Jane couldn’t do anything more just yet. She would go after D. J. Michael where he really was, which would no doubt be on the ninth floor of his building in San Francisco, but not today, not tomorrow. Too little sleep, too much stress, and too much emotion expended had left her shaky: strained muscles, grainy eyes, fuzzy thinking.
She got a motel room in Tucson and took the longest shower of her life, letting the hot water beat some of the aches out of her.
After she dressed in a fresh change of clothes, she took from her wallet the Melinda June Garlock driver’s license and replaced it with the one in the name of Elizabeth Bennet.
She packed away the auburn wig and fake eyeglasses. She put on the chopped-everywhichway jet-black Vogue-version punky number. The fake nose ring: silver serpent with one ruby eye. Blue eye shadow and matching lipstick. Hello, Liz Bennet.
After tossing the room key onto the bed, she left the motel without sleeping there.
An hour later, in Casa Grande, at a Best Western Suites, Liz Bennet submitted her driver’s license to the desk clerk as ID and paid cash for a little suite with a king-size bed.