cheese. After a quick shower, I hit the road again to retrieve my camera and see if it had caught any sign of young Mr. Kent. In the middle of the night, I'd woken up afraid that the ten-second delay between shots would allow him enough time to enter without being picked up by the camera. I decided that although it was possible, it would be very unlikely.
I was forced to park in a back alley this time, and unfortunately my arrival coincided with the cigarette break of the freakish receptionist from the day before. He leered at me in a way that didn't give me any warm fuzzies, and I shuddered and quickly made my way up the stairs to my room. Luckily I had arrived just before the maid, who was only a couple of rooms down the row, and the room was untouched. Unfortunately, my camera had died. I guess I should have known that asking a battery-powered device to take a few thousand photos was an exercise in futility. Even so, I knew there was a good chance it had taken enough photos to get me something useful. I grabbed my stuff and dropped off the key in the office before the creepy receptionist returned from his break.
I drove down to my office to plug the camera into the computer and begin scanning the photos. The first one showed 8:12 p.m. as the time of the shot, and I was able to rifle through each picture with the touch of the keyboard's right-arrow key. Nothing was happening. Occasionally a form would appear to be passing through the shot, but no one stopped at Kent's door or opened it. The lights never went on. I kept pressing the right-arrow key and got all the way to 4:14 a.m., which is when the battery apparently clunked out. It was a complete bust.
I was slumping my shoulders in defeat when Mike rolled into the office.
"Ooh," he said, sounding concerned. "That's not your usual winning smile."
"I was staking out Kent's apartment yesterday. A total dive of a place, by the way. Anyway, he didn't show for the eight hours I was there. And then I had my camera watching his door all night, and still nothing. At least until about four in the morning, when the battery died."
He nodded. "You sure it didn't miss anything?"
"Pretty sure. I just had a feeling that something about the place wasn't right. I couldn't imagine many students living there, much less ones with royal blood in their veins. So I'm kind of not surprised that he never showed up."
"So he's got a different address than the one Melanie gave you, is that what you're thinking?"
I hadn't been thinking, to be honest, but that was a distinct possibility. "Yeah, he must. He's gotta live somewhere. How are we going to track that down?"
Mike thought for a second. "Does he have a car? DMV records are easy enough to get."
"I don't know if he has one. We can check anyway, though. How do we go about doing that?"
He cocked his head sideways and then shook it back and forth, pretending to be disappointed in my detective skills. I knew that he secretly relished the idea of teaching me something, but I let him ham it up. "Come with me," he said.
We walked across the lobby to his office, which was about the same size as mine but much cleaner. He sat down and punched a few keys, and soon an official-looking web page popped up. Mike typed in a password and an ID, and he was in.
"You probably don't have clearance yet," he said coolly. "When you work for the casinos, the state views you kind of as an arm of the Gaming Commission. We're all trying to catch the bad guys, so they let you apply to get certain clearances. This is one of them."
What he said was ringing distant bells in my memory, but I'd never bothered applying for clearance. Another thing to add to the list.
"What's the guy's name again?" Mike asked.
I told him, and he crinkled his nose. "That's what he says , anyways." Mike muttered.
A few more keystrokes got us there.
"There it is," I said, more excitedly than I intended. "Henry John Kent. Age 24. Brown hair, blue eyes, 162 pounds, registered as driving
I was forced to park in a back alley this time, and unfortunately my arrival coincided with the cigarette break of the freakish receptionist from the day before. He leered at me in a way that didn't give me any warm fuzzies, and I shuddered and quickly made my way up the stairs to my room. Luckily I had arrived just before the maid, who was only a couple of rooms down the row, and the room was untouched. Unfortunately, my camera had died. I guess I should have known that asking a battery-powered device to take a few thousand photos was an exercise in futility. Even so, I knew there was a good chance it had taken enough photos to get me something useful. I grabbed my stuff and dropped off the key in the office before the creepy receptionist returned from his break.
I drove down to my office to plug the camera into the computer and begin scanning the photos. The first one showed 8:12 p.m. as the time of the shot, and I was able to rifle through each picture with the touch of the keyboard's right-arrow key. Nothing was happening. Occasionally a form would appear to be passing through the shot, but no one stopped at Kent's door or opened it. The lights never went on. I kept pressing the right-arrow key and got all the way to 4:14 a.m., which is when the battery apparently clunked out. It was a complete bust.
I was slumping my shoulders in defeat when Mike rolled into the office.
"Ooh," he said, sounding concerned. "That's not your usual winning smile."
"I was staking out Kent's apartment yesterday. A total dive of a place, by the way. Anyway, he didn't show for the eight hours I was there. And then I had my camera watching his door all night, and still nothing. At least until about four in the morning, when the battery died."
He nodded. "You sure it didn't miss anything?"
"Pretty sure. I just had a feeling that something about the place wasn't right. I couldn't imagine many students living there, much less ones with royal blood in their veins. So I'm kind of not surprised that he never showed up."
"So he's got a different address than the one Melanie gave you, is that what you're thinking?"
I hadn't been thinking, to be honest, but that was a distinct possibility. "Yeah, he must. He's gotta live somewhere. How are we going to track that down?"
Mike thought for a second. "Does he have a car? DMV records are easy enough to get."
"I don't know if he has one. We can check anyway, though. How do we go about doing that?"
He cocked his head sideways and then shook it back and forth, pretending to be disappointed in my detective skills. I knew that he secretly relished the idea of teaching me something, but I let him ham it up. "Come with me," he said.
We walked across the lobby to his office, which was about the same size as mine but much cleaner. He sat down and punched a few keys, and soon an official-looking web page popped up. Mike typed in a password and an ID, and he was in.
"You probably don't have clearance yet," he said coolly. "When you work for the casinos, the state views you kind of as an arm of the Gaming Commission. We're all trying to catch the bad guys, so they let you apply to get certain clearances. This is one of them."
What he said was ringing distant bells in my memory, but I'd never bothered applying for clearance. Another thing to add to the list.
"What's the guy's name again?" Mike asked.
I told him, and he crinkled his nose. "That's what he says , anyways." Mike muttered.
A few more keystrokes got us there.
"There it is," I said, more excitedly than I intended. "Henry John Kent. Age 24. Brown hair, blue eyes, 162 pounds, registered as driving
Similar Books
Power Lines
Anne McCaffrey, Elizabeth Ann Scarborough
Executive Desires (The Blake Boys Book 10)
Rhonda Laurel
Nadine, Nadine vignette 1
Gabriella Webster
Sacrifice
Andrew Vachss
11/22/63: A Novel
Stephen King
A Writer's World
Jan Morris
Boardwalk Gangster
Tim Newark
(1982) The Almighty
Irving Wallace