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loaf of bread. “Tough break,” he said to Walt.
    Walt glanced around, having almost forgotten about their suspect. He felt the weight of defeat.
    Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” leaked out of speakers in the ceiling.
    Shit, he thought: He’d have that tune stuck in his head the rest of the day.

Seven
    R afe Nagler pulled himself out of the Volvo, his white cane at his side. A voice summoned in a thick Eastern European accent. The man sounded big. He grabbed Nagler firmly by the arm.
    “Welcome to the Sun Valley Lodge.”
    “Thank you.” Nagler swung his cane. The bellman took him by the arm. “Lodge or inn?” he asked, as he was led up some stairs. “I thought the conference is at the Sun Valley Inn.”
    “Actually, we offer the two hotels: the lodge, which is where you are now—more upscale and geared for entertainment; and the inn, just across the pond, that provides additional rooms and houses our conference and banquet facilities.”
    Karen Platt, his driver, called out that she’d take care of his bag. She sounded both anxious and nervous, as she had been for the twenty-minute ride from the airport, and the half hour spent at the vet making arrangements for Ricky’s cremation.
    “Would you describe the lobby to me, please, with twelve o’clock straight ahead?” Nagler said to the bellman as they entered the hotel.
    “Of course. It’s a big room, almost two rooms connected by a hall-way running nine o’clock to three o’clock. It’s large. Grand. There’s an alcove immediately to our right—registration desk. Concierge is ahead—one o’clock—at a large desk, mahogany or cherry with a leather top. There are some columns between here and there. Square; wood-paneled. Eleven o’clock, two more columns. Double doors at twelve o’clock far at the end of the lobby that lead outside to the patio. Down the hallway I mentioned are some wonderful photographs, historic photographs of the lodge and its famous guests: Marilyn Monroe, Bobby Kennedy, Jimmy Stewart, some presidents. Perhaps I can describe some of them to you during your stay.”
    “I’d like that,” Nagler said.
    “The Duchin Lounge is at eleven o’clock, near the doors to the patio,” he continued. “There are two couches and several chairs between where we are and the Duchin Lounge. A coffee table. The entrance to Gretchen’s, breakfast and lunch, is behind the concierge.”
    “At one o’clock,” Nagler said.
    “Yes, sir. Very good.”
    Nagler turned right. “Registration?”
    “You’re a quick learner.”
    “You work with what you’re given. That scraping sound beyond the patio doors?”
    “The outdoor skating rink.”
    “An outdoor skating rink in July?”
    “Exactly! Unbelievable, eh? We are famous for our weekend ice shows. Very important skaters.”
    The desk receptionist had a French accent and handled his reservation with aplomb. She retrieved a leather tote bag for him loaded with gifts from the C 3 . She noted mention of his service dog.
    “There’s been an accident,” Nagler said, his voice tight. “Ricky’s not with us.”
    The receptionist and the bellman both offered their condolences.
    Nagler and the bellman rode the elevator to the third floor, discussing the hotel’s history and construction.
    They arrived at the room and the bellman admitted him. Nagler pulled a bill from his left pants pocket and handed it to the man. Left pocket: tens. Right pocket: ones.
    “Listen,” Nagler said, after following the bellman’s quick description of the room’s layout. “Ricky, my dog, was my eyes. I’ve grown quite dependent on him. It’s not that I can’t negotiate with my cane—of course I can—but I’m out of practice. If you could pass word around to the staff…” He offered another three tens into the air and they were accepted.
    “It will be our pleasure to make your stay as enjoyable and comfortable as possible. I’ll pass the word.”
    Nagler’s bag arrived. The bellman