He rolled the crushed box with his pen and read the print: Anbesol for temporary relief of toothache. The picture showed a tooth with lightning bolts coming out of it.

"Maybe our boy has a b.u.m tooth," he called out to LaMoia.

LaMoia answered, "Tooth-dirty," trying to make it sound like two-thirty. "Time to call Chinese dentist."

"Time to call every dentist in town."

"You think?"

"He gives us something like this, right or wrong, we've got to follow it up, don't we? Could be he f.u.c.ked up. This may be hard evidence."

"May be nothing."

"Agreed."

"Lieutenant's not going to like it. Too speculative. I think this is something more for you and your people."

LaMoia carried both paper and plastic bags with him, as Daggett was certain he would. Homicide cops carried this stuff around at all times. Together they bagged and labeled Daggett's discoveries. Then they widened their search area.

"How's this for bizarre?" LaMoia called out, emerging from the overgrown weeds holding the partially carved potato in his gloved hand. "Looks like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned d.i.l.d.o, you ask me." It did, Daggett agreed. A phallus two inches in diameter and several inches long, emerging from the un-carved b.u.t.t like a p.e.n.i.s from a s.c.r.o.t.u.m. "She likes 'em wide, but not too deep," LaMoia said, imitating a blues singer. He spun it around. "Idaho number one russet, maybe." He studied it. "I don't know, maybe it's some kind of gay blade. How would you like that up the old wa zoo He made a motion with it that couldn't be mistaken. He tossed it to Daggett, who caught it.

Daggett spun it in his hand. The heart of the potato had blackened with air contact. "Someone spent some time on this," he said, puzzled by it.

"It ain't the meat, it's the motion."

He was about to toss it when he noticed that some of the black had come off on his hand. It wasn't just air-rot after all. He rubbed his fingers together and brought them to his nose. Inhaling, he experienced another sudden explosion of excitement in his chest, and he found himself wanting to believe that indeed this was hard evidence involving Ward's murderer. He said, "You ever heard that s.h.i.t about when you lose your hearing, you can smell more?"

"No," LaMoia said. "I stay away from all that touchy-feely stuff."

"This is science, I'm talking about. Medical science."

"I never did well in science. Except anatomy," he added quickly. "But that was mostly extracurricular."

"Do you ever stop?" Daggett asked him.

"Only when she asks me to," LaMoia fired back. "And only then if I know she means it."

"Smell this," Daggett said, coming toward the man with pinched fingers.

LaMoia shied away.

"Smell it," Daggett insisted. He shoved his fingers under the man's nose. LaMoia's moustache twitched. Puzzlement creased his face.

"Exhaust?"

"Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with my hearing," Daggett replied.

He spent a good part of the late afternoon, early evening, on the phone with the Washington office and trying to reach Carrie. He drove up to Green Lake and went for a run. He had dinner at Ray's Boat House with the Bureau friend who had "invited" him out here to Seattle. They talked over old times and drank too much beer. They discussed Bernard and the German bust of Der Grund.

"You think this murder out at Duhning was Kort's doing?" his friend asked. "You think there's a chance he's over here?" It was the first time anyone had actually come out and said it, although both Backman and Pullman had inferred as much. Daggett wasn't sure how to answer. The man added, "I mean it seemed a pretty obvious possibility to me. That's why I invited you out here. Bernard is Der Grund, Kort is Der Grund. Bernard builds a detonator. Kort can't be found anywhere. I mean somebody's got to put the d.a.m.n thing onto a plane or what's the use? And that's Kort's job, right?"

"We think it's Kort's job." In fact, the way things added up, he knew it was the work of Anthony Kort. Who else? But as the investigating officer, he couldn't vocalize such beliefs until he had the evidence to support them.

"That's all I'm saying."

"Part of me hopes it is; part of me hopes it isn't."

"I can understand that."

No one can completely understand that, Daggett thought. But why argue with a friend? Why argue at all, except for the beer and the fatigue? He wanted to argue. He wanted to lose some steam.

"You want to drive a bucket of b.a.l.l.s?" his friend asked.

"I'd rather find a pitching machine and try a few line drives."

