Chapter 12
Early Saturday afternoon, Blaine was looking around the room he’d rented in a dingy motel south of downtown Chicago. One that worked on a cash-only basis and didn’t require him to show ID.
Hardly what I’m used to, but for the moment, where I’m stuck. f*****g cops.
He’d seen a news story on one of the overhead TVs at the airport, after he’d deplaned at O’Hare. The reporter had been updating an earlier bulletin, apparently, about two serial killers in Denver. One had been caught; the other was on the run. There were, the reporter had said, two photos taken at a gala which showed the killer with his last victim. Behind the reporter as he talked was one of the photos, of Blaine with Ms. Paulson.
“God damned son of a b***h,” he’d sworn under his breath as he adjusted the dark-fra
