured Adcock that his insight into Grady would make up for being a babe-in-the-woods private eye. Well, that bit of knowledge was not going to make this no-thought apartment tell him Grady’s secrets. You check the bedroom, the bathroom, the phone pad, the computer, Kiernan had once said when he’d asked about starting a search. See if you can tell when the subject was last here.
He moved quickly into the bedroom, the thick tan carpet nearly trampolining him. It had been over ten years since he’d seen Grady for more than a quick drink when he ran into him at McCarran Airport last month, but if the guy had changed, nothing of it manifested in this room. Grady was in his mid thirties now, but the room screamed “teenager.” The bed was a whirl of sheets and blankets. It looked as if it had been made—this type of place had to have maid service—but Grady had managed to rumple and crunch the covers as much as a guy could without actually getting beneath them. Had he napped on top, stirred up the covers as he unloaded his gear, or had a lady on call as he deplaned?
Tchernak grinned. Grady was good, but he doubted he was that good. No, more likely Adcock’s fear was right. Grady had picked up some bug in Panama and he’d grabbed a catnap before heading out to—wherever.
The dresser drawers were closed. Tchernak grinned as he pulled one open and confirmed his suspicion. Nothing in them. Closet: empty.
On the floor on the far side of the bed he found a backpack/suitcase half disemboweled. He could “see” Grady hunting for something on the bottom, yanking a yellow polo shirt half out, leaving it hanging like a pineapple leaf as his hand dove in again. Tchernak nodded at the garment bag, unopened on a chair, the LAS tag for McCarran Airport still on the handle. Dated Friday, eight days ago.
Eight days, a long time to put off unpacking, even for Grady.
Tchernak moved into the bathroom. Towels were in a wad on the floor. So Grady’d come from the airport, taken a shower. His shaving kit was open, but his toothbrush wasn’t visible. If he had used it, it would still be on the sink. Tchernak smiled again, recalling a guy on Grady’s hall saying that Grady’s gear—suitcases, shaving kit—were like archeological digs. You didn’t need carbon dating for any one of Grady’s belongings, you just needed to see how far down it was. The toothbrush was not part of most recent civilization.
But if he’d tossed around on the bed, dragged himself up, and taken a shower, he’d have brushed his teeth. Even Grady. And the maid would have straightened the bed. So—Logical Conclusion Number One—-Grady was here since the maid was. Even if she came only once a week, that meant Grady had left here Monday night at the earliest.
Left with what? Did the guy have another set of suitcases standing ready for a second trip? Tchernak picked up the duffel, emptied it onto the floor, and grunted in irritation. Nothing he couldn’t have guessed. Clothes so wadded and dirty, they stank. Now he recalled the smell of Grady Hummacher’s college room. He dug around the inside of the bag, feeling for a pocket that might hold Grady’s passport. Tchernak couldn’t imagine Grady walking across the street without a passport, still.... But there were no pockets, nothing left in the duffel but a folded newspaper. A Spanish newspaper. The Ciudad de Panama Something or
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