Other. Damn, now’ he knew why he should have taken a foreign language in school. There was some reason Grady saved this paper. Tchernak stared at it as if force of will would translate the words. City of Panama. Panama City. Something something. Novembre 12. November twelfth. Twelfth? Today was the fifteenth. Grady got home Friday, November seventh. What was he doing with Wednesday the twelfth’s newspaper from Panama City? Was there some Las Vegas outlet?
“Leave no trace,” Kiernan had said. The hell to that. Tchernak yanked out the bed-table drawers, the dresser drawers, the desk drawers. Empty, empty, empty. Dammit, the guy had to have left some hint of himself here. Tchernak moved to the kitchen and attacked the drawers. It was in the living room by the computer he found the repository of scraps of paper, sales slips with the business name too pale to read, note from the landlord about reroofing, and— voilà —a receipt from a Panama City hotel dated November twelfth.
Suddenly the air seemed close, stale. Whatever Grady was up to with this trip to Panama between his official U.S. return Friday the seventh and whenever he got back the last time, it left him too rushed or preoccupied to open any windows here. Nevadans, trained on the desert heat of summer, might leave their windows closed in November, but Grady was an outdoor guy. Tchernak nodded to himself, recalling Grady on a flight to Phoenix one June (Grady’d gotten a deal on the flight and the use of a guy’s grandmother’s condo for five of them). Even back then before Grady got hooked on the wilds, he spent the whole flight griping about the canned aircraft air. And when he’d gotten to the condo in the middle of the desert, he’d shoved those windows open wide, let in the 100-plus-degree air, and laughed when the guy’s grandmother screamed so loud long-distance she didn’t need a phone.
Grady must have been in one big hurry to race past the closed windows here. Big hurry or big fog. Whichever, he’d moved out fast.
Out where? Tchernak checked the bedside table. No pad. Adcock said Grady had no messages at the service but the ones Adcock had left him himself.
Now what? If Kiernan were here, she’d check the computer. Adcock had given him Grady’s business card with phone, fax, password, and e-mail address. He checked the computer. God, he loved this. He was doing it, checking out the apartment, grazing through Grady’s files, all of it better than she’d do herself! He was doing it, all right, but he wasn’t coming up with much. No personal files. He checked the icons on the toolbar, clicked on Grady’s provider, and typed his password. The man had no e-mail. Shit, Grady probably never hit the Power button at all. The computer must be one of those “business conveniences” these types of places advertised.
But as long as he was on-line, why not get Persis, the woman-wonder at BakDat, started on the background check. Another thing Smug Woman who thought she could do without help was going to miss. Let her try and get Persis to drop everything. Picturing Kiernan glaring at the empty screen, grabbing the phone to chew out Persis, slamming down the phone and calling for him, he typed a request for background on Grady. The image of his frustrated former employer was still in his mind as he poised to push Send. “Trust no one” was Kiernan’s aphorism. She wouldn’t overlook Adcock, not as righteous as she had been about the guy. She’d see what Persis could turn up on Adcock Explorations. And airline flights from Panama City to Las Vegas, November twelfth. He typed and sent.
He checked the desk for notes. No notes. Not even a Grady-style mess there.
Damn, there had to be more. He didn’t have anything! Kiernan would never let herself come away empty. He’d been through the whole place. What else would she do? “Think like he does,” she would say. Well, that was one thing he should be able to do.
Tchernak sat on Grady’s desk
“Leave no trace,” Kiernan had said. The hell to that. Tchernak yanked out the bed-table drawers, the dresser drawers, the desk drawers. Empty, empty, empty. Dammit, the guy had to have left some hint of himself here. Tchernak moved to the kitchen and attacked the drawers. It was in the living room by the computer he found the repository of scraps of paper, sales slips with the business name too pale to read, note from the landlord about reroofing, and— voilà —a receipt from a Panama City hotel dated November twelfth.
Suddenly the air seemed close, stale. Whatever Grady was up to with this trip to Panama between his official U.S. return Friday the seventh and whenever he got back the last time, it left him too rushed or preoccupied to open any windows here. Nevadans, trained on the desert heat of summer, might leave their windows closed in November, but Grady was an outdoor guy. Tchernak nodded to himself, recalling Grady on a flight to Phoenix one June (Grady’d gotten a deal on the flight and the use of a guy’s grandmother’s condo for five of them). Even back then before Grady got hooked on the wilds, he spent the whole flight griping about the canned aircraft air. And when he’d gotten to the condo in the middle of the desert, he’d shoved those windows open wide, let in the 100-plus-degree air, and laughed when the guy’s grandmother screamed so loud long-distance she didn’t need a phone.
Grady must have been in one big hurry to race past the closed windows here. Big hurry or big fog. Whichever, he’d moved out fast.
Out where? Tchernak checked the bedside table. No pad. Adcock said Grady had no messages at the service but the ones Adcock had left him himself.
Now what? If Kiernan were here, she’d check the computer. Adcock had given him Grady’s business card with phone, fax, password, and e-mail address. He checked the computer. God, he loved this. He was doing it, checking out the apartment, grazing through Grady’s files, all of it better than she’d do herself! He was doing it, all right, but he wasn’t coming up with much. No personal files. He checked the icons on the toolbar, clicked on Grady’s provider, and typed his password. The man had no e-mail. Shit, Grady probably never hit the Power button at all. The computer must be one of those “business conveniences” these types of places advertised.
But as long as he was on-line, why not get Persis, the woman-wonder at BakDat, started on the background check. Another thing Smug Woman who thought she could do without help was going to miss. Let her try and get Persis to drop everything. Picturing Kiernan glaring at the empty screen, grabbing the phone to chew out Persis, slamming down the phone and calling for him, he typed a request for background on Grady. The image of his frustrated former employer was still in his mind as he poised to push Send. “Trust no one” was Kiernan’s aphorism. She wouldn’t overlook Adcock, not as righteous as she had been about the guy. She’d see what Persis could turn up on Adcock Explorations. And airline flights from Panama City to Las Vegas, November twelfth. He typed and sent.
He checked the desk for notes. No notes. Not even a Grady-style mess there.
Damn, there had to be more. He didn’t have anything! Kiernan would never let herself come away empty. He’d been through the whole place. What else would she do? “Think like he does,” she would say. Well, that was one thing he should be able to do.
Tchernak sat on Grady’s desk
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