18
NICK HAD MANAGED TO wade through the sea of reporters and get to his car. He’d recognized a few of them from the crime scene, including Carly Wentworth, the pretty one who’d asked him for an interview when he was out on the fire escape. He was a couple of blocks away when he dialed The Dawkins House.
“I was there earlier this afternoon looking for someone with a reserved bed,” he said into the phone, “Ray Cobb.”
He waited on the line as the person running the desk went to go check his cards. The receiver made a noise like someone was picking it up from the counter.
“Okay, yeah, we’ve got him,” the volunteer said, “Checked in for a bed, traded in his clothes for a wash. He’s in the dormitory now.”
“Excellent.”
Nick knew he could trust Ray to stay put. If he were guilty, he would’ve
