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    â€œWe’re going to the Ridgeview Motel,” Nancy told them. “To search Mike’s room.”
    â€œWhat are we looking for?” Bess asked.
    â€œFingerprints—and anything else we can find,” Nancy said. “We’re really short of clues in this case. Not only that, but we’re short of the real crime, when you get right down to it. We know that Mike McKeever definitely isn’t who he says he is. But we’ve got no reason to think he’s a criminal.”
    She pulled up in front of Mason’s Office Supply, around the corner from the motel. There was a pay phone directly in front of them.
    â€œWait here a minute,” Nancy instructed her friends. “I’m going to call Mike. If there’s no answer, we’ll assume the coast is clear.”
    In a moment she was back. “Okay, come on,” she said. “He’s gone.”
    Mike’s room was on the second floor of the cheap, run-down motel. The locked door, with a window next to it, opened onto a long balcony that ran in front of all the rooms. Near the stairs, they found a maid’s pushcart, loaded with cleaning supplies and dirty linen.
    â€œTell you what,” Nancy told Bess, “why don’t you get that cart and park it in front of the door. It’ll be a good cover for us.”
    With the cart partially shielding her from view, Nancy took out her lockpick kit andstealthily set to work. Seconds later, the lock clicked, the cylinder turned, and she pushed the door open. Leaving Bess standing guard, she and George went in.
    The room held a queen-size bed, blankets tossed back, a scratched dresser with a TV set on it, and a small table. The carpet had a musty smell, as if it hadn’t been well vacuumed. A cheap picture hung crookedly on one wall.
    Nancy pointed to the unmade bed. “The maid hasn’t cleaned yet, so we’ll have a better chance of getting some prints.” She gestured toward the closet, where a half-dozen shirts and jackets hung untidily. “Why don’t you search those clothes, George. But hurry. I don’t want to be here any longer than we have to, in case Mike comes back.”
    While George was hastily going through Mike’s pockets, Nancy looked around. On the table there was an empty glass. Good—maybe it would yield the fingerprints she needed. Quickly, she dusted it for prints, realizing with disappointment that she wasn’t going to get much. There was only one print, a thumbprint. She transferred it with fingerprint tape onto an index card and slid the card into an envelope.
    She turned to go into the bathroom. The faucet would be a good source of prints. “What are you finding?” she asked George.
    â€œNot a lot,” George said. “Just this ticket stub—no, wait, here’s something else.” She handed Nancy a ticket stub and a folded-over piece of pink notepaper.
    Nancy opened the note. The script was feminine, the i ’s dotted with little circles. The faint smell of floral perfume clung to it.
    â€œDear Mike,” she read. “I just have to tell you how much I miss you when we’re not together, and how much I love you. I pray that we’ll never, ever be separated from one another, just the way you promise. Love and kisses, Darla.”
    â€œMmmm,” George said, “so Brenda’s not his first love.”
    â€œAnd not likely to be his last,” Nancy added with a little shudder, “unless we do something about it. This could be more than just a simple love-’em-and-leave-’em scheme.” She hated the idea of somebody going around collecting girlfriends like bumper stickers. It was almost enough to make her feel sorry for Brenda—and certainly for Darla, whoever she was. She glanced at the blue ticket stub George had handed her. It was from the Batesville County Fair.
    â€œDidn’t you say that Mike had a job in Batesville?” George