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Stickman sat in his seedy room in a seedy hotel on the seedy side of downtown Milwaukee. Killing Officer Dumbshit had forced him to upend the leisurely schedule he had planned, he thought again with irritation. He needed to get well away before the stupid officer was found, then had to go to ground until it was time for the final push.
Stickman located a hotel that was across an alley from a parking garage. He requested a room on the garage side of the hotel, muttering something about that side having less light and he really needing sleep. The desk clerk had looked puzzled but complied. Stickman was pleased that he could see the front of his car from his room window, giving him at least a chance to spot police should the car draw attention.
After checking in he immediately left the hotel and found a convenience store, stocking up on enough snacks, soft drinks and magazines to avoid leaving his room. Turning on the television, he learned that Dumfries’ body had been found. Video of the car being pulled through brambles and up to the road had a shot of a bulky white-haired man talking to a woman in uniform. The white-haired man was smiling, even as death visited his neighborhood. If Dumfries hadn’t called in car and driver information as he should have, thought Stickman, the law now has at least a general description of him and the Toyota. He did find a silver lining: The story did not tie the officer’s slaying to the search for the terrorists who attacked the Russian Embassy.
The hotel was home for two boring days, the most entertaining interruption being sounds of energetic afternoon coupling in the room next to his. Stickman did venture out once, for a hot breakfast at a greasy spoon down the street. He purposely set an alarm to wake him every two hours, then sat by the window to assure himself that his car had not attracted the police. Early tomorrow he would go, pushing against rush hour traffic toward Minnesota.