"I don't know of any pitching machines. But I know a driving range open till midnight."

"Sounds okay to me."

"They sell beer."

"Sounding better all the time."

"You playing the links much?"

"No. Haven't for a long time. Too expensive. I was playing first base on the WMFO fast-pitch team for a while. Same time I was coaching my son's Little League team. h.e.l.l of a good time." Something fell between them like a steel plate. Daggett felt completely alone. Memories flickered in the yellow and the bubbles of the beer.

"Right," his friend finally said. "What do you say we get going?"

It was a little after noon the next day when Shoswitz interrupted Daggett, who was in the middle of writing a report. LaMoia and five other sergeants had been calling dentists for the better part of three hours. Daggett was just giving up hope of connecting the Anbesol to a man with tooth trouble. That was the way it often worked: you had to give up completely before your luck would turn. Expectation was your worst enemy. Shoswitz had a restless energy about him. He had the nervous habit of ma.s.saging his elbow, and his eyes found it difficult to stay fixed on any one spot. "You may be right about the Anbesol," he told Daggett. "Four different dentists' offices all received calls on Tuesday from an out-of towner who wanted some emergency attention."

Daggett said, "If the medical examiner is right about that choke hold, then it's possible our killer didn't intend to kill Ward. If we play around with that, then he may have planned to still be in town on Wednesday or Thursday."

Shoswitz nodded. "Or Friday. Whoever it was, gave all four receptionists Wednesday through Friday to book him in. And they were all given a phone number and room number in case of an opening. Two of them left messages, but the guy never got back to them."

"A phone number?" Daggett asked. "You're telling me we have a phone number?"

"The Mayflower Park Hotel. It's a nice old place over on Olive Way."

"Can we move on this?" Daggett asked. "As far as the courts are concerned?"

Shoswitz said. "Have to check with your boys over in the Federal Building about that. I don't know s.h.i.t about search and seizure on this kind of thing. But the way I figure it: They get creative, they'll think of something." Shoswitz handed Daggett the pad with the names of the dentists. Circled boldly in rings of intertwined ink so that it jumped off the page was: Mayflower Park Hotel, Room #311.

"We've had a couple pieces of good luck," Special Agent Frank Macalister told Daggett as they shook hands in the lobby of the Mayflower Park. Good luck ran in small schools, as far as Daggett could figure. Bad luck just plain ran out of control.

The man's deep voice sounded forced, as if without the effort it might be high and effeminate. Macalister was black, tall, and clean-shaven, a serious man with concerned eyes. He walked hurriedly, not checking to see if Daggett kept up. From the back, Daggett saw gray in the man's hair. "The guy in three-eleven left specific instructions with the front desk that he didn't want any maid service until he checked out. Said he was going to be keeping weird hours and that he didn't care about fresh towels. That request was made real early Wednesday A.M. Tuesday night, in reality "The time fits," Daggett said. "We guessing he didn't want anyone knowing he had left? Something like that?"

"It plays."

"So we may have the right guy."

"If we do, he cut his own throat without knowing it. His request meant that housekeeping didn't go through the room until this morning," he said with a casual glance at Daggett over his shoulder. They entered the elevator. The doors closed and the car rose slowly. Macalister smelled of after-shave. "Hotel trash isn't scheduled to be picked up until this afternoon. Whatever housekeeping cleaned out of that room is in one of those trash bags. I've asked them to hold off on pickup to give our people time to do some digging. We know from billing records that the suspect used room service quite a bit. If I'm him, then I do a major clean up before I split. I wipe the place down. I cover myself as best as possible. But if he tossed out a receipt in his trash, then that may ID it for us. His room number will be on the receipt." He paused. "It's a long shot, but it's something."

Daggett didn't see it as a long shot. It made a h.e.l.l of a lot of sense. He suggested a couple other things they could look for to ID the trash: gold and black cigarette b.u.t.ts, an empty bottle of Anbesol, a grocery bag, or a grocery store receipt that listed a potato. Macalister looked at him strangely. Daggett explained, "He blocked Ward's exhaust pipe with a potato."

"Right."

