Ethan had no other choice but to continue his drive to San Antonio. He tried to nap but couldn’t manage it. He checked out at eleven and was on the road by eleven thirty after gassing up and grabbing snacks for the road. He stopped twice, once at Fort Stockton and then at Roosevelt. By the time he hit San Antonio, it was ten o’clock at night. Too exhausted to go through the process of checking into a hotel, he found a Holiday Inn and slept in the parking lot.
The next morning, he snuck inside, cleaned up in the bathroom, then queued in line for their free breakfast buffet. A teenage boy with an Avengers shirt gave him the hairy eyeball, but he ignored it.
By 8:00 a.m., he’d found the location of the Starbucks Nikki Sixx had checked into, and he was inside, using their free Wi-Fi and sipping on a chocolate chai tea latte. John Legend crooned through the speakers while Ethan brought up the real Nikki Sixx’s Wikipedia page.
Nikki’s true name was Frank Carlton Serafino Feranna Jr. Normally—at least Ethan thought it was normal—when someone picked a pseudonym it had some relation to the user. In this case, it could either be a Mötley Crüe superfan or someone with elements of Nikki Sixx’s real name. If it was merely a superfan, Ethan might have to stand in front of the Starbucks with a sign that read, Free Mötley Crüe Tickets, and wait to see who stopped. But if—and this was a major if—the man behind Nikki Sixx had elements of his titular figure’s real name in his own, then Ethan might have a chance at finding out where he lived.
So Ethan spun up the fake Nikki Sixx’s Facebook profile, then did a friend check on Carlton. He found a Carlton Yonse, but no one with the last name Carlton. Then he tried Serafino. None. Finally he tried Feranna and was rewarded with five friends with the last name Feranna. Vicky, Daniel, Robin, Dignan, and Crosby. According to Vicky Feranna’s profile page, she was married to Daniel, and her kids were Robin, Dignan, Crosby, and Nikki Six.
Bingo.
Ethan sat back and sipped at his drink, pleased with himself. The NSA had nothing on him. This was too easy. Then he reminded himself how much information people gave up without realizing it.
He pulled up a picture of Nikki Sixx on his mother’s Facebook profile. He looked to be mid to late twenties. Black hair teased into a metal-band look. A slight Italian tilt of the cheekbones and a delicate nose. He was handsome, but would have been handsomer without the long hair. Combined with his delicate features, the long hair made him look effeminate.
Crosby was the youngest and still attending Churchill High School. Dignan and Robin were alums of the same high school, which meant that Nikki Sixx was probably an alum of Churchill High School as well.
Next, Ethan searched Google for Churchill High School in San Antonio. Hit after hit showed pictures of the school; its mascot, the charger; and its symbol, the Union Jack and lion. He tried to access the school system, but it required a user and log-in. Then Ethan remembered something. He did another Google search and found a website that would give him access to yearbooks for a one-time fee of $19.95.
He marked that page. If he needed to pay, then he would, but he wanted to try something else first. He typed the last name into People Finder and got back forty-four matches. His heart sank, then he noted that the program included variations of Feranna to include Farina and Furano. He ignored them and found five names: Vicky, Daniel, Dignan, Robin, Crosby, and Nash.
Nash.
Made Ethan wonder where Stills was.
Nash Feranna. Got you. He typed that name into People Finder, then followed it through the pages until it offered to show the address for a one-time fee of $19.95.
What is it with those one-time fees? Isn’t anything free anymore?
He had his wallet in his hand and was about to type in his debit card number when a man walked in and ordered two Nutella Frappuccinos. It was the Nutella that got Ethan’s attention, and when he saw the tall, slender Italian kid with the big hair and gold aviator shades, Ethan’s fingers stopped typing in the debit card number.
Nash.
Ethan closed his computer and stood.
Nash looked his way, then back at the barista making his drinks.
Butterflies scythed through Ethan as he stepped toward the door. He’d locked eyes with the guy and knew that he knew. Still, Ethan had to try. He got into the Mustang and started it up. When Nash exited the coffee shop and got into a 1978 Pontiac Trans Am, Ethan followed him.
He tried to remember all the cop shows and police procedurals he’d seen. What was the rule? Stay three cars back? Shift positions? The information fled Ethan, if he’d ever had it at all. Even if he’d known, he wasn’t sure he could use it, because Nash was driving the car like he stole it. Luckily the old Mustang could more than hold its own.
Twice they had to slow because of police cars.
Once they had to slow because of an accident.
But twenty minutes later found Nash Feranna pulling up into the driveway of a house on a tree-lined street. He got out with his two coffees, went to the door, and let himself in.
Ethan kept driving, noting the address.
When he got to the corner, he turned left, drove to a commercial area, and began looking for a hardware store. For the first time in a long time he had a plan.