The Blonde

3:50 a.m.

Sheraton, Room 501

Jack Eisley’s bag didn’t yield dick, except for the fact that Jack was a boxer briefs kind of guy. And these days, who wasn’t? There was also a piece of Sheraton stationery with “MK WHP SD” scribbled on it. Which could mean anything. Mr. Kent Whupped South Dakota. Make Whipped Sundae. Make White House President Sign Decree. Kowalski folded and pocketed it anyway.

No wallet or ID. Guy must have it with him. But the luggage tag bore the surname Eisley and a Gurnee, Illinois, address.

Okay, that waste of time was over. Next: Try another disguise, and play buddy-buddy with the man you nearly choked to death a short time ago. Mr. Vincent. He’d know where the cops were keeping Jack Eisley. A flash of his trusty Homeland Security badge, and he’d be in the room with him alone, piecing together the night’s events. He could tell him what Kelly White was doing, flying around the country and generally causing trouble for married men and university professors alike.

Of course, Kowalski realized, he was making a big assumption.

Eisley might not still be alive.

That seemed to be the pattern for Kelly White’s other male companions.