11
She’d been here. Randall Lenz didn’t know precisely how he knew that, but standing on the sidewalk in the middle of the Plaza at the heart of Santa Fe’s downtown and gazing at the buildings that circled it made a strange tingle start somewhere at the base of his neck.
Or maybe it was only the man who’d just walked past and sent a curious glance toward him over one shoulder. The stranger was dark, obviously Latin in heritage, maybe in his mid-thirties, well-dressed. Why he should have looked over at Lenz, who stood there with a phone in one hand and a brochure in the other, playing tourist, he had no idea.
But the man who’d walked past him a moment earlier wasn’t the issue here. Dawson had run through the databases of the local hotels, and no one named “Addie Wilcox” or “Addie Grant”