"What about a car? You can't get around this city without a car. The hotel must have some kind of parking arrangements for guests. They may be able to give us a license plate number for this guy's car."

"That's good. I'll follow up on that. We got a license plate number, we might get a rental agency."

"We should also talk to the maid."

Macalister nodded. "Already spoke to the front desk about that. They're going to send her up."

Macalister slipped a piece of plastic into a key slot and unlocked the door. "Electronic keys," he said in disgust. "When's this s.h.i.t gonna end?"

It was a tiny but attractive room with a rose-and-teal chintz bedspread, almond drapes, and too much furniture: a couch, a desk, the bed and the bureau. It didn't leave much room for people. Macalister and Daggett both donned plastic gloves. The door thumped shut behind them. The claustrophobic s.p.a.ce reinforced Daggett's sense of urgency. Ward's killer may have been inside this room. This was the bed he had slept in, the desk he had used. They were that close. No matter how small, it was a victory to be briefly savored.

Daggett walked over to the window and looked down at the cars, trucks, and buses below. "We want as many of the details as we can put together," he told Macalister, "what this guy ate, the quant.i.ty and especially the brand of cigarette he smoked, whether he showered or bathed anything and everything that might shed some light on him." Macalister nodded, accustomed to such requests. The two men searched the room, wandering it slowly, heads craned down. The lab boys would find something they always did. Whether or not it would help the investigation remained to be seen.

A knock came on the door and Macalister answered it. A shy Vietnamese woman introduced herself as Karen Xi. She was a tiny, flat-chested woman with callused hands, her hair held back by a white plastic clip with blue flowers. She had twisted teeth and flawless dark skin. Her frightened eyes seemed to occupy half her face.

"You're in no kind of trouble," Macalister explained.

"Yes."

"In fact, you may be able to be a tremendous help to us."

"Yes." Looking at him out of the corner of her eye, skeptically.

"You cleaned this room this morning."

"Yes. Check-out."

"You clean more thoroughly when it's a check-out?"

"Yes."

Daggett wondered, was it too much to ask that this woman remember this room in particular?

"You clean a lot of rooms," Macalister said, reading his mind.

"Many rooms."

"You probably don't pay much attention, one room to another. Is that right?"

She nodded, shrugged her shoulders, and offered them both an innocent expression. She still seemed scared.

"I wouldn't pay much attention, I can tell you that," Macalister encouraged.

She smiled, but raised her hand to cover her mouth, not allowing those awful teeth to show.

"You wouldn't happen to remember anything in particular about this room?"

"Yeah, sure I do."

"The guest?" Daggett blurted out, interrupting, drawing a look of annoyance from Macalister.

"Did you see him?" Macalister asked. "Do you remember the guest?"

"Not him. Don't remember him. Remember room .. . clean room. Very neat and tidy. Easy to clean."

"Neat?" Daggett asked. This was just the kind of information he had hoped for it shed some light on the man's personality.

"You notice when you clean rooms."

"I'm sure you do," Macalister said. His eyes asked Daggett to stop, but Daggett couldn't. "He smoked," Daggett said.

"Yes."

Now Macalister glared, but Daggett was unrelenting.

"Do you, by any chance, remember what the cigarettes looked like? What color?" Daggett asked.

"No. Don't remember. He smoked. He left the window cracked open."

Daggett walked over to the window and studied the building and its fire escapes more closely. If pressed, could a person escape from that window? Yes, he thought it possible. Edge your way over there, drop down to the overhang. Possible. Leave the window cracked open to speed up your exit. "We'll want the latent-print team to pay special attention here."

"Did you ever see a gun, a knife, anything like that?" Daggett asked her.

"No. Nothing like that."

"Did he speak to you?" Macalister interrupted.

"No. I never even saw him. He done something, this man?"

The killer's invisibility bothered Daggett. First at Duhn-ing, now here.

"Anything unusual? Anything at all?" Daggett blurted out in frustration, further annoying Macalister.

"Oh, yes," she said, drawing their attention with her sharp voice and suddenly bright, anxious eyes. "The tooth!" She beamed. "Not every day you find a tooth."

FIVE.