He’d received the call earlier on Monday evening. He was to meet a guy named Tim at an Eighth-Avenue motel. He checked his watch at the entrance. He was on the dot. Crossing the lobby to the elevators, Chip McKay looked no different than the tourists who stayed there. The evening was warm. His knotted tie hung loose at his open collar, and he carried his jacket over his arm. Even the sleaziest hotels had security these days. He knew better than to dress like a hustler if he wanted to trick with the higher-paying clientele.
He got off the elevator at the tenth floor and checked the scrap of paper in his pocket. Room 1024. A lean man with dark hair answered his...